The Secret of the Tower | Page 7

had done valuable work in one of the supply services. He
as short, stout, honest, brave, shrewd, obstinate, and as full of
prejudices, religious, political and personal as an egg is of meat. And
all this time he had been slowly and painfully recalling what his young
friend Colonel Merman (the Colonel was young only relatively to the
General) had told him about Hector Beaumaroy. The name had struck
on his memory the moment the Rector pronounced it, but it had taken
him a long while to "place it" accurately. However, now he had it pat;
the conversation in the club came back. He retailed it now to the
company at Old Place.
A pleasant fellow, Beaumaroy; socially a very agreeable fellow. And as
for courage, as brave as you like. Indeed he might have had letters after
his name save for the fact that he--the Colonel--would never
recommend a man unless his discipline was as good as his leading, and

his conduct at the base as praiseworthy as at the front. (Alec Naylor
nodded his handsome head in grave approval; his father looked a little
discontented, as though he were swallowing unpalatable, though
wholesome, food). His whole idea--Beaumaroy's, that is--was to shield
offenders, to prevent the punishment fitting the crime, even to console
and countenance the wrongdoer. No sense of discipline, no moral sense,
the Colonel had gone as far as that. Impossible to promote or to
recommend for reward, almost impossible to keep. Of course, if he had
been caught young and put through the mill, it might have been
different. "It might" the Colonel heavily underlined the possibility, but
he came from Heaven knew where, after a life spent Heaven knew how.
"And he seemed to know it himself," the Colonel had said, thoughtfully
rolling his port round in the glass. "Whenever I wigged him, he offered
to go; said he'd chuck his commission and enlist; said he'd be happier in
the ranks. But I was weak, I couldn't bear to do it." After thus quoting
his friend, the General added: "He was weak, damned weak, and I told
him so."
"Of course he ought to have got rid of him," said Alec. "Still, sir, there's
nothing, er, disgraceful."
"It seems hardly to have come to that," the General admitted
reluctantly.
"It all rather makes me like him," Gertie affirmed courageously.
"I think that, on the whole, we may venture to know him in times of
peace," Mr. Naylor summed up.
"That's your look out," remarked the General. "I've warned you. You
can do as you like."
Delia Wall had sat silent through the story. Now she spoke up, and got
back to the real point:
"There's nothing in all that to show how he comes to be at Mr.
Saffron's."

The General shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, Saffron be hanged! He's not
the British Army," he said.
CHAPTER III
MR. SAFFRON AT HOME
To put it plainly, Sergeant Hooper--he had been a Sergeant for a brief
and precarious three weeks, but he used the title in civil life whenever
he safely could, and he could at Inkston--Sergeant Hooper was a
villainous-looking dog. Beaumaroy, fresh from the comely presences of
Old Place, unconscious of how the General had ripped up his character
and record, pleasantly nursing a little project concerning Dr. Mary
Arkroyd, had never been more forcibly struck with his protege's
ill-favoredness than when he arrived home on this same evening, and
the Sergeant met him at the door.
"By gad, Sergeant," he observed pleasantly, "I don't think anybody
could be such a rascal as you look. It's that faith that carries me
through."
The Sergeant helped him off with his coat. "It's some people's
stock-in-trade," he remarked, "not to look a rascal like they really are,
sir." The "sir" stuck out of pure habit; it carried no real implication of
respect.
"Meaning me!" laughed Beaumaroy. "How's the old man to-night?"
"Quiet enough. He's in the Tower there--been there an hour or more."
The cottage door opened on to a narrow passage, with a staircase on
one side, and on the other a door leading to a small square parlor,
cheerfully if cheaply furnished, and well lit by an oil lamp. A fire
blazed on the hearth, and Beaumaroy sank into a "saddle-bag" armchair
beside it, with a sigh of comfort. The Sergeant had jerked his head
towards another door, on the right of the fireplace; it led to the Tower.
Beaumaroy's eyes settled on it.

"An hour or more, has he? Have you heard anything?"
"He was making a speech a little while back, that's all."
"No more complaints and palpitations, or anything of that sort?"
"Not as I've heard. But he never says much to me. Mrs. Wiles gets the
benefit of his symptoms mostly."
"You're not sympathetic,