ISS JASMINE is out of town, sir, and Sir Provost is not at home."
Perhaps, to some people, twelve midnight would seem a singular hour at which to make a social call, but to-day, it has been said with truth, nothing is singular except the old proprieties.
Douglas Carey murmured good-night to Ford and stood for a moment in Half-Moon Street contemplating: the house. He had learned in these latter days to distrust the stability of the earth upon which he stood, to question the moon in the heavens, and to doubt his own identity.
The long silence of Jasmine had worn down his pride because love is stronger than pride. Believing, as he had told Muir Torrington, that he had telephoned and written to the house in Half-Moon Street, then learning that neither messages nor letter had, apparently, existed outside his own imagination, he had determined, since now the case was desperate, to call in person. This resolution had come at the end of a day such as he prayed he might never live through again.
At noon, he had dreamed of lunch at the Carlton, with Jasmine; at five o'clock, of tea in her own particular snuggery in Half-Moon Street; then, as dusk came, of dinner at a wonderful little intimate restaurant "discovered" by Jasmine—with the vista of a wonderous evening in her company. He pictured her beside him at the theatre, and then at supper in the Embassy. His tortured spirit lived through the delicious intimacy of the drive home, when already heavy-booted night workers of London were about their toils, with rumbling carts and strange lights. Once again he had waited for the parting wave of the hand from her window, and had visualized his contented return to Bruton Street; the "night-cap," the final cigarette—and the last waking thought: Jasmine.
But Tantalus had known no blacker hell. And so, at midnight, he had set out, in pursuit of no definite plan out yet with a shadowy goal before him. He had not dared to admit to himself that he was bound for Sir Provost's house—perhaps to find it in darkness; or, worse, to meet with rebuff. Yet, he had followed a direct route—but on arrival had failed to recollect any landmark or fellow pedestrian upon the way. He had walked in a dream. And in his dream, as in those which had come to him throughout the day, he had seen Jasmine laughing gaily in the company of this man and that, and always in those resorts where he most desired to be with her.
The mere fact that the lobby was illuminated might alone not have provided enough encouragement, for he could detect no sign of fight in any room; but a moving shadow of Ford upon the glass panels of the iron-scrolled doorway had given him the necessary courage to ring. He had accounted for his late call by saying that he had been passing; but, "Miss Jasmine is out of town, sir," the butler had replied, "and Sir Provost is not at home."
At that, the old reserve had swept back. He had burned to enquire where Jasmine was gone: his pride had forbidden the question. Vaguely he remembered having murmured, "Oh, of course, how forgetful of me, but I thought Sir Provost might be at home." Then the door had closed; the shadow of Ford had disappeared.
Now he was out in Half-Moon Street, looking up at the house. It was real enough. Yes, he actually stood in Half-Moon Street, and he was prepared to take oath that in propriâ personâ he had received a message from the lips of Ford. He moved slowly away in the direction of Piccadilly and paused on the corner, staring to right and left.
Visible through the window of a neighbouring club sat a man whom he knew fairly well—home on leave from India. Carey glanced up at him, and debated with himself. He had known Murchison for many years, although never intimately. But a desire to talk to someone, to any one, now possessed him urgently. He stood there, hesitating. Would Murchison understand? He was a hard-bitten Indian official. Yet, perhaps in the course of his duties he had come in contact with things outside the pale—things beyond the common understanding, unprovided for by Western laws. Carey started in the direction of the club entrance. At the foot of the steps he paused. It was impossible. He could not plunge into these intimate details of his private life with a man like Murchison, whom he saw only at intervals of a year or more.
However, the movement had set him on a western course, and he proceeded along Piccadilly in the direction of Hyde Park Corner, walking away from home, which he dreaded, because of the thoughts which loneliness must bring.