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Updated: June 5, 2025
"I think, Tyson," said he, "if I want to catch that early train to-morrow, I'd better take my things over to 'The Cross-Roads' to-night." "Just as you like." So Stanistreet betook himself to "The Cross-Roads." Next morning a rumor set out from three distinct centers, Thorneytoft, Meriden, and "The Cross-Roads," to the effect that Tyson had quarreled seriously with Stanistreet.
Her face was stained with tears. Nevill Tyson's nostrils twitched; deep black rings were round her eyes. Passion and hunger were in them, but there were no tears. And as Stanistreet looked from one woman to the other, he understood. He picked up the bundle and removed it to its mother's knee. All her soul passed into the look wherewith she thanked him.
Swiftly Lanyard moved toward the safe, glanced through the French windows to assure himself that Stanistreet and Stone were safely preoccupied, whipped out the envelope he had prepared, and thrust it into a file of papers which did not crowd its pigeonhole; accomplishing the complete manoeuvre with such adroitness that, like the business of the pen, it passed utterly without the knowledge of the secretary.
So many women had thought he understood. "I wonder do you understand!" The eyes that Mrs. Nevill Tyson turned on Stanistreet were not search-lights; they were wells of darkness, unsearchable, unfathomable. Something in Stanistreet, equally inscrutable, something that was himself and not himself, answered very low to that vague appeal. "Yes, I understand."
"Colonel Stanistreet, I believe," he said in a sonorous voice "Karl's" unmistakable voice "chief of the American bureau of the British Secret Service?" "I am Colonel Stanistreet," that gentleman admitted. "And you, sir ?" "I have adopted the name of Andre Duchemin," the impostor stated. "With permission I retain it." Colonel Stanistreet inclined his head slightly. "As you will. Pray be seated."
He had closed his eyelids. He was following his dream. Presently he spoke. "I say, Stanistreet, do you believe in miracles?" Stanistreet looked down. Only the other day he had seen a miracle and believed. And he himself was a greater miracle than the one he saw. But the experience was not one that he cared to talk about. "They don't happen here, where people are so damned clever.
"Captain Stanistreet seemed rather amused at the notion of your being a fine old country gentleman." "Stanistreet? I daresay. But he knows nothing about it, I assure you. He has the soul of a cabman. He measures everything by its distance from Charing Cross." "I see. And you are all for green fields and idyllic simplicity?" He bowed, as much as to say, "I am, if you say so."
If he doesn't there's a scandal, and the devil to pay " Stanistreet looked grave. Whither was all this tending? To a final abandonment of Mrs. Nevill Tyson? "Of course, the mistake was to try. There might have been a chance for me if I'd had a tithe of your sense. But being what I am, I must needs go and marry. It was the deed of a lunatic." "Isn't it rather late to go back on that now?
Backed by an estate and a good income, there was no reason why its last surviving member should not be a conspicuous social success. Well, it seemed that he was a conspicuous social failure. He owed that to Stanistreet, curse him! curse him! His brain still reeled, and he roused himself with difficulty from his retrospective dream.
I recall, indeed, resenting it enormously." He paused with purpose, looking down at the desk. A pad of blank paper caught his eye. He took it up and examined it with an abstracted manner. "Well, monsieur: the application of your adage?" "Colonel Stanistreet, what would you think if I were to tell you the combination of your safe?"
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