No Hero | Page 9

of the group. I descried
no showy woman with a tall youth dancing attendance; among the
brick-red English faces there was not one that bore the least

resemblance to the latest photograph of Bob Evers.
A little consideration suggested my first move.
"I think I saw a visitors' book in the hall," I said. "I may as well stick
down my name."
But before doing so I ran my eye up and down the pages inscribed by
those who had arrived that month.
"See anybody you know?" inquired Quinby, who hovered obligingly at
my elbow. It was really necessary to be as disingenuous as possible,
more especially with a person whose own conversation was evidently
quite unguarded.
"Yes, by Jove I do! Robin Evers, of all people!"
"Do you know him?"
The question came pretty quickly. I was sorry I had said so much.
"Well, I once knew a small boy of that name; but then they are not a
small clan."
"His mother's the Honourable," said Quinby, with studious unconcern,
yet I fancied with increased interest in me.
"I used to see something of them both," I deliberately admitted, "when
the lad was little. How has he turned out?"
Quinby gave his peculiar nasal laugh.
"A nice youth," said he. "A very nice youth!"
"Do you mean nice or nasty?" I asked, inclined to bridle at his tone.
"Oh, anything but nasty," said Quinby. "Only--well--perhaps a bit rapid
for his years!"

I stooped and put my name in the book before making any further
remark. Then I handed Quinby my cigarette-case, and we sat down on
the nearest lounge.
"Rapid, is he?" said I. "That's quite interesting. And how does it take
him?"
"Oh, not in any way that's discreditable; but as a matter of fact, there's a
gay young widow here, and they're fairly going it!"
I lit my cigarette with a certain unexpected sense of downright
satisfaction. So there was something in it after all. It had seemed such a
fool's errand in the train.
"A young widow," I repeated, emphasising one of Quinby's epithets
and ignoring the other.
"I mean, of course, she's a good deal older than Evers."
"And her name?"
"A Mrs. Lascelles."
I nodded.
"Do you happen to know anything about her, Captain Clephane?"
"I can't say I do."
"No more does anybody else," said Quinby, "except that she's an Indian
widow of sorts."
"Indian!" I repeated with more interest.
Quinby looked at me.
"You've been out there yourself, perhaps?"
"It was there I knew Hamilton," said I, naming our common friend in

the Engineers.
"Yet you're sure you never came across Mrs. Lascelles there?"
"India's a large place," I said, smiling as I shook my head.
"I wonder if Hamilton did," speculated Quinby aloud.
"And the Lascelleses," I added, "are another large clan."
"Well," he went on, after a moment's further cogitation, "there's nobody
here can place this particular Mrs. Lascelles; but there are some who
say things which they can tell you themselves. I'm not going to repeat
them if you know anything about the boy. I only wish you knew him
well enough to give him a friendly word of advice!"
"Is it so bad as all that?"
"My dear sir, I don't say there's anything bad about it," returned Quinby,
who seemed to possess a pretty gift of suggestive negation. "But you
may hear another opinion from other people, for you will find that the
whole hotel is talking about it. No," he went on, watching my eyes, "it's
no use looking for them at this time of day; they disappear from
morning to night; if you want to see them you must take a stroll when
everybody else is thinking of turning in. Then you may have better luck.
But here are the letters at last."
The concierge had appeared, hugging an overflowing armful of postal
matter. In another minute there was hardly standing room in the little
hall. My companion uttered his unlovely laugh.
"And here comes the British lion roaring for his London papers! It isn't
his letters he's so keen on, if you notice, Captain Clephane; it's his
Daily Mail, with the latest cricket, and after that the war. Teale is an
exception, of course. He has a stack of press-cuttings every day. You
will see him gloating over them in a minute. Ah! the old judge has got
his Sportsman; he reads nothing else except the Sporting Times, and
he's going back for the Leger. Do you see the man with the blue

spectacles and the peeled nose? He was last Vice Chancellor but one at
Cambridge. No, that's not a Bishop, it's an Archdeacon. All we want is
a Cabinet Minister now; every evening there is a rumour that the
Colonial Secretary is on his way, and