The Amazing Chance

by Patricia Wentworth

  “You should have spoken,” said Manning.

  Anna lifted her head.

  “Do you think it would have been easy for me to speak?”

  With no more than a little click the door opened, and Lacy Manning came in. She was warm and flushed from sleep, and drowsy eyed. Her left hand held about her a pale pink négligé trimmed with fur; a little lace cap with a pink satin rose on one side rested on her dark curls. She gave a startled cry at the sight of Manning’s guests—the broad German woman, and the sprawling, half-dressed man.

  The man lifted his head, looked at her, and saw an image out of that past which filled his mind. He saw an eighteen-year-old bridesmaid in a pink frock and a little lace cap. He said “Lacy!” just above his breath, and Lacy Manning screamed and went back against the door.

  Manning came quickly round the table and caught at the arm in the blue checked sleeve.

  “Who are you? For God’s sake, who are you?”

  The man was staring at the door.

  “It’s Lacy Prothero!” he said. “I tell you, it’s Lacy!”

  Manning’s grasp tightened.

  “It’s Lacy Manning. We’ve been married nine years. Who are you?”

  The man sat back in his chair, his head against the high, carved rail.

  “Monkey, don’t you know me?”

  Manning looked long, and saw the bandage, the ragged hair, eyes full of a questioning agony that was no less agony because it was now controlled. He shook his head.

  “My dear chap, I don’t——”

  “And Lacy doesn’t either.” The eyes were turned for an instant to where she leaned against the door, one hand at her breast, her face white, her voice for once struck silent. “No, Lacy doesn’t either.” With something that was almost a smile he faced round on Manning. “I’m Laydon,” he said, and waited.

  Manning felt the room heave. He gave back a step, and heard his own voice say hoarsely,

  “Laydon?” Then very slowly, “There were two of the Laydons. There was Jack Laydon, and Jim; and they were both missing the same day. Which are you?” The words came jerkily. The tension was extreme.

  Manning looked into the eyes that had questioned him, and found them steady now, and calm. They were looking behind him, where a crumpled paper lay between the windows.

  “I don’t know,” said the man.

  Lacy Manning fainted.

  VIII

  “It’s a most extraordinary case,” said Major O’Neill. “I don’t think I ever heard of anything in the least like it. It seems incredible that he should know his name is Laydon, and not know whether he’s Jim Laydon or Jack.”

  The crimson curtains were drawn across the dining-room windows. There was a pendent light in the middle of the room, and a reading-lamp with a green shade on the writing-table at which Manning was sitting. O’Neill was in a big armchair, and had the air of a man who was comfortably intrigued by a problem that did not touch him personally.

  “What’s the good of saying incredible?” snapped Manning over his shoulder. He folded the letter he had been writing, put it in an envelope, addressed it rapidly, and tossed it on to the dining-table. Then he swung round and said,

  “I’m putting in for leave on urgent private affairs. The Colonel’s promised to push it through.”

  “It’s a most extraordinary case; I can’t understand it. You say you don’t recognize him at all?”

  “No,” said Manning, “and that’s a fact. The Laydon boys were nice-looking lads of two and twenty, the spit and image of dozens of English boys of their class—grey eyes, brown hair, fresh skin—you know the sort of thing; England’s chock a-block with them. This poor chap in there”—he flung out a hand in the direction of the bedroom door—“he weighs another three and a half stone, to start off with; and you can’t really see him for hair.”

  “Were the cousins alike?”

  “So so—same height and general type, with a family likeness on the top of that.”

  “Most extraordinary!” repeated O’Neill. “But his people’ll be bound to recognize him; there’s sure to be something they can go by. By the way though, who are his people? Any parents?”

  “H’m—no,” said Manning. “There’s a grandfather, old Sir Cotterell Laydon. He lost both his sons in the Boer war. Jim’s mother was already dead. And as for Mrs Jack, well, the less said about her the better. The family was immensely relieved when she married again and went out to Australia. I don’t think they’ve ever heard from her since. The old man had both his grandsons at Laydon Manor—brought them up in fact. My people live quite near, you know; and my wife’s mother was a Laydon—half-sister of the old man’s, and about thirty years younger. The families are all mixed up because the girl Jim Laydon married was a Prothero too—a cousin of Lacy’s.”

  O’Neill exclaimed, and sat up. “Married? Good heavens! You don’t tell me one of them was married?”

  Manning, who had been pacing up and down, came to a stand-still a yard away.

  “Yes, Jim Laydon was married. It’s a bit of a complication, isn’t it? He married Lacy’s cousin, Evelyn Prothero. I was at the wedding. Lacy was bridesmaid.”

  “Good heavens!” said O’Neill again. “But she’ll know—if one of them was married, the wife’ll know—bound to.”

  “I don’t know. She might, or she mightn’t. It’s not an ordinary case, because they never lived together. Both the Laydons were recalled on the wedding day, and something between a week and ten days later they were both missing. They were in the same squadron in the Flying Corps. They both went out on the same raid, and never came back. This chap says he remembers running into fog and being fired at. Lord knows how he landed up in the Schwarzwald. But I’ve driven a car myself when I’ve been asleep or next thing to it, and it’s my belief he just went on flying his machine mechanically after he was hit.”

