John was standing in a high, white room, smelling a little of papers and tobacco, and garnished solely by five green chairs, a table, and a bureau with an immense number of pigeonholes, whereat he had obviously been seated. Quick to observe what concerned his little daughter, Felix noted how her greeting trembled up at her uncle and how a sort of warmth thawed for the moment the regularity of his brother's face. When they had taken two of the five green chairs and John was back at his bureau, Felix handed over the letter. John read it and looked at Nedda. Then taking a pipe out of his pocket, which he had evidently filled before they came in, he lighted it and re-read the letter. Then, looking very straight at Nedda, he said:
"Nothing in it? Honour bright, my dear!"
"No, Uncle John, nothing. Only that he fancies his talk about injustice put it into Tryst's head."
John nodded; the girl's face was evidence enough for him.
"Any proof?"
"Tryst himself told me in the prison that he did it. He said it came on him suddenly, when he saw the straw."
A pause followed before John said:
"Good! You and I and your father will go down and see the police."
Nedda lifted her hands and said breathlessly:
"But, Uncle! Dad! Have I the right? He says--honour. Won't it be betraying him?"
Felix could not answer, but with relief he heard John say:
"It's not honorable to cheat the law."
"No; but he trusted me or he wouldn't have written."
John answered slowly:
"I think your duty's plain, my dear. The question for the police will be whether or not to take notice of this false confession.
For us to keep the knowledge that it's false from them, under the circumstances, is clearly not right. Besides being, to my mind, foolish."
For Felix to watch this mortal conflict going on in the soul of his daughter--that soul which used to seem, perhaps even now seemed, part of himself; to know that she so desperately wanted help for her decision, and to be unable to give it, unable even to trust himself to be honest--this was hard for Felix. There she sat, staring before her; and only her tight-clasped hands, the little movements of her lips and throat, showed the struggle going on in her.
"I couldn't, without seeing him; I MUST see him first, Uncle!"
John got up and went over to the window; he, too, had been affected by her face.
"You realize," he said, "that you risk everything by that. If he's given himself up, and they've believed him, he's not the sort to let it fall through. You cut off your chance if he won't let you tell. Better for your father and me to see him first, anyway."
And Felix heard a mutter that sounded like: 'Confound him!'
Nedda rose. "Can we go at once, then, Uncle?"
With a solemnity that touched Felix, John put a hand on each side of her face, raised it, and kissed her on the forehead.
"All right!" he said. "Let's be off!"
A silent trio sought Paddington in a taxi-cab, digesting this desperate climax of an affair that sprang from origins so small.
In Felix, contemplating his daughter's face, there was profound compassion, but also that family dismay, that perturbation of self-esteem, which public scandal forces on kinsmen, even the most philosophic. He felt exasperation against Derek, against Kirsteen, almost even against Tod, for having acquiesced passively in the revolutionary bringing-up which had brought on such a disaster.
War against injustice; sympathy with suffering; chivalry! Yes!
But not quite to the point whence they recoiled on his daughter, his family, himself! The situation was impossible! He was fast resolving that, whether or no they saved Derek from this quixotry, the boy should not have Nedda. And already his eyes found difficulty in meeting hers.
They secured a compartment to themselves and, having settled down in corners, began mechanically unfolding evening journals. For after all, whatever happens, one must read the papers! Without that, life would indeed be insupportable! Felix had bought Mr. Cuthcott's, but, though he turned and turned the sheets, they seemed to have no sense till these words caught his eyes:
"Convict's tragic death! Yesterday afternoon at Worcester, while being conveyed from the assize court back to prison, a man named Tryst, sentenced to three years' penal servitude for arson, suddenly attacked the warders in charge of him and escaped. He ran down the street, hotly pursued, and, darting out into the traffic, threw himself under a motor-car going at some speed. The car struck him on the head, and the unfortunate man was killed on the spot. No reason whatever can be assigned for this desperate act.
He is known, however, to have suffered from epilepsy, and it is thought an attack may have been coming on him at the time."
When Felix had read these words he remained absolutely still, holding that buff-colored paper before his face, trying to decide what he must do now. What was the significance--exactly the significance of this? Now that Tryst was dead, Derek's quixotic action had no meaning. But had he already 'confessed'? It seemed from this account that the suicide was directly after the trial; even before the boy's letter to Nedda had been written. He must surely have heard of it since and given up his mad idea! He leaned over, touched John on the knee, and handed him the paper. John read the paragraph, handed it back; and the two brothers stared fixedly at each other. Then Felix made the faintest movement of his head toward his daughter, and John nodded. Crossing to Nedda, Felix hooked his arm in hers and said:
"Just look at this, my child."
Nedda read, started to her feet, sank back, and cried out:
"Poor, poor man! Oh, Dad! Poor man!"
Felix felt ashamed. Though Tryst's death meant so much relief to her, she felt first this rush of compassion; he himself, to whom it meant so much less relief, had felt only that relief.
"He said he couldn't stand it; he told me that. But I never thought-- Oh! Poor man!" And, burying her face against his arm, she gave way.
Petrified, and conscious that John at the far end of the carriage was breathing rather hard, Felix could only stroke her arm till at last she whispered:
"There's nobody now for Derek to save. Oh, if you'd seen that poor man in prison, Dad!"
And the only words of comfort Felix could find were:
"My child, there are thousands and thousands of poor prisoners and captives!"
In a truce to agitation they spent the rest of that three hours' journey, while the train rattled and rumbled through the quiet, happy-looking land.
