# Grey Face/Chapter 8
### CHAPTER VIII
#### THE BLUE FLAME

MISS JASMINE is out of town, sir, and Sir Provost is not at home."
Perhaps, to some people, twelve midnight would seem a singular hour at which to make a social call, but to-day, it has been said with truth, nothing is singular except the old proprieties.
Douglas Carey murmured good-night to Ford and stood for a moment in Half-Moon Street contemplating: the house. He had learned in these latter days to distrust the stability of the earth upon which he stood, to question the moon in the heavens, and to doubt his own identity.
The long silence of Jasmine had worn down his pride because love is stronger than pride. Believing, as he had told Muir Torrington, that he had telephoned and written to the house in Half-Moon Street, then learning that neither messages nor letter had, apparently, existed outside his own imagination, he had determined, since now the case was desperate, to call in person. This resolution had come at the end of a day such as he prayed he might never live through again.
At noon, he had dreamed of lunch at the Carlton, with Jasmine; at five o'clock, of tea in her own particular snuggery in Half-Moon Street; then, as dusk came, of dinner at a wonderful little intimate restaurant "discovered" by Jasmine—with the vista of a wonderous evening in her company. He pictured her beside him at the theatre, and then at supper in the Embassy. His tortured spirit lived through the delicious intimacy of the drive home, when already heavy-booted night workers of London were about their toils, with rumbling carts and strange lights. Once again he had waited for the parting wave of the hand from her window, and had visualized his contented return to Bruton Street; the "night-cap," the final cigarette—and the last waking thought: Jasmine.
But Tantalus had known no blacker hell. And so, at midnight, he had set out, in pursuit of no definite plan out yet with a shadowy goal before him. He had not dared to admit to himself that he was bound for Sir Provost's house—perhaps to find it in darkness; or, worse, to meet with rebuff. Yet, he had followed a direct route—but on arrival had failed to recollect any landmark or fellow pedestrian upon the way. He had walked in a dream. And in his dream, as in those which had come to him throughout the day, he had seen Jasmine laughing gaily in the company of this man and that, and always in those resorts where he most desired to be with her.
The mere fact that the lobby was illuminated might alone not have provided enough encouragement, for he could detect no sign of fight in any room; but a moving shadow of Ford upon the glass panels of the iron-scrolled doorway had given him the necessary courage to ring. He had accounted for his late call by saying that he had been passing; but, "Miss Jasmine is out of town, sir," the butler had replied, "and Sir Provost is not at home."
At that, the old reserve had swept back. He had burned to enquire where Jasmine was gone: his pride had forbidden the question. Vaguely he remembered having murmured, "Oh, of course, how forgetful of me, but I thought Sir Provost might be at home." Then the door had closed; the shadow of Ford had disappeared.
Now he was out in Half-Moon Street, looking up at the house. It was real enough. Yes, he actually stood in Half-Moon Street, and he was prepared to take oath that in propriâ personâ he had received a message from the lips of Ford. He moved slowly away in the direction of Piccadilly and paused on the corner, staring to right and left.
Visible through the window of a neighbouring club sat a man whom he knew fairly well—home on leave from India. Carey glanced up at him, and debated with himself. He had known Murchison for many years, although never intimately. But a desire to talk to someone, to any one, now possessed him urgently. He stood there, hesitating. Would Murchison understand? He was a hard-bitten Indian official. Yet, perhaps in the course of his duties he had come in contact with things outside the pale—things beyond the common understanding, unprovided for by Western laws. Carey started in the direction of the club entrance. At the foot of the steps he paused. It was impossible. He could not plunge into these intimate details of his private life with a man like Murchison, whom he saw only at intervals of a year or more.
However, the movement had set him on a western course, and he proceeded along Piccadilly in the direction of Hyde Park Corner, walking away from home, which he dreaded, because of the thoughts which loneliness must bring.
