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Updated: May 10, 2025
Caffyn, now that his wildest hopes of revenge were realised, and he saw himself in a position to make terrible reprisals for the injury Mark Ashburn had done him, revelled in a delicious sense of power, the only drawback to his complete enjoyment of the situation being his uncertainty as to the precise way of turning his knowledge to the best account.
There's an early rehearsal of 'Ask Dad' to-morrow morning, and I must be toddling. Rummy the thing should be called 'Ask Dad, when that's just what I'm not going to do. See what I mean, what, what? Well, pip-pip!" "Toodle-oo!" I said sadly, and the blighter scudded off. I dived for the phone and called up George Caffyn. "I say, George, what's all this about Cyril Bassington-Bassington?"
The fact was that an unlucky epigram by the Mr. Gurgoyle in question at Mrs. Featherstone's expense, which of course had found its way to her, had produced a coolness on her part, as Caffyn was perfectly well aware. "Ars est celare artem," as Mr. Bancroft remarks at the Haymarket, he said lightly.
Mark did not appear at all disconcerted to see him, and Mabel could not be frigid to anybody just then in the flush of happy expectation, which she did not try to conceal; altogether it was a bitter disappointment to Caffyn.
And yet his punishment still endures, and it is not a light one. It is true that the world is prospering outwardly with him, true that the danger is over, that Harold Caffyn has not been heard of for some time, and that, whether alive or dead, he can never come between Mabel and her husband again, since she knows already the worst that there is to tell.
But nothing had come of it as yet; if there was a sensation in store for the literary world, Mabel's letters apparently contained no hint of it, and for a time Caffyn felt unpleasantly apprehensive that there might have been a hitch somehow in his admirable arrangements.
'Your wife seems deucedly annoyed with me for some reason she says you can explain. Now, just tell me quietly without any nonsense what's it all about, eh? Now that Mark had seen the other's conduct in its true light he was really indignant: Caffyn seemed more undesirable an associate than ever.
What a meeting it would be, if one could only bring it about! 'It's no use talking like that, said Mark rather sharply. 'Holroyd's dead, poor fellow, at the bottom of the Indian Ocean somewhere. We shall never meet again. 'But, said Caffyn, with his eyes greedily watching Mark's face, 'even these things happen sometimes; he may come back to congratulate you still. 'How do you mean?
And so Holroyd was gazing absently into the fire, where the peat and ling crackled noisily as it fell into fantastic peaks and caves, and Caffyn was idly turning over the tattered leaves of a visitors' book, which bore the usual eloquent testimony to the stimulating influence of scenery upon the human intellect.
He's drowned, I tell you ... the dead never come back! 'The dead don't, returned Caffyn significantly. 'Do you you don't mean to tell me he's alive! 'If I were to say yes? said Caffyn, 'I wonder how you would take it. If he had any doubts still remaining, the manner in which Mark received these words removed them.
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