Hamel sat alone upon the terrace, his afternoon coffee on a small table in front of him. His eyes were fixed upon a black speck at the end of the level roadway which led to the Tower. Only a few minutes before, Mr. Fentolin, in his little carriage, bad shot out from the passage beneath the terrace, on his way to the Tower.
Behind him came Meekins, bending over his bicycle. Hamel watched them both with thoughtful eyes. There were several little incidents in connection with their expedition which he scarcely understood.
Then there came at last the sound for which he had been listening, the rustle of a skirt along the terraced way. Hamel turned quickly around, half rising to his feet, and concealing his disappointment with difficulty. It was Mrs. Seymour Fentolin who stood there, a little dog under each arm; a large hat, gay with flowers, upon her head. She wore patent shoes with high heels, and white silk stockings. She had, indeed, the air of being dressed for luncheon at a fashionable restaurant. As she stooped to set the dogs down, a strong waft of perfume was shaken from her clothes.
"Are you entirely deserted, Mr. Hamel?" she asked.
"I am," he replied. "Miss Esther went, I think, to look for you.
My host," he added, pointing to the black speck in the distance, "begged me to defer my occupation of the Tower for an hour or so, and has gone down there to collect some of his trifles."
Her eyes followed his outstretched hand. She seemed to him to shiver for a moment.
"You really mean, then, that you are going to leave us?" she asked, accepting the chair which he had drawn up close to his.
He smiled.
"Well, I scarcely came on a visit to St. David's Hall, did I?" he reminded her. "It has been delightfully hospitable of Mr. Fentolin to have insisted upon my staying on here for these few days, but I could not possibly inflict myself upon you all for an unlimited period."
Mrs. Fentolin sat quite still for a time. In absolute repose, if one could forget her mass of unnaturally golden hair, the forced and constant smile, the too liberal use of rouge and powder, the nervous motions of her head, it was easily to be realised that there were still neglected attractions about her face and figure.
Only, in these moments of repose, an intense and ageing weariness seemed to have crept into her eyes and face. It was as though she had dropped the mask of incessant gaiety and permitted a glimpse of her real self to steal to the surface.
"Mr. Hamel," she said quietly, "I dare say that even during these few days you have realised that Mr. Fentolin is a very peculiar man."
"I have certainly observed - eccentricities," Hamel assented.
"My life, and the lives of my two children," she went on, "is devoted to the task of ministering to his happiness."
"Isn't that rather a heavy sacrifice?" he asked. Mrs. Seymour Fentolin looked down the long, narrow way along which Mr. Fentolin had passed. He was out of sight now, inside the Tower. Somehow or other, the thought seemed to give her courage and dignity. She spoke differently, without nervousness or hurry.
"To you, Mr. Hamel," she said, "it may seem so. We who make it know of its necessity."
He bowed his head. It was not a subject for him to discuss with her.
"Mr. Fentolin has whims," she went on, "violent whims. We all try to humour him. He has his own ideas about Gerald's bringing up.
I do not agree with them, but we submit. Esther, too, suffers, perhaps to a less extent. As for me," - her voice broke a little -"
Mr. Fentolin likes people around him who are always cheerful. He prefers even a certain style - of dress. I, too, have to do my little share."
Hamel's face grew darker.
"Has it ever occurred to you," he demanded, "that Mr. Fentolin is a tyrant?"
She closed her eyes for a moment.
"There are reasons," she declared, "why I cannot discuss that with you. He has these strong fancies, and it is our task in life to humour them. He has one now with regard to the Tower, with regard to you. You are, of course, your own master. You can do as you choose, and you will do as you choose. Neither I nor my children have any claim upon your consideration. But, Mr. Hamel, you have been so kind that I feel moved to tell you this. It would make it very much easier for all of us if you would give up this scheme of yours, if you would stay on here instead of going to reside at the Tower."
Hamel threw away his cigarette. He was deeply interested.
"Mrs. Fentolin," he said, "I am glad to have you speak so plainly.
Let me answer you in the same spirit. I am leaving this house mainly because I have conceived certain suspicions with regard to Mr. Fentolin. I do not like him, I do not trust him, I do not believe in him. Therefore, I mean to remove myself from the burden of his hospitality. There are reasons," he went on, "why I do not wish to leave the neighbourhood altogether. There are certain investigations which I wish to make. That is why I have decided to go to the Tower."
"Miles was right, then!" she cried suddenly. "You are here to spy upon him!"
He turned towards her swiftly.
"To spy upon him, Mrs. Fentolin? For what reason? Why? Is he a criminal, then?"
She opened her lips and closed them again. There was a slight frown upon her forehead. It was obvious that the word had unintentionally escaped her.
"I only know what it is that he called you, what he suspects you of being," she explained. "Mr. Fentolin is very clever, and he is generally at work upon something. We do not enquire into the purpose of his labours. The only thing I know is that he suspects you of wanting to steal one of his secrets."
"Secrets? But what secrets has he?" Hamel demanded. "Is he an inventor?"
"You ask me idle questions," she sighed. "We have gone, perhaps, a little further than I intended. I came to plead with you for all our sakes, if I could, to make things more comfortable by remaining here instead of insisting upon your claim to the Tower."
