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Updated: June 28, 2025
"Because I've half a notion there's a chap waiting for her at home." "At home?" "In England." The need for a confidant was suddenly imperative upon the younger man. "She's an English girl half English, that is; her mother was an American, a schoolmate of Quain's wife; her father, an Englishman in the Indian service." "Her name?" "Sophia Farrell."
And," he chuckled, "you'd never have known it if your case hadn't been exceptional." "It is, I think." Amber's expression became anxious. "I want to know what you think of it now Quain's told you. And, I say, what did you mean by 'news of the Fs.?" "News of the Farrells father and daughter, of course." Labertouche's eyes twinkled. "But how in the name of all that's strange !"
This Labertouche'll probably make life a misery for me." There was a quality in the note, however, to make him forget his resentment of Quain's well-meant interference. "My dear Sir," it began formally: "Quain's letter did not reach me until this afternoon; a circumstance which I regret. Otherwise I should be better prepared to assist you.
Now Quain's letter to Labertouche went by this quicker route and so anticipated Amber's arrival at the capital of India by about a week; during all of which time it languished unread. A nice young English boy in Mr. Labertouche's employ received and stamped it with the date of delivery and put it away with the rest of the incoming correspondence in a substantial-looking safe.
At the same time the painter slipped from his grasp and Quain, lodging an end of the eel-pot stake on the hard sand bottom, put his weight upon it. Before Amber could recover, the boat had slid off and was melting swiftly into the shadows. After a bit Quain's voice came back: "Don't fret, Davy. I'm all right." Amber cupped hands to mouth and sent a cheerful hail ringing in response.
The older people remembered that his father had always been a collector; they were constrained now to readjust their ideas concerning the son, and these ideas, rooted in the single phrase, ran away from home, and set fast by time, were difficult of adjustment. The impressiveness of Dr. Quain's sermon was impaired by this diversion of interest.
Your time will come; you're doing famously now." "Thank you." "Good-afternoon. Lock the door as you leave." Immediately that he found himself alone, Labertouche made of Quain's letter a second burnt offering to prejudice upon the tray of hammered brass.
He was now on the edge of collapse and showed it plainly. But two circumstances aided him to recover his grip upon himself: Quain's compassionate consideration in forbearing to press his story from him, and Doggott's opportune appearance with a pot of coffee, steaming and black. Two cups of this restored Amber to a condition somewhat approaching the normal. He lit a cigarette and began to talk.
But on this scene there suddenly appeared a third party, in the partial guise of an officer and the grip of Bacchus. Lurching down the office steps, with flushed face and bloodshot eyes, came Captain Newhall. "Gen'l'm'n," said he thickly, "le'm 'ntroduce m'self. Haven't th' honor y'r 'quain's. For an instant he stood swaying unsteadily, with half-extended hand.
"I'll try; I'll even promise, on condition that you send me word if ever you have need of me." "That will be never." "But if " "I'll send for you if ever I may, David; I promise faithfully. And in return I have your word?" Amber nodded. "Then...." Rutton attempted to divert the subject. "I think you said Quain? Any relation to Quain's 'Aryan Invasion of India?" "The same man.
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