CHAPTER FOURTEEN


"He left everything just as it was," Bonamy marvelled. "Nothing
arranged. All his letters strewn about for any one to read. What did he
expect? Did he think he would come back?" he mused, standing in the
middle of Jacob's room.

The eighteenth century has its distinction. These houses were built,
say, a hundred and fifty years ago. The rooms are shapely, the ceilings
high; over the doorways a rose or a ram's skull is carved in the wood.
Even the panels, painted in raspberry-coloured paint, have their
distinction.

Bonamy took up a bill for a hunting-crop.

"That seems to be paid," he said.

There were Sandra's letters.

Mrs. Durrant was taking a party to Greenwich.

Lady Rocksbier hoped for the pleasure....

Listless is the air in an empty room, just swelling the curtain; the
flowers in the jar shift. One fibre in the wicker arm-chair creaks,
though no one sits there.

Bonamy crossed to the window. Pickford's van swung down the street. The
omnibuses were locked together at Mudie's corner. Engines throbbed, and
carters, jamming the brakes down, pulled their horses sharp up. A harsh
and unhappy voice cried something unintelligible. And then suddenly all
the leaves seemed to raise themselves.

"Jacob! Jacob!" cried Bonamy, standing by the window. The leaves sank
down again.

"Such confusion everywhere!" exclaimed Betty Flanders, bursting open the
bedroom door.

Bonamy turned away from the window.

"What am I to do with these, Mr. Bonamy?"

She held out a pair of Jacob's old shoes.