But there was nothing improper in my observing to Fyne that, last night, Mrs. Fyne seemed to have some idea where that enterprising young lady had gone to. Fyne shook his head. No; his wife had been by no means so certain as she had pretended to be. She merely had her reasons to think, to hope, that the girl might have taken a room somewhere in London, had buried herself in town--in readiness or perhaps in horror of the approaching day -He ceased and sat solemnly dejected, in a brown study. "What day?"I asked at last; but he did not hear me apparently. He diffused such portentous gloom into the atmosphere that I lost patience with him.
"What on earth are you so dismal about?" I cried, being genuinely surprised and puzzled. "One would think the girl was a state prisoner under your care."And suddenly I became still more surprised at myself, at the way Ihad somehow taken for granted things which did appear queer when one thought them out.
"But why this secrecy? Why did they elope--if it is an elopement?
Was the girl afraid of your wife? And your brother-in-law? What on earth possesses him to make a clandestine match of it? Was he afraid of your wife too?"Fyne made an effort to rouse himself.
"Of course my brother-in-law, Captain Anthony, the son of . . . "He checked himself as if trying to break a bad habit. "He would be persuaded by her. We have been most friendly to the girl!""She struck me as a foolish and inconsiderate little person. But why should you and your wife take to heart so strongly mere folly--or even a want of consideration?"
"It's the most unscrupulous action," declared Fyne weightily--and sighed.
"I suppose she is poor," I observed after a short silence. "But after all . . . ""You don't know who she is." Fyne had regained his average solemnity.
I confessed that I had not caught her name when his wife had introduced us to each other. "It was something beginning with an S-wasn't it?" And then with the utmost coolness Fyne remarked that it did not matter. The name was not her name.
"Do you mean to say that you made a young lady known to me under a false name?" I asked, with the amused feeling that the days of wonders and portents had not passed away yet. That the eminently serious Fynes should do such an exceptional thing was simply staggering. With a more hasty enunciation than usual little Fyne was sure that I would not demand an apology for this irregularity if I knew what her real name was. A sort of warmth crept into his deep tone.
"We have tried to befriend that girl in every way. She is the daughter and only child of de Barral."Evidently he expected to produce a sensation; he kept his eyes fixed upon me prepared for some sign of it. But I merely returned his intense, awaiting gaze. For a time we stared at each other.
Conscious of being reprehensibly dense I groped in the darkness of my mind: De Barral, De Barral--and all at once noise and light burst on me as if a window of my memory had been suddenly flung open on a street in the City. De Barral! But could it be the same?
Surely not!
"The financier?" I suggested half incredulous.
"Yes," said Fyne; and in this instance his native solemnity of tone seemed to be strangely appropriate. "The convict."Marlow looked at me, significantly, and remarked in an explanatory tone:
"One somehow never thought of de Barral as having any children, or any other home than the offices of the "Orb"; or any other existence, associations or interests than financial. I see you remember the crash . . . ""I was away in the Indian Seas at the time," I said. "But of course--""Of course," Marlow struck in. "All the world . . . You may wonder at my slowness in recognizing the name. But you know that my memory is merely a mausoleum of proper names. There they lie inanimate, awaiting the magic touch--and not very prompt in arising when called, either. The name is the first thing I forget of a man. It is but just to add that frequently it is also the last, and this accounts for my possession of a good many anonymous memories. In de Barral's case, he got put away in my mausoleum in company with so many names of his own creation that really he had to throw off a monstrous heap of grisly bones before he stood before me at the call of the wizard Fyne. The fellow had a pretty fancy in names: the "Orb" Deposit Bank, the "Sceptre" Mutual Aid Society, the "Thrift and Independence" Association. Yes, a very pretty taste in names;and nothing else besides--absolutely nothing--no other merit. Well yes. He had another name, but that's pure luck--his own name of de Barral which he did not invent. I don't think that a mere Jones or Brown could have fished out from the depths of the Incredible such a colossal manifestation of human folly as that man did. But it may be that I am underestimating the alacrity of human folly in rising to the bait. No doubt I am. The greed of that absurd monster is incalculable, unfathomable, inconceivable. The career of de Barral demonstrates that it will rise to a naked hook. He didn't lure it with a fairy tale. He hadn't enough imagination for it . . . ""Was he a foreigner?" I asked. "It's clearly a French name. Isuppose it WAS his name?"
"Oh, he didn't invent it. He was born to it, in Bethnal Green, as it came out during the proceedings. He was in the habit of alluding to his Scotch connections. But every great man has done that. The mother, I believe, was Scotch, right enough. The father de Barral whatever his origins retired from the Customs Service (tide-waiter Ithink), and started lending money in a very, very small way in the East End to people connected with the docks, stevedores, minor barge-owners, ship-chandlers, tally clerks, all sorts of very small fry. He made his living at it. He was a very decent man I believe.
