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Updated: May 25, 2025
West flung the words from between set teeth, and with them he abruptly turned his back upon Babbacombe, lodging his arms upon the mantelpiece. "I am not going into details on that point or any other. But the fact is there, and you know it. You have never been absolutely straight in your dealings with me. I knew you weren't. I always knew it. But how crooked you were I did not know till lately.
West shrugged his shoulders. "It's a dead certainty that they will." "If I can take the risk, so can you," said Babbacombe. "Oh, of course, I used to be rather good at that game. It is called 'sand-throwing' in the profession." Babbacombe made an impatient movement, and West's hard smile became more pronounced. "But you are not at all good at it," he continued. "You are almost obtrusively obvious.
Entering the room he had just quitted, he locked the door, and there he remained for a long, long time. It was not till she descended to dinner that Cynthia's injured hand was noticed. She resolutely made light of it to all sympathisers but it was plain to Babbacombe, at least, that it gave her considerable pain. "Let me send for a doctor," he whispered, as she finally passed his chair.
We are just getting in." "Don't mind me," said West. Babbacombe was slackening speed. "It's a fine hunting country," he observed. "Whose is it?" asked West. "Mine, most of it." They were running smoothly down a long avenue of beech trees, with a glimpse of an open gateway at the end. "It must take some managing," remarked West. "It does," Babbacombe answered. "It needs a capable man."
"Oh, I am a better host than that," said Babbacombe, with quiet humour. "If you ever prefer the devil's hospitality to mine, it won't be my fault." West turned from him with a slight shrug of the shoulders, as if he deemed himself to be dealing with a harmless lunatic, and dropped back into silence. Silence had become habitual to him, as Babbacombe soon discovered.
He would have excused himself later from accompanying his host into the drawing-room, but Babbacombe insisted upon this so stubbornly that finally, with his characteristic lift of the shoulders, he yielded. As they entered, Lady Cottesbrook raised her glasses, and favoured him with a close scrutiny. "It's very curious," she said, "but I can't help feeling as if I have seen you somewhere before.
His words were like a shower of icy water. Babbacombe contracted instantly. "You wish me to believe that you did this thing in cold blood that you deliberately meant to do it?" "Certainly I meant to do it," said West. "Why?" said Babbacombe. Again he gave the non-committal shrug, no more. There was almost a fiendish look in his eyes, as if somewhere in his soul a demon leaped and jeered.
West strolled to a window and opened it, leaning his arms upon the sill. He seemed about to relapse into one of his interminable silences when Babbacombe, standing behind him, said quietly, "I am going to offer the post to you." "To me?" West wheeled suddenly, even with vehemence. "What for?" he demanded sharply. Babbacombe met his look, still faintly smiling. "For our mutual benefit," he said.
An insoluble enigma the man might be to him, but he would not for that turn back from the task that he had undertaken. West should have his chance in spite of it. They were riding together over the crisp turf of the park one frosty morning in November, when Babbacombe turned quietly to his companion, pointing to the chimneys of a house half-hidden by trees, ahead of them.
"I like those bells," murmured Cynthia. "They make one feel almost holy. Jack, you're not fretting over me?" "No, dear," said Babbacombe steadily. She squeezed his arm. "I'm so glad, for honest Injun I'm not worth it. Good-bye, then, dear Jack! Just drive straight away directly you've put me down. I shall find my own way in."
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