by John Rhode
The door opened once more, then shut with a slam. A taxi panted outside, then hummed away into the distance. And Harold, with a sigh, turned to the Professor.
But the latter would have none of him. ‘My dear boy,’ he said, ‘Miss Donaldson tells me that she wishes to ask my advice upon a somewhat delicate matter. She will, I am sure, feel less embarrassed if we are left alone.’
Harold smiled. This at least was definite enough. He took up his hat and walked home to Riverside Gardens, his brain filled with conjectures as to Isidore Samuels and his secret. That there was some connection between this elusive young man and his own problem he was now sure. But—Isidore had disappeared, this time for good, it seemed. And how he was to be traced was more than Harold could imagine.
It was well after midnight when April, returning from her dance, saw, to her surprise, a light in her father’s study. She hesitated for a moment, and hearing nothing, opened the door softly and tiptoed in. The Professor was seated in his favourite chair, his eyes fixed intently upon the dying embers of the fire. He started at the sound of her footsteps, and looked at her gravely, almost anxiously.
She came and perched herself on the arm of his chair, then leant over and kissed the top of his head.
‘You ought to be in bed long ago, Daddy mine,’ she said. ‘What are you doing in here all by yourself?’
‘Thinking, my dear,’ replied the Professor gently. ‘Wondering, if you will, if I dare to embark upon the solution of a problem. There are certain mysteries in this world which are better left unsolved.’
‘I believe you love your old problems far more than you do your daughter,’ she said lightly.
‘I see more of them, perhaps,’ he replied after a pause. ‘It seems to me that young Evan Denbigh has the first claim to your time now.’
She laid her head upon his shoulder and laughed softly. ‘I believe you are jealous of Evan, Daddy,’ she said. ‘I’ll stop at home if you like, and do problems with you. We’ll evaluate x plus y to the power of n, or something thrilling like that, every evening for an hour after dinner. Won’t that be fun?’
But he was not to be put off by her banter. ‘Tell me, dear, are you fond of this young man?’ he said.
‘On s’amuse,’ she replied carelessly. ‘He’s interesting to talk to, he dances well, he knows how to behave. You were the first to point out his merits, I believe, Daddy mine.’
‘Yes, but do you care for him?’ persisted the Professor.
‘What an inquisitive old darling it is!’ mocked April, and then suddenly her voice changed. ‘Oh, he’s one of many. What do I care? They’re all the same, all good fun to go out with, all to be trusted to behave decently in public. You know quite well, since Harold gave up caring—’
She broke off abruptly, and so for a while they sat, the Professor tenderly stroking her hand, she with her head resting on his shoulder. Then all of a sudden she kissed him, sprang from the arm of the chair and was gone.
Professor Priestley, left alone, stared reflectively for a few seconds into the fireplace. Then almost reverently he felt with his fingers the shoulder of his coat where his daughter’s head had rested. A great thankfulness lit up his face as he found it still moist.
‘So it is Harold, after all!’ he murmured. ‘Thank God! Now I can do my duty.’
CHAPTER XI
EVAN Denbigh was a man who always took particular care as to his personal appearance. His bedroom in Cambridge Terrace was in the greatest contrast to Harold’s careless untidiness at Riverside Gardens. It was, perhaps, less ornately furnished, but it was evident that its occupant was of an orderly mind, believing in that proverbial Utopia, a place for everything and everything in its place. He had only recently removed to these rooms, but already his landlady had confided to her friends of similar profession that her new tenant was a real gentleman and one who could be trusted not to muck things about.
On this particular afternoon, a couple of days after the evening when he had been late in calling for April, he was dressing with particular care. Sir Alured Faversham was taking a well-earned holiday, and it was by his own suggestion that his zealous assistant was attending at the laboratory during the mornings only. ‘It doesn’t do to burn the candle at both ends at your age, Denbigh,’ he had said kindly. ‘You’ve been looking a bit tired lately. There won’t be much doing while I am away, and it’ll be quite good enough if you come here in the mornings. Have your afternoons to yourself and take things easily.’
