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Carville? And then I decided he was proud and kept quiet for fear I would offer him a loan. Poor chap! "There was no one else staying at the Saxon Cross Hotel that night, and we had the big smoking-room to ourselves. And after a time I put it to him pointblank: 'What on earth are you hanging about down here for, man?
"The time is past for imaginative forecast," I replied. "It is obvious that Mr. Carville, having been tremendously interested in his own life, is determined to tell us all about it. Before lunch I hardly knew what to think, but now I feel fairly certain that he will bring us safely to the conclusion." "There never is a conclusion to stories in real life," said he. "Well, you know what I mean.
"We were standing in the workshop watching a young chap fitting a piece of a new engine, when we heard the roar of the aeroplane. Carville had started his engine before opening the doors. It was deafening. We got outside just in time to see him leave the ground. He made straight for the sea. D'Aubigné says he always does make straight for the sea. He may come back from over Dengie Flats or St.
Carville muttered a warning about no smoking "... five hundred dollars fine ... necessary, you see," and I saw his corn-cob no more until we reached his room. "There she is," he remarked, indicating two very red funnels projecting above a roof. "That's the Raritan." A faint smell of petroleum was in the air as we threaded our way among the blue-ended barrels and lengths of oily hose.
On the horizon the great light on the Metropolitan Tower flashed the hour of midnight. As I let myself in, it occurred to me that Mr. Carville would be walking to and fro, smoking a meditative pipe beneath the stars, his thoughts, no doubt, flying westward like enigmatic night-birds, and hovering above the home towards which he was speeding.
It was a ceremonious bow with which Mr. Carville greeted her as he rose. He did not offer to shake hands, as middle-class people generally do, to their credit. He gave her one square look and then dropped his eyes, and I couldn't detect him even glancing at her again. He seemed to have made a brief examination and then dismissed her from his memory.
"I don't care for remarques," muttered Mac, pointing to a sketch on the margin. "Nor I," I agreed, "but this isn't on the plate, my friend. Moreover, I think it's rather interesting. It is Carville, I believe, Mr. Francis Lord of the New York Press." It was a sinister face that we looked on, sketched on the impressed margin, and very different from the photos in the papers.
I stood on the verandah for a few minutes, filling a pipe and looking across at the Metropolitan light where it shone serenely on the horizon. As I struck a match I became aware of a figure moving slowly in front of the Carville house, up and down the gravel walk that ran below their verandah.
"Their father isn't a deck-swab," I remarked mildly. "Perhaps not," he retorted, "but pipe all hands etcetera is in that comic opera I'm illustrating and doing the costumes for, and I've got it on the brain. Have you noticed," he went on, "that Carville seems to have no professional slang?" "He's not typical of his class," I admitted. "Any more than his wife is of her's, I suppose.
Carville." He came round to our view in the end, when I reminded him of the scaldino. Personally, the idea was incredible. When I thought of Mrs. Carville bending over the brazier, of her dark, noble face with its large tragic eyes, and then of the smart convent-bred miss who was called Gladys absurd!
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