VIII

“It’s a most extraordinary case,” said Major O’Neill. “I don’t think I ever heard of anything in the least like it. It seems incredible that he should know his name is Laydon, and not know whether he’s Jim Laydon or Jack.”

The crimson curtains were drawn across the dining-room windows. There was a pendent light in the middle of the room, and a reading-lamp with a green shade on the writing-table at which Manning was sitting. O’Neill was in a big armchair, and had the air of a man who was comfortably intrigued by a problem that did not touch him personally.

“What’s the good of saying incredible?” snapped Manning over his shoulder. He folded the letter he had been writing, put it in an envelope, addressed it rapidly, and tossed it on to the dining-table. Then he swung round and said,

“I’m putting in for leave on urgent private affairs. The Colonel’s promised to push it through.”

“It’s a most extraordinary case; I can’t understand it. You say you don’t recognize him at all?”

“No,” said Manning, “and that’s a fact. The Laydon boys were nice-looking lads of two and twenty, the spit and image of dozens of English boys of their class—grey eyes, brown hair, fresh skin—you know the sort of thing; England’s chock a-block with them. This poor chap in there”—he flung out a hand in the direction of the bedroom door—“he weighs another three and a half stone, to start off with; and you can’t really see him for hair.”

“Were the cousins alike?”

“So so—same height and general type, with a family likeness on the top of that.”

“Most extraordinary!” repeated O’Neill. “But his people’ll be bound to recognize him; there’s sure to be something they can go by. By the way though, who are his people? Any parents?”

“H’m—no,” said Manning. “There’s a grandfather, old Sir Cotterell Laydon. He lost both his sons in the Boer war. Jim’s mother was already dead. And as for Mrs Jack, well, the less said about her the better. The family was immensely relieved when she married again and went out to Australia. I don’t think they’ve ever heard from her since. The old man had both his grandsons at Laydon Manor—brought them up in fact. My people live quite near, you know; and my wife’s mother was a Laydon—half-sister of the old man’s, and about thirty years younger. The families are all mixed up because the girl Jim Laydon married was a Prothero too—a cousin of Lacy’s.”

O’Neill exclaimed, and sat up. “Married? Good heavens! You don’t tell me one of them was married?”

Manning, who had been pacing up and down, came to a stand-still a yard away.

“Yes, Jim Laydon was married. It’s a bit of a complication, isn’t it? He married Lacy’s cousin, Evelyn Prothero. I was at the wedding. Lacy was bridesmaid.”

“Good heavens!” said O’Neill again. “But she’ll know—if one of them was married, the wife’ll know—bound to.”

“I don’t know. She might, or she mightn’t. It’s not an ordinary case, because they never lived together. Both the Laydons were recalled on the wedding day, and something between a week and ten days later they were both missing. They were in the same squadron in the Flying Corps. They both went out on the same raid, and never came back. This chap says he remembers running into fog and being fired at. Lord knows how he landed up in the Schwarzwald. But I’ve driven a car myself when I’ve been asleep or next thing to it, and it’s my belief he just went on flying his machine mechanically after he was hit.”

“Very likely. But look here, Monkey, has he spoken about the girl at all? If he were the married one, he’d surely remember something. Hasn’t he asked any question?”

“No, he hasn’t. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t had much chance. I told you Lacy fainted. And then I had to take Anna Blum home. I rather thought it was up to me, because—well”—Manning grimaced—“I was pretty short with her while she was telling her story. And, after all, if he’s one of the Laydons, the family owes her a good deal, for it’s pretty certain she saved his life, and dead certain that she risked a firing party every hour of the three years before the Armistice. Honestly, O’Neill, the woman’s courage staggers me. They’d have shot her as soon as look at her if they’d found out. When we were going along I asked her if she knew it; and all she had to say was ‘Ja gewiss, Herr Major.’ Astonishing creatures, women.” He broke off and crossed to the writing-table again. “As soon as I know I’ve got my leave, I shall wire to my father-in-law, Sir Henry Prothero. And then someone will have to tell Sir Cotterell. He was most frightfully broke about the two boys, and it’ll want careful doing.”

“I suppose,” said O’Neill slowly, “that whichever of them it is is the heir?”

“Yes.” Manning gave a short laugh. “There’s one man who won’t be overjoyed, and that’s Cotterell Abbott, the nephew who’s had Laydon Manor in his pocket for the last nine years. I loathe the man myself, but I must say I think it’s hard lines on him—and you can bet he’ll think so too.”

“By the way,” said O’Neill, “were the Laydons regular soldiers?”

Manning shook his head. He was writing, and spoke frowning at the paper:

“No, they weren’t. As a matter of fact they had both just come down from Cambridge. Jim was going to study scientific farming and do agent to his grandfather, and Jack meant to have a shot at Indian Civil. Of course they both joined up at once.”