Every lighted car which passed him by seemed to contain a pair of happy lovers. Why, he wondered, were others so successful in their affairs, whilst he was so unfortunate? Piquant, flower-like faces nestling amid furry theatre cloaks; well-groomed, self-satisfied men; careless gaiety, untroubled by the sordid things of the world. It was a taunting panorama of youth and laughter, of an Arcady where sadness could gain no admittance.
Some pitiless magic glamoured the night. All these fairy captives seemed to be lovely—and loving. He despised his own futility. Had he ever felt thus sure of Jasmine? No! He had been a diffident lover, lacking the self-confidence to impose his superior egotism upon the spirit of the woman he desired. And now, she had left London, with never a parting word.
A belated flower-seller, a tired-eyed, gypsy-looking creature, intercepted him.
"Beautiful violets, sir? A bunch of violets for the lady."
Carey suppressed an angry retort and passed on; then, experiencing a sudden revulsion of feeling, he plunged his hand into his pocket, found a half-crown, and retracing his steps, overtook the weary woman.
"Here," he said, "I want no violets, thank you. Good-night."
He proceeded at a more rapid pace. The episode had slightly changed his mood. He ceased to notice the lover-laden cars and other traffic of the busy highway, the pedestrians, respectable and dissolute, the cheerful windows of fashionable clubs.
The mystery of the Green Park claimed his attention. He contemplated a damp mist which overhung the little verdant valley beyond the iron railings; and, in spirit, penetrating the haze, he pursued a zigzag course along deserted pathways. There was the stuff of romance in this green oasis which held a royal palace amid the desert of London. Yet he had rarely entered it. How often he might have walked there, with Jasmine. He pulled up suddenly at the corner of Hamilton Place.
A policeman on duty regarded him with disfavour, and the attitude of this representative of the law brought Carey back to earth. He endeavoured to recall the phases of his walk from Half-Moon Street; but the effort was in vain. This mental hiatus disconcerted him. He turned into Hamilton Place, asking himself, "What have I done? What have I been thinking since I left Half-Moon Street?" It was intolerable, this self-distrust. He knew that it must cease; that he must regain command of his individuality—become again the captain of his soul.
Could it be that the whole maddening phase was a mirage created by his love for Jasmine Hope? This was hard to believe. Certainly, he had never known love before, a truth which daily, hourly, became more apparent; but surely love did not rob a man of his will. And now, swiftly, a new thought took shape. He was in Park Lane—and Trepniak lived in Park Lane. What spirit, malignant or benign, had guided his steps there to-night? Chance? He doubted the power of this much-abused god.
Park Lane after midnight is unexpectedly deserted in so far as pedestrians are concerned. To Carey it presented a totally unfamiliar aspect. Occasional motor 'busses carrying a few sleepy passengers tore along at racing speed, together with a certain number of cars and taxicabs. He was in a curiously detached mood, and watched with interest the movements of a party of men strangely attired, wearing heavy-soled wading boots, and engaged in sluicing the Lane with a powerful fire-hose. He discovered something fascinating about that great jet of water, which glittered unreally in the light of the street lamps; and his imagination invested the scene with qualities of fantasy. But always he pressed on, with no conscious purpose; and the hiss of the cascade formed an accompaniment to a sort of chant in his brain: "Trepniak lives in Park Lane—Trepniak lives in Park Lane!"
On that night which had witnessed the death of his happiness. Jasmine had evaded him—but later had appeared with Trepniak. She had gone away—with Trepniak.
Heavens! How stupidly dense he had been! The truth—or what he believed to be the truth—burst upon him as a revelation. Jasmine had conceived an uncontrollable infatuation for this poseur, this adventurer! Her story of the messages, her production of a blank sheet of notepaper—these were artifices of a woman blinded to every moral obligation by a passion which had overwhelmed her!
