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Twelve
When Rowley left the Stag his steps turned automatically in the direction of home, but after
walking a few hundred yards, he pulled up short and retraced his steps.
His mind took things in slowly and his first astonishment over Beatrice’s revelations was only
now beginning to give way to a true appreciation of the significance. If her version of what she
had overheard was correct, and he had no doubt that in substance it was so, then a situation had
arisen which concerned every member of the Cloade family closely. The person most fitted to deal
with this was clearly Rowley’s Uncle Jeremy. As a solicitor, Jeremy Cloade would know what
use could best be made of this surprising information, and exactly what steps to take.
Though Rowley would have liked to take action himself, he realized rather grudgingly that it
would be far better to lay the matter before a shrewd and experienced lawyer. The sooner Jeremy
was in possession of this information the better, and accordingly Rowley bent his footsteps
straight to Jeremy’s house in the High Street.
The little maid who opened the door informed him that Mr. and Mrs. Cloade were still at the
dinner table. She would have shown him in there, but Rowley negatived this and said he would
wait in Jeremy’s study till they had finished. He did not particularly want to include Frances in
the colloquy. Indeed the fewer people who knew about it the better, until they should have
determined on a definite course of action.
He wandered restlessly up and down Jeremy’s study. On the flat- topped desk was a tin
dispatch box labelled Sir William Jessamy Deceased. The shelves held a collection of legal tomes.
There was an old photograph of Frances in evening dress and one of her father, Lord Edward
Trenton, in riding kit. On the desk was the picture of a young man in uniform—Jeremy’s son
Antony, killed in the war.
Rowley winced and turned away. He sat down in a chair and stared at Lord Edward Trenton
instead.
In the dining room Frances said to her husband:
“I wonder what Rowley wants?”
Jeremy said wearily:
“Probably fallen foul of some Government regulation. No farmer understands more than a
quarter of these forms they have to fill up. Rowley’s a conscientious fellow. He gets worried.”
“He’s nice,” said Frances, “but terribly slow. I have a feeling, you know, that things
aren’t going too well between him and Lynn.”
Jeremy murmured vacantly:
“Lynn—oh, yes, of course. Forgive me, I—I don’t seem able to concentrate. The strain—”
Frances said swiftly:
“Don’t think about it. It’s going to be all right, I tell you.”
“You frighten me sometimes, Frances. You’re so terribly reckless. You don’t realize—”
“I realize everything. I’m not afraid. Really, you know, Jeremy, I’m rather enjoying myself
—”
“That, my dear,” said Jeremy, “is just what causes me such anxiety.”
She smiled.
“Come,” she said. “You mustn’t keep that bucolic young man waiting too long. Go and
help him to fill up form eleven hundred and ninety-nine, or whatever it is.”
But as they came out of the dining room the front door banged shut. Edna came to tell them that
Mr. Rowley had said he wouldn’t wait and that it was nothing that really mattered.
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