O’Neill got out of his chair and stretched himself.

“Well, that’ll probably save complications. I must be going along. I’ll go round and see Hooker, and borrow some clothes—he’s the only person I can think of large enough. Yours, of course, were no earthly. And when you’ve got him dressed like a Christian and shaved, you’ll probably be able to place him. He won’t want the bandage after to-day—the cut was nothing but a scratch.”

When the door had shut behind him, Manning finished his letter. It was to Evelyn Laydon, and it was very short. It ran:

“Dear Evelyn,

I’m coming over at once. Will you be at your flat? If you’re away, I must ask you to come back, because I want to see you very urgently.

Yours,

Monkey.”

He addressed the envelope to “Mrs Jim Laydon, 9, Halliday Mansions, Chelsea,” and threw it down on the table beside the bowl of snowdrops. As he did so, the bedroom door opened, and Laydon came into the room. He wore Manning’s dressing-gown instead of the coverlet, and looked, in consequence, several degrees less striking. He came across to the table, and even in that short distance it was noticeable that he did not walk as Anton Blum had walked, nor hold himself as Anton had held himself. Anton had shuffled with his feet and walked with a forward slouch of his big shoulders: this man held his head up and lifted his feet. He came to the table, stood there, and looked down at the letters which lay upon it. If his face changed, it was not noticeable. After a moment he frowned and said,

“I thought that man O’Neill was never going. And—look here, Monkey——” He paused, walked to the window, and stood there with his back to Manning. “Ten years is the deuce of a long time. Is my grandfather alive?”

“Yes, he’s alive and well. He was most frightfully broke. But you know his pluck. He said he wasn’t going to let Cotty Abbott in an hour before he could help it.”

“Poor old Cotty! He’s going strong, I suppose—same fussy old hen, nosing round and picking up scraps.” He gave quite an amused laugh, and then broke in on a new note with a “Hullo! Why of course this’ll be no end of a knock for him. Poor old Cotty!”

“He won’t be pleased,” said Manning drily.

There was a pause. Manning struggled with a sense of embarrassment. Evelyn—which of them was going to mention Evelyn? Someone must. The man went on looking out of the window.

“Lacy hasn’t changed a bit,” he said.

“Er—no,” said Manning.

There was another pause, a longer one this time. Then the man spoke again, his voice quite cool and steady:

“I’d like to hear about Evelyn. How is she?”

“She’s quite well.” Manning said these words because he had to say something; but he really had no idea what to say.

“I saw your letter on the table. She hasn’t—married?”

“No.”

“Or thought of it?”

A flare of temper came to Manning’s assistance.

“You’d better ask her that yourself!” he said with some heat.

“Thanks—I will.”

Manning found words suddenly.

“Look here,” he said, “d’you mean to tell me that you remember Evelyn, that you remember Lacy being bridesmaid to Evelyn, and that you don’t know whether you’re Evelyn’s husband? It’s not possible!”

The man stood by the window and drummed on it.

“Whether you’re Jack, or whether you’re Jim, you were at that wedding—you remember that?”

“Yes, I remember that.”

Manning came up, caught him by the arm, and pulled him round.

“You remember being at the wedding! Good Lord, man, tell me exactly what you do remember.”

The man looked down at him.

“Well, d’you know, Monkey, I think I won’t. It’s a bit too confused to be of much use.”

“You remember Lacy?”

“Lacy—and the other girl—what’s her name?—the cousin they didn’t like much—Mary Prothero. Yes, they had pink frocks and caps like the thing Lacy had on when she came in just now. I thought——” He fell silent and moved away from Manning.

Both men were remembering Evelyn Prothero in her wedding-dress—lilies and orange-blossoms, and Evelyn’s golden hair in the dark church. Manning looked the question which he could not force to his lips, but there was no answer to it. After a moment:

“You must know!” said Manning, sharply, and then—“Look here, I don’t even know what to call you. What are any of us to call you?”

“Embarrassing, isn’t it?” There was a hint of sarcasm in the voice. “I know I ought to apologize. Well, for the present, I think, we’ll have to compromise. I won’t ask you to commit yourselves until I can remember.”

“Laydon!” Beneath the sarcasm there was something that jabbed at Manning and caught him on the raw.

“No—I’ve been thinking—better stave off the Christian name for the present. I’ve got to get my bearings all round. I’ve been Anton Blum for the best part of ten years, and I think I’d better be Anthony Laydon until I know—until I know.” His voice was quite cool until the last word, when it broke suddenly in a sound that was like a sob, but rougher and harder. For a moment he stood where he was, his hands clenching and unclenching; then he sat down in the big arm-chair and covered his face.

“Put out those infernal lights, can’t you?” he said.