He was gone. Mrs. Harper, with a sigh, began to tidy the chaos of her son’s room. She did not in the least understand what Frank had told her. She did not believe all his grandiose talk about Africa and a cottage in the country. But then for years now she had lived in a dim twilight of existence, where the only reality was the ever-present necessity of making both ends meet, the only illumination the love and pride which she felt for her son. Dimly she was aware that there had been a time when life went easily and comfortably, when there was leisure to think and to enjoy, and when the prices of things in the shops were a matter of casual interest. It did not seem real now, any more than Frank’s sudden optimism about the future seemed real. It only unsettled one to hope for impossibilities. But one thing at least was real—the fact that her moody, discontented son was for some reason happy and hopeful once more. And without understanding, she basked in the rays of his cheerfulness. After all, they had been ruined in the past for reasons which had always remained somewhat of a mystery to her. Why should they not regain their fortunes in an equally inexplicable way? And if for some cause it was the price of fortune to keep it a close secret—well, she reflected, one thing an old woman could do was to keep her own counsel.

She stopped in her work, her contentment suddenly clouded over. Frank had gone away with an odd pair of socks!

14
LORD HENRY AND LORD BERNARD

Thursday, November 19th

An electric train carried Mallett smoothly Brighton-wards, together with a crowd of homing stockbrokers. The chatter of his neighbours in the carriage seemed to be equally divided between golf and the Ballantine affair—the latter being viewed exclusively from the financial standpoint. He was agreeably surprised to learn from their talk that each of them had, by superhuman foresight, succeeded in “getting out” of the Twelve Apostles at the very top of the market. He also learned several novel items of information—amongst others that the Commissioner of Police had “dropped a packet” on London Imperials and therefore was making no particular efforts to trace the financier’s murderer. An elderly man in the corner was bold enough to hint his doubts of the accuracy of the last statement, but was instantly suppressed.

“Fact!” said the narrator, a stout young man with an aggressive voice. “Chap I knew had it direct from a pal of his who’s in Scotland Yard.”