The Man in the Brown Suit
“Yes. No one knows how he managed it. He was securely locked up
for the night—in an upper-story room of one of the farms roundabouts
which the Military have taken over, but this morning the room was
empty and the bird had flown.”
Secretly I was rather pleased. Never, to this day, have I been able
to rid myself of a sneaking fondness for Sir Eustace. I dare say
it’s reprehensible, but there it is. I admired him. He was a
thorough-going villain, I dare say—but he was a pleasant one. I’ve
never met any one half so amusing since.
I concealed my feelings, of course. Naturally Colonel Race would
feel quite differently about it. He wanted Sir Eustace brought to
justice. There was nothing very surprising in his escape when one
came to think of it. All round Jo’burg he must have innumerable
spies and agents. And, whatever Colonel Race might think, I was
exceedingly doubtful that they would ever catch him. He probably
had a well-planned line of retreat. Indeed, he had said as much to
us.
I expressed myself suitably, though in a rather lukewarm manner,
and the conversation languished. Then Colonel Race asked suddenly
for Harry. I told him that he had gone off at dawn and that I
hadn’t seen him this morning.
“You understand, don’t you, Anne, that apart from formalities, he
is completely cleared? There are technicalities, of course, but
Sir Eustace’s guilt is well assured. There is nothing now to keep
you apart.”
He said this without looking at me, in a slow, jerky voice.
“I understand,” I said gratefully.
“And there is no reason why he should not at once resume his real
name.”
“No, of course not.”
“You know his real name?”
The question surprised me.
“Of course I do. Harry Lucas.”
He did not answer, and something in the quality of his silence
struck me as peculiar.
“Anne, do you remember that, as we drove home from the Matoppos
that day, I told you that I knew what I had to do?”
“Of course I remember.”
“I think that I may fairly say I have done it. The man you love is
cleared of suspicion.”
“Was that what you meant?”
“Of course.”
I hung my head, ashamed of the baseless suspicion I had entertained.
He spoke again in a thoughtful voice:
“When I was a mere youngster, I was in love with a girl who jilted
me. After that I thought only of my work. My career meant everything
to me. Then I met you, Anne—and all that seemed worth nothing. But
youth’s call to youth. . . . I’ve still got my work.”
I was silent. I suppose one can’t really love two men at once—but
you can feel like it. The magnetism of this man was very great. I
looked up at him suddenly.
“I think that you’ll go very far,” I said dreamily. “I think that
you’ve got a great career ahead of you. You’ll be one of the
world’s big men.”
I felt as though I was uttering a prophecy.
“I shall be alone, though.”
“All the people who do really big things are.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sure of it.”
He took my hand and said in a low voice:
“I’d rather have had—the other.”
Then Harry came striding round the corner of the house. Colonel
Race rose.
“Good morning—Lucas,” he said.
For some reason Harry flushed up to the roots of his hair.
“Yes,” I said gaily, “you must be known by your real name now.”
But Harry was still staring at Colonel Race.
“So you know, sir,” he said at last.
“I never forget a face. I saw you once as a boy.”
“What’s all this about?” I asked, puzzled, looking from one to the
other.
It seemed a conflict of wills between them. Race won. Harry turned
slightly away.
“I suppose you’re right, sir. Tell her my real name.”
“Anne, this isn’t Harry Lucas. Harry Lucas was killed in the War.
This is John Harold Eardsley.”
CHAPTER XXXV
With his last words Colonel Race had swung away and left us. I
stood staring after him. Harry’s voice recalled me to myself.
“Anne, forgive me, say you forgive me.”
He took my hand in his and almost mechanically I drew it away.
“Why did you deceive me?”
“I don’t know that I can make you understand. I was afraid of all
that sort of thing—the power and fascination of wealth. I wanted
you to care for me just for myself—for the man I was—without
ornaments and trappings.”
“You mean you didn’t trust me?”
“You can put it that way if you like, but it isn’t quite true. I’d
become embittered, suspicious—always prone to look for ulterior
motives—and it was so wonderful to be cared for in the way you
cared for me.”
“I see,” I said slowly. I was going over in my own mind the story
he had told me. For the first time I noted discrepancies in it
which I had disregarded—an assurance of money, the power to buy
back the diamonds of Nadina, the way in which he had preferred to
speak of both men from the point of view of an outsider. And when
he had said “my friend” he had meant, not Eardsley, but Lucas. It
was Lucas, the quiet fellow, who had loved Nadina so deeply.
“How did it come about?” I asked.
“We were both reckless—anxious to get killed. One night we exchanged
identification discs—for luck! Lucas was killed the next day—blown
to pieces.”
I shuddered.
“But why didn’t you tell me now? This morning? You couldn’t have
doubted my caring for you by this time?”
“Anne, I didn’t want to spoil it all. I wanted to take you back to
the island. What’s the good of money? It can’t buy happiness. We’d
have been happy on the island. I tell you I’m afraid of that other
life—it nearly rotted me through once.”
“Did Sir Eustace know who you really were?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And Carton?”
“No. He saw us both with Nadina at Kimberley one night, but he
didn’t know which was which. He accepted my statement that I was
Lucas, and Nadina was deceived by his cable. She was never afraid
of Lucas. He was a quiet chap—very deep. But I always had the
devil’s own temper. She’d have been scared out of her life if she’d
known that I’d come to life again.”
“Harry, if Colonel Race hadn’t told me, what did you mean to do?”