  “Very likely. But look here, Monkey, has he spoken about the girl at all? If he were the married one, he’d surely remember something. Hasn’t he asked any question?”

  “No, he hasn’t. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t had much chance. I told you Lacy fainted. And then I had to take Anna Blum home. I rather thought it was up to me, because—well”—Manning grimaced—“I was pretty short with her while she was telling her story. And, after all, if he’s one of the Laydons, the family owes her a good deal, for it’s pretty certain she saved his life, and dead certain that she risked a firing party every hour of the three years before the Armistice. Honestly, O’Neill, the woman’s courage staggers me. They’d have shot her as soon as look at her if they’d found out. When we were going along I asked her if she knew it; and all she had to say was ‘Ja gewiss, Herr Major.’ Astonishing creatures, women.” He broke off and crossed to the writing-table again. “As soon as I know I’ve got my leave, I shall wire to my father-in-law, Sir Henry Prothero. And then someone will have to tell Sir Cotterell. He was most frightfully broke about the two boys, and it’ll want careful doing.”

  “I suppose,” said O’Neill slowly, “that whichever of them it is is the heir?”

  “Yes.” Manning gave a short laugh. “There’s one man who won’t be overjoyed, and that’s Cotterell Abbott, the nephew who’s had Laydon Manor in his pocket for the last nine years. I loathe the man myself, but I must say I think it’s hard lines on him—and you can bet he’ll think so too.”

  “By the way,” said O’Neill, “were the Laydons regular soldiers?”

  Manning shook his head. He was writing, and spoke frowning at the paper:

  “No, they weren’t. As a matter of fact they had both just come down from Cambridge. Jim was going to study scientific farming and do agent to his grandfather, and Jack meant to have a shot at Indian Civil. Of course they both joined up at once.”

  O’Neill got out of his chair and stretched himself.

  “Well, that’ll probably save complications. I must be going along. I’ll go round and see Hooker, and borrow some clothes—he’s the only person I can th
ink of large enough. Yours, of course, were no earthly. And when you’ve got him dressed like a Christian and shaved, you’ll probably be able to place him. He won’t want the bandage after to-day—the cut was nothing but a scratch.”

  When the door had shut behind him, Manning finished his letter. It was to Evelyn Laydon, and it was very short. It ran:

  “Dear Evelyn,

  I’m coming over at once. Will you be at your flat? If you’re away, I must ask you to come back, because I want to see you very urgently.

  Yours,

  Monkey.”

  He addressed the envelope to “Mrs Jim Laydon, 9, Halliday Mansions, Chelsea,” and threw it down on the table beside the bowl of snowdrops. As he did so, the bedroom door opened, and Laydon came into the room. He wore Manning’s dressing-gown instead of the coverlet, and looked, in consequence, several degrees less striking. He came across to the table, and even in that short distance it was noticeable that he did not walk as Anton Blum had walked, nor hold himself as Anton had held himself. Anton had shuffled with his feet and walked with a forward slouch of his big shoulders: this man held his head up and lifted his feet. He came to the table, stood there, and looked down at the letters which lay upon it. If his face changed, it was not noticeable. After a moment he frowned and said,

  “I thought that man O’Neill was never going. And—look here, Monkey——” He paused, walked to the window, and stood there with his back to Manning. “Ten years is the deuce of a long time. Is my grandfather alive?”

  “Yes, he’s alive and well. He was most frightfully broke. But you know his pluck. He said he wasn’t going to let Cotty Abbott in an hour before he could help it.”

  “Poor old Cotty! He’s going strong, I suppose—same fussy old hen, nosing round and picking up scraps.” He gave quite an amused laugh, and then broke in on a new note with a “Hullo! Why of course this’ll be no end of a knock for him. Poor old Cotty!”

  “He won’t be pleased,” said Manning drily.

  There was a pause. Manning struggled with a sense of embarrassment. Evelyn—which of them was going to mention Evelyn? Someone must. The man went on looking out of the window.

  “Lacy hasn’t changed a bit,” he said.

  “Er—no,” said Manning.

  There was another pause, a longer one this time. Then the man spoke again, his voice quite cool and steady:

  “I’d like to hear about Evelyn. How is she?”

  “She’s quite well.” Manning said these words because he had to say something; but he really had no idea what to say.

  “I saw your letter on the table. She hasn’t—married?”

  “No.”

  “Or thought of it?”

  A flare of temper came to Manning’s assistance.

  “You’d better ask her that yourself!” he said with some heat.

  “Thanks—I will.”

  Manning found words suddenly.

  “Look here,” he said, “d’you mean to tell me that you remember Evelyn, that you remember Lacy being bridesmaid to Evelyn, and that you don’t know whether you’re Evelyn’s husband? It’s not possible!”

  The man stood by the window and drummed on it.

  “Whether you’re Jack, or whether you’re Jim, you were at that wedding—you remember that?”

  “Yes, I remember that.”

  Manning came up, caught him by the arm, and pulled him round.

