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Updated: June 5, 2025
Tyson's indiscretion; but her husband was held to have saved his honor by his spirited ejection of Captain Stanistreet, and he was respected accordingly. Meanwhile the hero of this charming fiction was unconscious of the fine figure he cut. He was preoccupied with the unheroic fact, the ridiculous cause of a still more ridiculous quarrel.
A month ago he would not have thought so lightly of the matter. One evening, not long after their stormy interview, he turned up at Stanistreet's rooms in Chelsea, much as he had turned up at Ridgmount Gardens after his year's absence. Stanistreet was lying back in a low chair, smoking and thinking. The change in Louis's appearance was still more striking than when they had last met.
Stanistreet dreaded it; but she was continually brushing up against it, with a feathery lightness which made him marvel at the volatile character of her mind. Was it the clumsiness of a butterfly or the dexterity of a woman? Once or twice he thought he detected a certain reluctant shyness in approaching the subject directly.
"This," he said bitterly, "accounts for everything." Stanistreet stared at him in hopeless bewilderment. "What is the matter with you?" "Nothing. I'm not going to kick you out of the house. I only ask you, so long as you are in it, to mind your own business." "I can't. I haven't any business." No one could be more exasperating than the guileless Louis.
Nevill Tyson was not literary; but whenever he called now he always found her sitting with some book in her hand, which she instantly hid behind the cushions of her chair. Stanistreet unearthed three of these volumes one day. They were "Barrack-Room Ballads," "With Gordon in the Soudan," "India: What it can Teach Us" a work, if you please, on Vedic philosophy, annotated in pencil by Tyson.
"In that case I'd be glad if you would be good enough to make an appointment for me with Colonel Stanistreet." "I am afraid he will not be home till very late to-night, but " "Then to-morrow?" Mr. Blensop smiled patiently. "Colonel Stanistreet is a very busy man," he uttered melodiously. "If you could let me know something about the nature of your business...."
If I am stupid too, he will be bored, and perhaps he will leave me. So now I am going to be his intellectual companion." He was amused, just as Stanistreet had been. "I say, I can't have that, you know. What have you got there?" She held up her book without speaking. "Othello," of all things in the world! "Shakespeare? I thought so.
"You were, I believe, expecting a certain communication of extraordinary character by the Assyrian, to be brought, that is, by an agent of the British Secret Service." After an almost imperceptible pause Stanistreet said evenly: "It is possible." "A communication, in fact, of such character that it was impossible to entrust it to the mails or to cable transmission, even in code."
Stanistreet enquired drily. "Monsieur!" "Oh, damn your play-acting, sir! If you can be capable of one infamy, you are capable of more. None the less, you are right about an Englishman's word: here is your money. Count it and get out!" "Thanks" the impostor's tone was an impertinently exact imitation of Stanistreet's "I mean to."
His head was bent low over his hands, so that she could not see it well; but at the first sight of his back and shoulders she thought it was Tyson. It was Stanistreet. He turned and started when he saw her. "Forgive me," said he, "I I'm leaving to-morrow, and I was just writing a note to you. I was going I did not expect to see you they told me-"
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