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Updated: July 19, 2025
Christian Vellacott soon discovered that a head was required at the office of the Beacon to develop the elements of success undoubtedly lying within the journal, and that the owner of such a head could in time dictate his own terms to the easy-going proprietor. Unsparingly he devoted the whole of his exceptional energies to the work before him. He lived in and for it.
"But it is too soon to think of getting anxious yet. Vellacott is eminently capable of taking care of himself he is, above all things, a journalist. Things are disturbed in Paris, and it is possible that he has run across there." Mrs. Carew smiled somewhat incredulously. "It was a singular time to start," observed Hilda quietly. Mr. Bodery turned and looked at her.
Sidney lighted Mr. Bodery's candle and shook hands. "By the way," said the editor, turning back and speaking more lightly, "if any one should inquire your mother or one of your sisters you can say that I am not in the least anxious about Vellacott. Good night." It was quite early the next morning when the Vicomte d'Audierne left his room.
"Christian Vellacott," he said. "We know him also," she answered, moving towards the bell. He made a step forward as if about to offer to ring the bell for her, but she was too quick. When the butler entered the room, Hilda reminded him of some small omission in setting out the breakfast-table.
"To you, Mr. Vellacott," said the Italian, with senile geniality, "to you whose life is spent in London this must be very charming, very peaceful, and very disorganising, I may perhaps add." Christian looked at his companion with grave attention. "It is very enjoyable," he replied simply. Signor Bruno mentally trimmed his sails, and started off on another tack.
An hour later, Vellacott was walking along the deserted embankment above Westminster, on the Chelsea side of the river. It was nine o'clock, for which fact Big Ben solemnly gave his word, far up in the fog. The morning was very dark, and the street lamps were still alight, while every window sent forth a gleam suggestive of early autumnal fires.
The moon, being well upon the wane, would not rise for an hour or more, but the heavens were glowing with the gentler light of stars, and on earth the darkness was of that transparent description which sailors prefer to the brightest moonlight. Christian Vellacott had worked out most problems in life for himself.
Two were huge fellows with tawny, washed-out beards innocent of brush or comb, their faces were half hidden by rough sou'-westers, and they were enveloped from head to foot in oilskins from which the water ran in little rills. The third was Christian Vellacott, who looked very wet indeed. The water was dripping from his cuffs and running down his face.
A few moments later his thoughts were evidently far away. "The son of Vellacott," he muttered, as he took a cigarette from a neat silver case. "How strange! And yet I am sorry. He might have done something in the world. That article was clever very clever curse it! He cannot yet be thirty. But one would expect something from the son of a man like Vellacott."
He was good-natured, plucky in a hard-headed British way, and gentlemanly. In all this there was nothing exceptional nothing to take note of and Vellacott only remembered the limpness of Frederick Farrar's grasp. He thought of this too persistently and magnified it. And this being the only mental note made, was rather hard on the young squire of St. Mary Eastern.
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