CHAPTER VIII RETURN OF THE AMBASSADOR

He left the office feeling depressed. Spent anger generally leaves depression behind it.

Hancock's admission that his mother had been treated harshly by her family, though a well-known fact to him, did not decrease his gloom. He considered the thousands that ought to have fallen to her share, that had fallen to the share of Patience instead. For a second a wild hatred of the Hancocks and all their ways filled his breast, and he felt an inclination to take the five-pound note from his pocket, roll it into a ball, and fling it into the gutter. Not being a lunatic, he didn't.[Pg 270] He went and dined instead, though it was only a little after five, and having dined he went back to the studio.

Verneede had not yet returned. At ten o'clock Verneede had not yet returned. Midnight struck.

"Can he be staying there the night?" thought Leavesley, who had gone to bed with a novel and a pipe and an ear, so to say, on every footstep ascending the stairs.

People often stayed the night at the Lamberts' drinking punch and playing cards; he had done so himself once.

He woke at seven and dressed, and at eight he was standing before the house of Verneede in Maple Street.

"Hin!" said the landlady, "I should think he was hin; and thankful he ought to be he's not hin the police station."

"Good gracious, what has happened?"

"Woke us up at two in the mornin' hangin' like a coal sack over the railin's; might a-tumbled into the airy and broke his neck. Disgraceful, I call it!"

"May I go up and see him?"

"Yus, you can go up—he's in the top floor[Pg 271] back—trouble enough we had to get him there."

Leavesley went up to the top floor back. The unfortunate Verneede was in bed, trying to remember things. He had brought his umbrella home safely, but in the pockets of his clothes, after diligent search in the grey dawn, he had been able to discover only one halfpenny. To make up for this deficiency, his head was swelled up till it felt like a pumpkin.

"Good gracious, Verneede," cried Leavesley, staring at him, "what on earth has happened to you?

"A fit, I think," said Verneede.

"Did you go to Highgate?"

"Of course—of course; pray, my dear Leavesley, hand me the washing jug."

He began to drink from the jug.

"Stop!" said Leavesley, "you'll burst!"

"I'm better now," said Mr Verneede, placing the jug, half empty, on the floor, and passing his hand across his brow.

"Then go on and tell me all about it."

Verneede had no recollection of anything at all save a few more or less unpleasant[Pg 272] incidents. He remembered the "Spotted Dog," the "King's Arms"; he remembered streets; he remembered being turned out of somewhere.

"Tell you about what?"

"Good gracious—about the Lamberts, of course. What time did you get there?"

"Half-past two, I think."

"You couldn't; you only left the studio at two."

"Half-past four, I mean; yes, it was half-past four."

"When did you leave?"

Verneede scratched his head.

"Six."

"You saw Miss Lambert?"

"Yes."

"Look here, Verneede, you were all right when you got there, I hope?"

"Perfectly, absolutely."

"What did you talk about?"

"We talked of various topics."

"Did you mention my name?"

"Ah yes," said Verneede, "I told her what you said."

"What?"

"About your going to Australia."

[Pg 273]

"America, you owl," cried Leavesley.

"America, I mean—America, of course—America."

"What did she say?"

"She said—she hoped you'd have a fine voyage, that the weather would be fine, in short, or words to that effect."

Leavesley sighed.

"Was that all she said?"

"Absolutely."

"Did you say anything about the letter I wrote her?"

"Yes; I remembered that."

"But I told you not."

"It escaped me," said Verneede weakly.

"What did she say?"

"She said it didn't matter; at least that is what I gathered from her."

"How do you mean gathered from her?"

"From her manner."

Leavesley sighed again, and Verneede leaned back on his pillow. He did not know in the least whether he had been at Lamberts' or not—he hoped he hadn't.