Evan had thanked him warmly, and had delicately conveyed the intelligence to April. As he had hoped, he had been rewarded by an invitation to tea on the Wednesday, and it was for this particular function that he was now preparing. For, with any luck, it would mean a tête-à-tête with April, and of that interview he was resolved to take the fullest advantage. It seemed to him that the hour for which he had been waiting had struck at last. Surely there had been something in her manner the other evening which had implied encouragement! Come what might, he would put it to the test this very afternoon.
With that intention in his mind his toilet was more elaborate than usual. As he put the finishing touches, he considered very carefully what his exact course should be. He had received a note from April herself, couched in the usual careless phraseology she habitually adopted. ‘If you haven’t anything more interesting on, come round to tea and talk.’ Just that, but quite enough to make a heart beat faster with gladness at an unsought, a heaven-sent opportunity. Tea and talk! Rather! As if there could be anything more interesting.
Of course, it must be quite a family affair, just April and the Professor, with the vague chance of some other casual visitor. He must risk that; in any case there might be no difficulty. The Professor always went off to his study directly after tea, and if the visitor was for him, he would go, too, leaving the field clear. Visitors for April? Well, that would mean Fabian tactics, a game of inducing the other fellow to go first. But really there was little to fear in that direction. The only man he had ever suspected April of having any regard for was Harold Merefield. And poor Harold’s stock was a bit low with that cloud that hung over him, and suspicion newly awakened by the letter in The Weekly Record. There was nothing to fear in that direction.
Then what would happen next? Opportunity was all very well, but how to seize it? How to make the most of the chance that fate had thrown into his way? April and he were excellent friends, there could be no doubt of that; they had common tastes, they had seen quite a lot of one another lately, to her manifest enjoyment. Yet somehow there was a great gulf fixed, the mist-shaded gulf that lies between friendship and—something more. You came to the end of friendship, as he had, deliberately, stepping carefully. Beyond, across the gulf, usually hidden by the mist, but sometimes half revealed in a sudden eddy, lay the further shore, the goal of all your efforts. And in between lay the dark ravine in which there seemed no foothold.
You had to bridge that gulf, bridge it with such frail materials as lay to your hands or as the gods might send. A flimsy, crazy structure when you had built it, a gossamer-thread of a thing, which the first breath of resentment, of indifference, of ridicule, would utterly sweep away. And you must fall with it, tumble head over heels into the gulf itself, without hope of scaling its steep sides to either shore, that of friendship or of love. You took your ambitions with you when you set out to cross that bridge. If it failed, they failed with it.
So Evan Denbigh, brush in hand, thought as he flicked the last speck of dust from his coat. A desperate venture, perhaps, but he meant to risk it. Surely he had read encouragement in her manner, as much encouragement as the off-hand, ultra-modern April could be expected to hold out. Besides, he would build the approaches carefully, set up the foundations of his arch in her sight, the while he remained safely on firm land. He could trust himself to use infinite pains, infinite caution—.
He was ready at last, and with a bold heart he set out for Westbourne Terrace. He walked slowly, consulting his watch every few pac
es, curbing his eagerness with a resolve to arrive exactly at the appointed hour. Even so, he was too early, was compelled to follow a tortuous route, past the busy importance of Paddington Station, into the long avenue of his goal, already darkening with the approach of the winter evening. At last a near-by clock chimed the quarters, and with a racing pulse he mounted the front-door steps and rang the bell.
Mary let him in, with a smile she reserved for those of whom she approved. Failing Master Harold—and after all the dreadful things they said, it seemed that Master Harold was no longer in the race—this spruce, pleasant-spoken young man seemed to answer her intuitive tests. She was about to show him upstairs to the drawing-room, when the Professor bustled out of his study and nearly ran into him.
‘Ah, Denbigh, so it is you, is it?’ he said. ‘Dear me, that is very fortunate. Come in. I daresay you will be very interested in some figures I am working upon. I flatter myself that they will completely upset the accepted theory of the structure of the atom. Facts, Denbigh, facts, as opposed to mere conjecture. Come in and I will explain them to you.’
