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Updated: May 25, 2025
Babbacombe suggested, his voice very quiet and even. "You may say so if it satisfies you," said West, without turning. "It does not satisfy me!" There was a note of sternness in the steady rejoinder. "It satisfies me so little that I insist upon an explanation. Turn round and tell me what you mean." But West stood motionless and silent, as though hewn in granite.
It was four days since Cynthia Mortimer had extended to him the hand of friendship, and he had not seen her since. He was, in fact, studiously avoiding her, more studiously than he had ever avoided any one in his life before. His daily visits to the castle he now paid early in the morning, before Babbacombe himself was dressed, long before any of the guests were stirring.
But I can't possibly tell for certain till I see him again. I must see him again somehow. I've waited all these years all these years." Babbacombe groaned. "And suppose, when you've seen him, you still care?" She shook her head. "What then, Jack? I don't know; I don't know." He pulled himself together, and sat up. "Do you know where he is?" "Yes. He is at Barren Hill.
"But I tell you, Jack I feel a perfect reptile. It's heads I win, tails you lose; and I just can't bear it." There was a catch in the high voice that was almost a sob. Babbacombe took her hand and held it. "My dear," he said, "it's nothing of the sort. You have done me the very great honour of giving me your full confidence, and I won't have you abusing yourself for it." She shook her head.
"I don't understand," he said. "What cheque?" The manager looked at him sharply. "Why, the cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds, which your agent presented yesterday," he said. "It bore your signature and was dated the previous day. You wrote it, I suppose?" Babbacombe was still staring blankly, but at the sudden question he pulled himself together. "Oh, that! Yes, to be sure. Careless of me.
West's head was bent. He seemed to be closely examining the marble on which his arms rested. "Well," he said abruptly, "you've told me the truth. I will do the same to you. This business has got to end. I have done my part towards bringing that about. And now you must do yours. You will have to prosecute, whether you like it or not. It is the only way." "What?" Babbacombe said sharply.
I'm going to get a certain good friend of mine to drive me all the way to Farringdean in his motor. It's Sunday, you know, and all the fates conspire to make the trains impossible." "How soon do you wish to start?" asked Babbacombe. "Right away!" laughed Cynthia. "And if we don't get run in for exceeding the speed limit, we ought to be there by seven."
She made a quaint gesture as of putting something from her. "Yes, quite; and buried decently without any fuss. The blinds are up again, and I don't want any condolences. I'm going out into the sun, Jack. I'm going to live." "And what about me?" said Babbacombe. She turned in her quick way, and laid her hand upon his knee. "Yes, I've been thinking about you.
"Are you sure even now that you know what that reason was?" Babbacombe asked. "I am sure of one thing!" West spoke quickly, vehemently, as a man shaken by some inner storm.
He ended with his brief, cynical laugh, and Babbacombe knew that further discussion would be vain. For good or ill the swindler had made his decision, and he realised that no effort of his would alter it. To attempt to do so would be to beat against a stone wall a struggle in which he might possibly hurt himself, but which would make no difference whatever to the wall.
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