Chapter 14

�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.

THE END