The Malefactor | Page 9

to believe ill."
Wingrave nodded slowly.
"I am very much obliged to you," he said, "for this information. You

seem to have come here today, Mr. Rocke, with good intentions
towards me. Let me ask you to put yourself in my place. I am barely
forty years old, and I am rich. I want to make the most of my
life--under the somewhat peculiar circumstances. How and where
should you live?"
"It depends a little upon your tastes, of course," Rocke answered. "You
are a sportsman, are you not?"
"I am fond of sport," "Wingrave answered. "At least I was. At present I
am not conscious of having any positive tastes."
"I think," Rocke continued, "that I should first of all change my name.
Then, without making any effort to come into touch with your old
friends, I should seek acquaintance amongst the Bohemian world of
London and Paris. There I might myself, perhaps, be able to help you.
For sport, you might fish in Norway or Iceland, or shoot in Hungary;
you could run to a yacht if you cared about it, and if you fancy big
game, why, there's all Africa before you."
Wingrave listened, without changing a muscle of his face.
"Your programme," he remarked, "presupposes that I have no
ambitions beyond the pursuit of pleasure."
Rocke shrugged his shoulders. He was becoming more at his ease. He
felt that his advice was sound, that he was showing a most
comprehensive grasp of the situation.
"I am afraid," he said, "that none of what we call the careers are open to
you. You could not enter Parliament, and you are too old for the
professions. The services, of course, are impossible. You might write,
if your tastes ran that way. Nowadays, it seems to be the fashion to
record one's experiences in print, if--if they should happen to be in any
way exceptional. I can think of nothing else!"
"I am very much obliged to you," Wingrave said. "Your suggestions
are eminently practical. I will think them over. Don't let me keep you
any longer!"
"About this evening," Rocke remarked. "Shall I fix up that little dinner
party? You have only to say the word!"
"I am very much obliged to you, but I think not," answered Wingrave.
"I will dine with you alone some evening, with pleasure! Not just as
present!"
Rocke looked, as he felt, puzzled. He honestly wished to be of service

to this man, but he was at a loss to know what further suggestion he
could make. There was something impenetrable about his client,
something which he could not arrive at, behind the hard, grim face and
measured words. He could not even guess as to what the man's hopes or
intentions were. Eventually, although with some reluctance, he took up
his hat.
"Well, Sir Wingrave," he said, "if there is really nothing I can do for
you, I will go. If you should change your mind, you have only to
telephone. You can command me at any time. I am only anxious to be
of service to you."
"You have already been of service to me," Wingrave answered quietly.
"You have spoken the truth! You have helped me to realize my position
more exactly. Will you give your father my compliments and thanks,
and say that I am entirely satisfied with the firm's conduct of affairs
during my--absence?"
Rocke nodded.
"Certainly," he said. "That will please the governor! I must be off now.
I hope you'll soon be feeling quite yourself again, Sir Wingrave! It
must seem a bit odd at first, I suppose, but it will wear off all right.
What you want, after all, is society. Much better let me arrange that
little dinner for tonight!"
Wingrave shook his head.
"Later on, perhaps," he answered. "Good morning!"

A STUDENT OF CHARACTER
Left alone, Wingrave walked for several minutes up and down the
room, his hands behind him, his head bent. He walked, not restlessly,
but with measured footsteps. His mind was fixed steadfastly upon the
one immediate problem of his own future. His interview with Rocke
had unsettled--to a certain extent unnerved--him. Was this freedom for
which he had longed so passionately, this return into civilized life, to
mean simply the exchange of an iron-barrel cell for a palace whose
outer gates were as hopelessly locked, even though the key was of gold!
Freedom! Was it after all an illusion? Was his to be the hog's paradise
of empty delights; were the other worlds indeed forbidden? He moved
abruptly to the window and threw it open. Below was Piccadilly,
brilliant with May sunshine, surging with life. Motors and carriages,

omnibuses and hansoms, were all jostled together in a block; the
pavements were thronged with a motley and ever-hurrying crowd. It
seemed