“Say nothing. Go on as Lucas.”
“And your father’s millions?”
“Race was welcome to them. Anyway, he would make a better use of
them than I ever shall. Anne, what are you thinking about? You’re
frowning so.”
“I’m thinking,” I said slowly, “that I almost wish Colonel Race
hadn’t made you tell me.”
“No. He was right. I owed you the truth.”
He paused, then said suddenly:
“You know, Anne, I’m jealous of Race. He loves you too—and he’s a
bigger man than I am or ever shall be.”
I turned to him, laughing.
“Harry, you idiot. It’s you I want—and that’s all that matters.”
As soon as possible we started for Cape Town. There Suzanne was
waiting to greet me, and we disembowelled the big giraffe together.
When the Revolution was finally quelled, Colonel Race came down to
Cape Town and at his suggestion the big villa at Muizenberg that
had belonged to Sir Lawrence Eardsley was reopened and we all took
up our abode in it.
There we made our plans. I was to return to England with Suzanne
and to be married from her house in London. And the trousseau was
to be bought in Paris! Suzanne enjoyed planning all these details
enormously. So did I. And yet the future seemed curiously unreal.
And sometimes, without knowing why, I felt absolutely stifled—as
though I couldn’t breathe.
It was the night before we were to sail. I couldn’t sleep. I was
miserable, and I didn’t know why. I hated leaving Africa. When I
came back to it, would it be the same thing? Would it ever be the
same thing again?
And then I was startled by an authoritative rap on the shutter. I
sprang up. Harry was on the _stoep_ outside.
“Put some clothes on, Anne, and come out. I want to speak to you.”
I huddled on a few garments, and stepped out into the cool night
air—still and scented, with its velvety feel. Harry beckoned me
out of earshot of the house. His face looked pale and determined
and his eyes were blazing.
“Anne, do you remember saying to me once that women enjoyed doing
the things they disliked for the sake of some one they liked?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering what was coming.
He caught me in his arms.
“Anne, come away with me—now—to-night. Back to Rhodesia—back to
the island. I can’t stand all this tomfoolery. I can’t wait for
you any longer.”
I disengaged myself a minute.
“And what about my French frocks?” I lamented mockingly.
To this day Harry never knows when I’m in earnest and when I’m only
teasing him.
“Damn your French frocks. Do you think I want to put frocks on you?
I’m a damned sight more likely to want to tear them off you. I’m
not going to let you go, do you hear? You’re my woman. If I let
you go away, I may lose you. I’m never sure of you. You’re coming
with me now—to-night—and damn everybody.”
He held me to him, kissing me until I could hardly breathe.
“I can’t do without you any longer, Anne. I can’t indeed. I hate
all this money. Let Race have it. Come on. Let’s go.”
“My toothbrush?” I demurred.
“You can buy one. I know I’m a lunatic, but for God’s sake, _come!”_
He stalked off at a furious pace. I followed him as meekly as the
Barotsi woman I had observed at the Falls. Only I wasn’t carrying
a frying-pan on my head. He walked so fast that it was very
difficult to keep up with him.
“Harry,” I said at last, in a meek voice, “are we going to walk
all the way to Rhodesia?”
He turned suddenly and with a great shout of laughter gathered me
up in his arms.
“I’m mad, sweetheart, I know it. But I do love you so.”
“We’re a couple of lunatics. And, oh, Harry, you never asked me,
but I’m not making a sacrifice at all! I _wanted_ to come!”
CHAPTER XXXVI
That was two years ago. We still live on the island. Before me, on
the rough wooden table, is the letter that Suzanne wrote me.
Dear Babes in the Wood—Dear Lunatics in Love,
I’m not surprised—not at all. All the time we’ve been talking Paris
and frocks I felt that it wasn’t a bit real—that you’d vanish into
the blue some day to be married over the tongs in the good old
gipsy fashion. But you _are_ a couple of lunatics! This idea of
renouncing a vast fortune is absurd. Colonel Race wanted to argue
the matter, but I have persuaded him to leave the argument to time.
He can administer the estate for Harry—and none better. Because,
after all, honeymoons don’t last forever—you’re not here, Anne, so
I can safely say that without having you fly out at me like a
little wild-cat—Love in the wilderness will last a good while, but
one day you will suddenly begin to dream of houses in Park Lane,
sumptuous furs, Paris frocks, the largest thing in motors and the
latest thing in perambulators, French maids and Norland nurses!
Oh, yes, you will!
But have your honeymoon, dear lunatics, and let it be a long one.
And think of me sometimes, comfortably putting on weight amidst
the fleshpots!
Your loving friend, Suzanne Blair.
P.S.—I am sending you an assortment of frying-pans as a wedding
present, and an enormous _terrine_ of _pâté de foie gras_ to remind
you of me.
There is another letter that I sometimes read. It came a good while
after the other and was accompanied by a bulky packet. It appeared
to be written from somewhere in Bolivia.
My dear Anne Beddingfeld,
I can’t resist writing to you, not so much for the pleasure it
gives me to write, as for the enormous pleasure I know it will give
you to hear from me. Our friend Race wasn’t quite as clever as he
thought himself, was he?
I think I shall appoint you my literary executor. I’m sending you
my diary. There’s nothing in it that would interest Race and his
crowd, but I fancy that there are passages in it which may amuse
you. Make use of it in any way you like. I suggest an article for
the _Daily Budget,_ “Criminals I have met.” I only stipulate that
I shall be the central figure.