Passing the gang of goblin workmen, whose movements were reflected in the glittering patch of roadway created by their labours, he crossed to the park side, pressing on, now, toward a definite objective. No omnibus was in sight, no cab, no car. On the pavement by the railings there was no other pedestrian. At an ever-quickening pace he walked on, and as he walked, counsels more sane and wholesome began to urge their claims. "Never jump to conclusions, my lad"—Torrington's words recurred to him, and he found the memory to be very soothing. Then, in sight of Grosvenor Gate, he pulled up sharply, and stood in a shadowed patch between lamps, watching an upstanding wing of a house beyond.
It was an oddly constructed building, which long enough had figured upon the books of more than one agent. Now, in the small, high openings of that tower-like superstructure a light appeared, fitfully rising and falling; a queer, electric-blue light, an elfin light, elusive but arresting.
Carey moved on more slowly, his gaze fixed upon this little tower. The house, which stood retired from the roadway, lay in shadow. No glimmer showed in any of its many windows. But there, above the roof proper, danced that subtle, lambent flame. At last he stood quite still and watched it fascinatedly.
His imagination took fire. Here, in Park Lane, was a modern Tower of Copernicus. This was Trepniak's house; yet, had it been the house of a stranger, he must have wondered no less keenly about the eerie light in the tower. Indeed, the strangeness of it swamped everything else temporarily, bringing a merciful forgetfulness and permitting the man whose imaginative work was beginning to win recognition from two continents to triumph for a while.
There was something essentially different about this light; there was something frightful about it—something which touched him with awe: he knew that he looked upon a thing such as his eyes had never witnessed before. And whilst he stood there, held by its mystery, a musical voice spoke somewhere close beside him.
"No, Mr. Carey," said the voice, "you have never seen that light before. Few living men have seen it."
As the voice came, the light in the tower vanished. Carey, whose heart had seemed to miss a beat, turned, fists clenched, to face the speaker.
He found himself to be glaring at an aristocratic-looking Egyptian—or as an Egyptian he classified him—a man as tall as himself, but slenderly and delicately built, whose dress was European save for his scarlet tarbush, and whose long velvet eyes afforded Carey a sensation absolutely unique but not unpleasant.
The words, the look of those liquid dark eyes, deprived him of speech. Oblivious of his surroundings, enthralled, he watched this stranger, whose compelling gaze, which was not harsh but bewilderingly compassionate, seemed to isolate him from his fellowmen, until:
"Remember what you have seen," said the Egyptian, "but fear nothing. Evil only seems to triumph. Good must always prevail."
He bowed and passed on, going in the direction of Hyde Park Corner.
Carey stared after him—passing from light to shadow, shadow to light. That he stood in Park Lane, that a Daimler car was approaching from the direction of Marble Arch and a motor 'bus from that of Hyde Park Corner, whilst a stolid policeman paced within twenty yards of him, counted for nothing. He only knew of a sudden overwhelming conviction that he had seen an evil thing, an unholy thing, and that he had had speech with one possessed of some terrifying power beyond the compass of common humanity.
He crossed and began to walk rapidly down Mount Street. He longed for companionship; for sympathy, understanding. His nerves were playing him tricks, but the urgency of his fears would not be denied.
Then, presently, like an echo, he heard the hurried footsteps of someone who pursued him!
"Carey!" cried a voice. "Carey!"
He turned. Muir Torrington was following.
"Carey!" he said, "you look as though you were running away from a ghost. What's the matter, man?"
"Thank God it is you!" was the reply. "Torrington, either I am going mad or to-night I saw something like a reflection of hell in the tower of Trepniak's house."
Torrington nodded sharply.
"You have seen the light?" he replied. "I saw it, too."
"What!" Carey cried, eagerly. "Then perhaps you saw the Egyptian who spoke to me?"
Torrington nodded again, and the rays from a street lamp shining down upon his face revealed an expression unlike any that his friend had seen there before.
"I did," he answered. "I saw him." He grasped Carey's arm. "Come along to my place. I want to talk to you."