There was nothing for it. Denbigh obediently followed Professor Priestley into his study, with a mental prayer that Mary would announce his arrival to April, who would organise an expedition to rescue him. Meanwhile he determined to make himself pleasant to the old man. He fully recognised the importance of making sure of this important ally.
The study was in darkness, save for a single lamp resting on a folding table spread out in the centre of the room. On that table lay an enormous sheet of squared paper, on which were inscribed rows of neat figures, and a sheaf of graphs, traced in many-coloured chalks, looking like the tracks of so many rockets. By the side of the paper was an array of mathematical instruments of various kinds, pencils and other aids to draughtsmanship.
The Professor led the way up to the table, talking as he did so. ‘I have never been prepared to accept the radioactive theory of the construction of matter,’ he said. ‘I know you chemists have constructed a theory of the atom as a miniature solar system, with electrons wandering about in it like planets. Pure conjecture, nothing logical about it. In the first place, you have never seen an atom, have you?’
‘No, I must confess I haven’t,’ replied Denbigh, cautiously feeling his way. ‘But men like Rutherford—’
‘Inference, experimental inference, if you like, but still inference,’ interrupted the Professor. ‘Now, for my part, I can prove mathematically, logically, and therefore conclusively, that your much-vaunted atomic structure is impossible. The laws of mutual attraction do not admit of it.’
He picked up a pencil, and laid the point of it on his chart. ‘Now, follow this curve,’ he continued excitedly. ‘It shows the mutual attraction of two particles of given mass as the distance increases. You see, at this critical point, as we may call it—ah, bother it!’
The fine point of the pencil had broken beneath his pressure, and as he continued his explanation he picked up a penknife and began to resharpen it, regardless of the luxurious carpet which covered the floor.
‘At this critical point, the curve becomes to all intents and purposes parallel to its abscissæ. You see what that means? It means that when your particles diverge beyond that distance, there is practically no force tending to hold them together. Ah, that is better!’
The pencil was now sharpened to his liking, and he reached over the table to lay it down. In doing so his arm caught the edge of it, and it tilted perilously. An avalanche of rulers, dividers, and a thousand queer-shaped things began to roll over it, and both the Professor and Denbigh, who stood by his side, made a sudden grab to arrest them. Denbigh, as he did so, gave a sudden exclamation. The Professor, in his flurry, had driven the point of his penknife into his arm.
‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed the latter, as he realised what had happened. ‘How extremely clumsy of me! One should never hold an open knife in one’s hand! And, dear me, I have been sharpening coloured pencils with this one! How unfortunate; it may set up serious irritation. I must attend to it directly!’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ replied Denbigh laughingly. ‘The point hardly penetrated the skin. Really, it isn’t worth while making a fuss about.’
But the Professor shook his head, and pressed the electric bell by the side of the fireplace. ‘I am surprised at one of your profession treating a matter of this kind so lightly,’ he remarked, severely. ‘It is inattention to such details which is responsible for so many cases of blood-poisoning. The dye used to colour these pencils has a definitely toxic action—’
The entrance of Mary in response to his ringing checked the flow of his eloquence. ‘Ah, Mary!’ he said, turning to her, ‘will you please go upstairs to Miss April and ask her to come down to me with the first-aid case which she will find in the cupboard at the head of my bed? Thank you.’
Denbigh’s reluctance disappeared as if by magic. ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right,’ he said, as Mary left the room on her errand. ‘You never know how small a thing will give rise to sepsis. A touch of iodine might be a good thing, after all.’
He stopped as he heard April running down the staircase and bowed smilingly as she burst open the door. This little incident had saved him a somewhat boring quarter of an hour. Now the spell was broken—after tea his opportunity must come—
‘What have you two been up to?’ demanded April. ‘Mary came up and said you wanted the first-aid things at once. Who’s the patient?’
