The Daffodil Mystery | Page 7

is scorn. Thornton Lyne
might in different circumstances have drifted upward to sets even more
misunderstood--yea, even to a set superior to marriage and soap and
clean shirts and fresh air--only his father died of a surfeit, and Thornton
became the Lyne of Lyne's Serve First.
His first inclination was to sell the property and retire to a villa in
Florence or Capri. Then the absurdity, the rich humour of an idea,
struck him. He, a scholar, a gentleman and a misunderstood poet,
sitting in the office of a store, appealed to him. Somebody remarked in
his hearing that the idea was "rich." He saw himself in "character" and
the part appealed to him. To everybody's surprise he took up his father's
work, which meant that he signed cheques, collected profits and left the
management to the Soults and the Neys whom old Napoleon Lyne had
relied upon in the foundation of his empire.
Thornton wrote an address to his 3,000 employees--which address was
printed on decided antique paper in queerly ornate type with wide
margins. He quoted Seneca, Aristotle, Marcus Aurelius and the "Iliad."
The "address" secured better and longer reviews in the newspapers than
had his book.
He had found life a pleasant experience--all the more piquant because
of the amazement of innumerable ecstatic friends who clasped their
hands and asked awefully: "How can you--a man of your
temperament...!"
Life might have gone on being pleasant if every man and woman he
had met had let him have his own way. Only there were at least two
people with whom Thornton Lyne's millions carried no weight.
It was warm in his limousine, which was electrically heated. But
outside, on that raw April morning, it was bitterly cold, and the
shivering little group of women who stood at a respectful distance from
the prison gates, drew their shawls tightly about them as errant flakes
of snow whirled across the open. The common was covered with a
white powder, and the early flowers looked supremely miserable in

their wintry setting.
The prison clock struck eight, and a wicket-gate opened. A man
slouched out, his jacket buttoned up to his neck, his cap pulled over his
eyes. At sight of him, Lyne dropped the newspaper he had been reading,
opened the door of the car and jumped out, walking towards the
released prisoner.
"Well, Sam," he said, genially "you didn't expect me?"
The man stopped as if he had been shot, and stood staring at the
fur-coated figure. Then:
"Oh, Mr. Lyne," he said brokenly. "Oh, guv'nor!" he choked, and tears
streamed down his face, and he gripped the outstretched hand in both of
his, unable to speak.
"You didn't think I'd desert you, Sam, eh?" said Mr. Lyne, all aglow
with consciousness of his virtue.
"I thought you'd given me up, sir," said Sam Stay huskily. "You're a
gentleman, you are, sir, and I ought to be ashamed of myself!"
"Nonsense, nonsense, Sam! Jump into the car, my lad. Go along.
People will think you're a millionaire."
The man gulped, grinned sheepishly, opened the door and stepped in,
and sank with a sigh of comfort into the luxurious depths of the big
brown cushions.
"Gawd! To think that there are men like you in the world, sir! Why, I
believe in angels, I do!"
"Nonsense Sam. Now you come along to my flat, and I'm going to give
you a good breakfast and start you fair again."
"I'm going to try and keep straight, sir, I am s'help me!"
It may be said in truth that Mr. Lyne did not care very much whether

Sam kept straight or not. He might indeed have been very much
disappointed if Sam had kept to the straight and narrow path. He "kept"
Sam as men keep chickens and prize cows, and he "collected" Sam as
other men collect stamps and china. Sam was his luxury and his pose.
In his club he boasted of his acquaintance with this representative of
the criminal classes--for Sam was an expert burglar and knew no other
trade--and Sam's adoration for him was one of his most exhilarating
experiences.
And that adoration was genuine. Sam would have laid down his life for
the pale-faced man with the loose mouth. He would have suffered
himself to be torn limb from limb if in his agony he could have brought
ease or advancement to the man who, to him, was one with the gods.
Originally, Thornton Lyne had found Sam whilst that artist was
engaged in burgling the house of his future benefactor. It was a whim
of Lyne's to give the criminal a good breakfast and to evince an interest
in his future. Twice had Sam gone down for a short term, and once for
a long term of imprisonment, and