Hawksley heard the lift door close, and he knew that at last he was
alone. He flung out his arms, ecstatically. Free! He would see no more
of that nagging beggar Ryan until tomorrow. Free to put into execution
the idea that had been bubbling all day long in his head, like a fine
champagne, firing his blood with reckless whimsicality.
Quietly he stole down the corridor. Through a crack in the kitchen door
he saw Kuroki's back, the attitude of which was satisfying. It signified
that the Jap was pegging away at his endless studies and that only the
banging of the gong would rouse him. The way was as broad and clear as
a street at dawn. Not that Kuroki mattered; only so long as he did not
know, so much the better.
With careful step Hawksley manoeuvred his retreat so that it brought
him to Cutty's bedroom door. The door was unlocked. He entered the room.
What a lark! They would hide his own clothes; so much the worse for the
old beggar's wardrobe. Street clothes. Presently he found a dark suit,
commendable not so much for its style as for the fact that it was the
nearest fit he could find. He had to roll up the trouser hems.
Hats. Chuckling like a boy rummaging a jam closet, he rifled the shelves
and pulled down a black derby of an unknown vintage. Large; but a runner
of folded paper reduced the size. As he pressed the relic firmly down
on his head he winced. A stab over his eyes. He waited doubtfully; but
there was no recurrence. Fit as a fiddle. Of course he could not stoop
without a flash of vertigo; but on his feet he was top-hole. He was
gaining every day.
Luck. He might have come out of it with the blank mind of a newborn
babe; and here he was, keen to resume his adventures. Luck. They had not
stopped to see if he was actually dead. Some passer-by in the hall
had probably alarmed them. That handkerchief had carried him round the
brink. Perhaps Fate intended letting him get through--written on his
pass an extension of his leave of absence. Or she had some new torture
in reserve.
Now for a stout walking stick. He selected a blackthorn, twirled it,
saluted, and posed before the mirror. Not so bally rotten. He would
pass. Next, he remembered that there were some flowers in the dining
room--window boxes with scarlet geraniums. He broke off a sprig and drew
it through his buttonhole.
Outside there was a cold, pale April sky, presaging wind and rain.
Unimportant. He was going down into the streets for an hour or so. The
colour and action of a crowded street; the lure was irresistible. Who
would dare touch him in the crowd? These rooms had suddenly become
intolerable.