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Updated: June 7, 2025
But before him rose the vision of the boyish, candid face, as the detective had taken the Great Man's proffered hand, the honesty in his voice as he had given his word "I'll do my best, sir," and into Gard's black despair crept a pale ray of hope. Gard had not been mistaken when he surmised that Brencherly must inevitably connect the murder with the sequence of events.
"By the Lord!" cried Gard, starting up in black fury, "if you can't behave yourself I'll break every bone in your body." And Nance's face, which had unconsciously stiffened at Tom's words, glowed again at Gard's revelation of the natural man in him, and her eyes shone with various emotions doubts, hopes, fears, and a keen interest in what would follow.
Gard's impedimenta seemed to preclude the handshake, and the host hastened to insist upon his guest being relieved. Gard shook his head. "I have only a moment to inspect your picture, Mahr," he said coldly. "Oh, no, don't say that. Have a highball; you will find everything on the table. What can I give you? This Scotch is excellent." "No," said Gard sternly. "Excuse me; I am here for one purpose."
Gard's eyes, straining into the dimness of the coming dawn through what seemed to him a most terrible long time, so packed was it with anxious fears, caught at last the white flicker of Nance's signal, and he dropped down just where he stood, among the rough stones of the ridge, with a grateful sigh. The strain was telling on him. He felt physically weak and worn.
But the miracle was, nevertheless, to be accomplished, at least for awhile, in a manner as simple as it was unlooked for. And this was what happened. One day, soon after Gard's disillusioning call on Von Tielitz, he was grubbing in his attic among the ninth century roots of the future super-luxuriant Teuton forest, when he heard Tekla's woodchopper feet pounding their way upstairs.
Mahr is in the hall and wants to see you," he added, glad to change the subject. "Is he? Good. Tell him to come in." Gard rose with cordial welcome as Teddy entered. There was an air of responsibility about the younger man, calmness, observation and concentration, very different from his former light-hearted, easy-mannered boyishness. Gard's greeting was affectionate.
In time he would grow up and be a match for Tom, and meanwhile she would see to it that he grew up as different from Tom in every respect as it was possible for a boy to be. Stephen Gard's experience of women had been small. His mother had been everything to him till she died, when he was fourteen, and he went to sea.
Marcus Gard's company at dinner" the usual engraved invitation, with below a girlish scrawl: "You'll come, won't you? It's my very last dinner before we go South. He took a stubby quill, which, for some occult reason, he preferred for his intimate correspondence, and scribbled: "Of course, little friend. The crowned heads can wait."
Gard's friend squared accounts four hundred and eighty marks passed across. He looked unhappy enough. But the dealer was still far from satisfied because the American had not played. The German had won from the other two. Could he not win from an American in an American game? He had been eager to wager at one turn all the money he had gained. "A pair of cheap gamblers," Gard repeated to himself.
For, be sure that when it comes to the picking of these lots, even the best of sons will pick the plums, and when such an one as Tom Hamon is in question it is as well to mingle the plums and the sloes with an exactitude of proportionment that will allow of no advantage either way. Gard's isolation was brought home to him when he endeavoured to find another lodging in Little Sark.
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