The Secret of the Tower | Page 7

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, perhaps."
During the talk Hooper had been to a cupboard and mixed a glass of whisky and soda. He brought it to Beaumaroy and put it on a small table by him. Beaumaroy regarded his squat paunchy figure, red face, small eyes (a squint in one of them), and bulbous nose with a patient and benign toleration.
"Since you can't expect, Sergeant, to prepossess the judge and jury in your favor, the instant you make your appearance in the box--"
"Here, what are you on to, sir?"
"It's the more important for you to have it clearly in your mind that we are laboring in the cause of humanity, freedom, and justice. Exactly like the Allies in the late war, you know, Sergeant. Keep that in your mind, clinch it! He hasn't wanted you to do anything particular to-night, or asked for me?"
"No, sir. He's happy with--with what you call his playthings."
"What are they but playthings?" asked Beaumaroy, tilting his glass to