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On the left, by Gommecourt and Beaumont Hamel, the British attack failed, as I have told, but southward the "impregnable" lines were smashed by a tide of British soldiers as sand castles are overwhelmed by the waves. Our men swept up to Fricourt, struck straight up to Montauban on the right, captured it, and flung a loop round Mametz village.
Hamel was conscious of a strange exhilaration, a queer upheaval of ideas, an excitement which nothing in his previous life had yet been able to yield him. The wonder of it amazed him, kept him silent. It was not until they reached the steps, indeed, that he spoke. "On our way home " he began. She seemed suddenly to have stiffened. He looked at her, surprised.
Esther made a little grimace. "Look at the sunshine," she said. "There isn't a breath of wind, either. I think to-day that I could play from the men's tees." Hamel sighed as he returned to his place. "My good intentions are already half dissipated," he admitted. She laughed. "How can we attack the other half?" she asked. Gerald, who was also on his way to the sideboard, suddenly stopped.
It was the fate of three of these, after escaping from the dangers of the great chasm, to be killed by an attack of Apaches on the Wickenburg stage. These were Loring, Hamel, and Salmon. Loring was a brilliant young literary man from Boston, whose career was thus sadly ended.
Then she drew a step nearer. "Has Mr. Fentolin given you the key of the shed?" she asked, very quietly. Hamel shook his head. "We don't need the place, do we?" "He did not give you the key?" she persisted. "Mr. Fentolin said that he had some things in there which he wished to keep locked up," he explained. She remained thoughtful for several moments. Then she turned away.
If you like, you shall have the truth from me." "Go on." "I was warned about your uncle before I came down into this part of the world," Hamel continued quietly. "I was told that he is a dangerous conspirator, a man who sticks at nothing to gain his ends, a person altogether out of place in these days. It sounds melodramatic, but I had it straight from a friend.
Ten days later, on September 25th, when the British made a new advance all this time the French were pressing forward, too, on our right by Roye Combles was evacuated without a fight and with a litter of dead in its streets; Gueudecourt, Lesboeufs, and Morval were lost by the Germans; and a day later Thiepval, the greatest fortress position next to Beaumont Hamel, fell, with all its garrison taken prisoners.
It wouldn't matter so much if he were our friend, or if he were simply a financier, but to tell you the truth, we have cause to suspect him." "But he's an Englishman, surely?" Hamel asked. "The Fentolin who was my father's friend was just a very wealthy Norfolk squire one of the best, from all I have heard." "Miles Fentolin is an Englishman," Kinsley admitted.
I feel sure the name was Fentolin." Reginald Kinsley set down his wine-glass. "Is your St. David's Tower anywhere near a place called Salthouse?" he asked reflectively. "That's the name of the village," Hamel admitted. "My father used to spend quite a lot of time in those parts, and painted at least a dozen pictures down there."
There is the morning to be passed barely eleven o'clock, I think, now. I shall sit in my chair, and sink a little down, and dream of these beautiful lights, these rolling, foam-flecked waves, these patches of blue and shifting green. I can form them in my brain. I can make a picture there, even though my fingers refuse to move. You are not an aesthete, I think, Mr. Hamel?
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