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Enwright had been almost cross, asserting that the victory was perhaps a fluke, as the design of another competitor was in reality superior to George's. Mr. Enwright had also said, in his crabbed way: "You'll soon cut me out"; and, George protesting, had gone on: "Oh! Yes, you will. I've been through this sort of thing before. I know what I'm talking about. You're no different from the rest."
And you needn't think they'll give six months, because they won't. They might give five." "That's no good." "Why isn't it any good?" snapped Mr. Enwright. "You don't suppose they're going to issue the conditions just yet, do you? Not a day before September, not a day. And you can take it from me!" "Oh! Hurrah!" "But look here, my boy, let's be clear about one thing." "Yes?" "You're quite mad."
In the pupils' room of the offices of Lucas & Enwright, architects, Russell Square, Bloomsbury, George Edwin Cannon, an articled pupil, leaned over a large drawing-board and looked up at Mr. Enwright, the head of the firm, who with cigarette and stick was on his way out after what he called a good day's work. It was past six o'clock on an evening in early July 1901.
In the rooms shortly to be deserted and locked up, and in the decline of the day, the three men were drawn together like survivors. "I gather you're going to change your abode," said Mr. Enwright, having stopped. "Did Mr. Orgreave tell you, then?" George asked. "Well, he didn't exactly tell me...." John Orgreave was Mr.
"Do you know, Inspector," he went on, "that this American came to London with a letter of introduction to the captain a letter from the captain's cousin, one Archibald Enwright? And do you know that Fraser-Freer had no cousin of that name?" "No!" said Bray. "It happens to be the truth," said Hughes. "The American has confessed as much to me."
The news seemed incredible and quite disastrous; and yet at the same time had he not, in one unvisited corner of his mind, always foreknown it? Suddenly he was distressed, discouraged, disillusioned about the whole of life. He thought that Everard Lucas, screwing up a compass, was strangely unmoved. But Mr. Enwright ignored Lucas. "Who's got it?" George asked. "Whinburn."
Then Archibald Enwright, a renegade and waster well known to us as serving other countries, came to England. My man and he met at Ye Old Gambrinus, in Regent Street. And finally, on a visit to the lodgings of this man who, I was now certain, was Von der Herts, under the mattress of his bed I found this knife."
Whereupon George, impatient and genuinely annoyed, had retorted upon him quite curtly, and had remembered what many persons had said about Mr. Enwright's wrong-headed jealous sensitiveness animadversions which he, as a worshipper of Mr. Enwright, had been accustomed to rebut. Further, Lucas himself had not erred by the extravagance of his enthusiasm for George's earth-shaking success.
I take it that you remember and could identify the chap who called himself Archibald Enwright the man who gave you that letter to the captain?" "I surely could," said I. "Then, if you can spare me an hour, get your hat." And so it happens, lady of the Carlton, that I have just been to Limehouse. You do not know where Limehouse is and I trust you never will.
George was still fond of him, but he had torn him down from the pedestal and established Mr. Enwright in his place. George in his heart now somewhat patronized the placid Orgreave, regarding him as an excellent person who comprehended naught that was worth comprehending, and as a husband who was the dupe of his wife. "You couldn't have any other façade," Mr.
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