‘My dear, I have had the misfortune to inflict a slight stab with my penknife upon Denbigh’s arm,’ replied the Professor. ‘You are aware how dangerous such a superficial wound may prove. You have the iodine and a bandage? Excellent! Now, Denbigh, if you will remove your coat and roll up your shirt sleeve, my daughter, whose sight is better than mine, will attend to you.’
Denbigh did as he was told, but his half-reluctant efforts failed to meet with the Professor’s approval. The wound was well up in the left biceps, a trifling incision from the lips of which a drop of blood oozed slowly.
‘Roll your sleeve right up,’ commanded the Professor. ‘April will want to apply plenty of iodine, and it produces an indelible stain on linen. Ah, that’s better. I think you will hardly need my assistance, my dear.’
‘Oh, no, that’s all right, Daddy,’ replied April, as the Professor turned to the disordered table and began to gather up his scattered instruments. ‘This is my job.’
She laid her hands on Denbigh’s shirt with a professional touch, and rolled the sleeve well back to the shoulder. ‘You didn’t know that I meant to be a V.A.D., only the war ended too soon, did you, Evan?’ she said. ‘How you and father came to stick knives into one another I can’t imagine. Now for the iodine. Smart a bit? Of course it does. That’s what it’s for. Now a couple of turns of bandage, and a safety pin, and there’s one more patient saved from the horrors of lock-jaw. That’s right.’
Denbigh submitted with good grace to her ministrations. The touch of her fingers was very pleasant, the incident somehow made another link between them, provided yet another slender spar for that bridge which was yet to be built. April completed her bandaging, then turned to help her father to collect the various instruments which had fallen to the floor unheeded.
‘What on earth were you up to, Daddy dear?’ she asked. ‘Fencing with pocket-knives, or something like that?’
‘No, my dear,’ replied the Professor. ‘We were seeking facts, when a careless gesture of mine very nearly upset the table, and in trying to save it I wounded Denbigh.’
He turned to the young man, who was putting on his coat. ‘You see, as I was about to explain when that unfortunate incident occurred, the curve of mutual attraction—’
But April interrupted him. ‘Oh, do give your old curves a rest, Daddy dear!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s past tea-time already, and you know how cross Mary gets if meals are kept waiting. Come along, I’ll help you tidy up this litter.’
The chart was rolled up, and put safely away i
n a corner, the table upon which it rested was folded up and likewise put away. The Professor himself deposited each of his beloved instruments in its appointed place. Then and not till then would he consent to leave the room, and the three ascended the stairs to the drawing room. With a thrill of excitement, Denbigh realised that opportunity, the opportunity he so eagerly sought for, was drawing nigh.
CHAPTER XII
TEA, but for the Professor, might have proved a somewhat constrained meal. Denbigh, for his part, found it very difficult to appear unconcerned. He was constantly on the alert, dreading lest the door should open to admit further visitors, and so spoil his chances for a tête-à-tête with April, when the Professor should have gone back to the study. April, woman-like, displayed no signs of noticing any mental tension in the air, even if she were aware of it.
But the Professor, having once started on his hobby, refused to be diverted from it. His researches into the structure of the atom seemed to afford him enormous satisfaction, and the presence of Denbigh, equipped with a scientific education and so capable of understanding him, was an opportunity not to be lost. He dropped easily into his lecturing style, and proceeded from a consideration of the present case to his favourite theory that mathematics, the logic of facts, was the sole legitimate route to the solution of any possible problem.
April and Denbigh let him talk; indeed, there was no stopping him. But it was with a feeling of devout thankfulness that Denbigh saw him rise, shortly after the assimilation of his second cup of tea.
‘This has been a most interesting conversation,’ remarked the Professor genially. ‘It is not often that I meet one so able to appreciate my theories as you, Denbigh. Most interesting. In fact, I see no reason why it should terminate now. There is an admirable fire in my study, and I find it more comfortable to sit in than this room. Come along, Denbigh, and you too, April, my dear. We will make ourselves comfortable down there.’