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Updated: June 5, 2025
Surely never, in the annals of Rugby football, had any one run as Olva ran then. Only now the Dublin back, and he, missing the apparent swerve to the right, clutched desperately at Olva's back, caught the buckle of his "shorts" and stood with the thing torn off in his hand. He turned to pursue, but it was too late. Olva had touched down behind the posts.
"That's Rupert," she said. They both rose as he came into the room. He stood back in the shadow for a moment as though surprised at Olva's presence. Then he came forward very gravely. "I've found something of yours, Dune," he said. It lay, gleaming, in his hand. "Your matchbox." Dune drew a sharp breath. Then he took it and looked at it. "Where did you find it?" "In Saunet Wood.
"They're going to light bonfires and things," Bunning quavered, and then, with a hand that had always before seemed soft and flabby but that was now hard and burning, he caught Olva's wrist. "I had to see you I've been three days now waiting all the time for them to come and arrest you. Oh! I've imagined everything everything and the fog makes it worse. . . . Oh! my God! I can't stand it."
"Look here, old man, I don't know what's the matter with you, but it's plain enough that you've got this Carfax business on your nerves drop it. It does no good it's the worst thing in the world to brood about. Carfax is dead if I could help you to find his murderer I would but I can't." Craven's whole body was trembling under Olva's hand. Olva moved back to his chair. "Craven, listen to me.
It was evident that Bunning was unhappy; he looked as though he had not slept; his face was white and puffy, his eyes dark and heavy. He was paying no attention to the "Huns," but was trying, obviously, to catch Olva's eye. As the reading progressed Olva became more and more uneasy. It showed the things that must be happening to his nerves.
Of course Cards is having a good shot at it, but he isn't down against the Harlequins on Saturday, and mighty sick he is about it." Craven got up to go. "Well, I must be moving. Perhaps Carfax is back in his rooms. There may be word of him anyway." Olva's pipe was out. The matchbox on the mantelpiece was empty. He felt in his pocket for the little silver box that he always carried.
And yet here and there about the world people lived and had their being to whom this question of God was a vital question; people like Bunning and his crowd mad, the whole lot of them. Nevertheless there was something there that had great power. That had, until to-day, been Olva's attitude, an amused superior curiosity. Now it was a larger question.
Some curtain blew drearily, with little secret taps, against the door. Rupert Craven sat moodily in a dark corner. At Olva's request Margaret Craven played. The piano was old and needed attention, but he thought that he had never heard finer playing. First she gave him some modern things some Debussy, Les Miroires of Ravel, some of the Russian ballet music of Cleopatre.
He sat, his large fat face white and streaky, beads of perspiration on his forehead, his hands gripping the sides of the armchair. His boots stuck up in the most absurd manner, like interrogation marks. He watched Olva's face fearfully. At last he gasped "I say, Dune, you're ill. You are really you're overdone. You ought to see some one, you know. You ought really, you ought to go to bed."
There was no question of Cardillac's sincerity. Craven was sitting four places lower down; he had turned the other way and was talking eagerly to some man on his farther side but the eyes that had met Olva's two minutes before had been hostile. Cardillac went on: "Come in to coffee afterwards, Dune; several men are coming in." Olva thanked him and said that he would.
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