  “You remember being at the wedding! Good Lord, man, tell me exactly what you do remember.”

  The man looked down at him.

  “Well, d’you know, Monkey, I think I won’t. It’s a bit too confused to be of much use.”

  “You remember Lacy?”

  “Lacy—and the other girl—what’s her name?—the cousin they didn’t like much—Mary Prothero. Yes, they had pink frocks and caps like the thing Lacy had on when she came in just now. I thought——” He fell silent and moved away from Manning.

  Both men were remembering Evelyn Prothero in her wedding-dress—lilies and orange-blossoms, and Evelyn’s golden hair in the dark church. Manning looked the question which he could not force to his lips, but there was no answer to it. After a moment:

  “You must know!” said Manning, sharply, and then—“Look here, I don’t even know what to call you. What are any of us to call you?”

  “Embarrassing, isn’t it?” There was a hint of sarcasm in the voice. “I know I ought to apologize. Well, for the present, I think, we’ll have to compromise. I won’t ask you to commit yourselves until I can remember.”

  “Laydon!” Beneath the sarcasm there was something that jabbed at Manning and caught him on the raw.

  “No—I’ve been thinking—better stave off the Christian name for the present. I’ve got to get my bearings all round. I’ve been Anton Blum for the best part of ten years, and I think I’d better be Anthony Laydon until I know—until I know.” His voice was quite cool until the last word, when it broke suddenly in a sound that was like a sob, but rougher and harder. For a moment he stood where he was, his hands clenching and unclenching; then he sat down in the big arm-chair and covered his face.

  “Put out those infernal lights, can’t you?” he said.

  IX

  Sir Henry Prothero was a distinguished exception to the rule that a prophet has no honour among his own people. He had had a brilliant career in India. He had governed a province with great wisdom and tact. And he was now, in retirement, the recognized repository for all family secrets, and the accepted stand-by in family quarrels, alliances, or disasters. He had rooms in St James’ Street and a cottage at Laydon Sudbury. His tastes were music, golf, and Indian history. He was a widower of many years’ standing, and Lacy was his only child.

  His large, clean-shaven face was grave as he talked with his son-in-law in a comfortable, shabby room which had a great many books in it. The roar of the traffic sounded faintly here at the back of the house. There was a fire in the grate. Outside a dense fog pressed against the windows and made the fire a very pleasant thing.

  Sir Henry Prothero sat forward in a big leather arm-chair, elbow on knee and chin in hand. Manning, on the arm of the other chair, swung a restless foot.

  “Of course,” Sir Henry said meditatively, “as far as the personal factor goes, I stand right outside the problem. I think the Laydon boys were about twelve when I saw them last, and I’ve no real recollection of what they looked like. It’s just as well—yes, it’s just as well. You say you and Lacy can’t find anything to take hold of?”

  Manning struck his knee; the swinging foot shot out.

  “He has me beat,” he said. “I don’t mind saying so. Honestly, sir, he makes my head go round. It’s always ‘We did this,’ and ‘We did that.’ Then if you press him, he’ll say ‘Jack Laydon did so and so,’ or ‘Jim Laydon went somewhere else.’ You can’t get past it. One minute he’s talking as if he were both of ’em, and the next as if they were two separate people—pals of his. He’s so infernally cool and detached. Lacy now”—Manning chuckled—“she was absolutely certain she was going to recognize him as soon as he’d been shaved and tidied up a bit. She said a lovely piece all about woman’s intuition and childhood’s memories, and as good as told me that, as a mere man, I was naturally no use when it came to the finer shades of intelligence.” He laughed again. “Well, he came in in Hooker’s clothes; and she had a good look at him, and hadn’t a word to say—Lacy without a word to say is really a most edifying sight. She swears now that he isn’t either Jack or Jim. So that’s that!” He broke off, and Sir Henry said quickly:

  “I don’t value Lacy’s opinion—she’ll probably have a different one every time she sees him; I want yours. Do you see a likeness?”

  “Nothing to speak of.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well—I mean—no.” He shook his head, frowning. “It’s jolly difficult to say. When I look at him, he’s a stranger. When he’s talking, he’s Laydon all right; but I couldn’t, for the life of me,
tell you which Laydon. He’s got something that neither Jim nor Jack had; and that’s what puzzles me all the time. They were just boys—awful nice boys too—, and he’s a grown man. And whichever one he was, he’s something different now. We may be able to identify him, but we can’t turn him back into one of those jolly youngsters again. He’s different; he’s new; he’s himself; and, by Jove, he’s a cool hand.”

  “Yes?”

  “I went with him to the War Office this morning. They put him through his paces pretty sharply, and he didn’t turn a hair. It seems four of them went up that day—the two Laydons, Jim Field, and a man called Thursley. Thursley was the only one who came back. Well, they got Thursley on the ’phone—he’s at Farnborough—, and he came up. They didn’t tell Laydon of course—sent us to wait in another room. After an abominably long time they had us in—room full of people, bad light, beastly fog. Well, Laydon took a good look round; then he walked across the room, clapped Thursley on the shoulder, and said—‘Hullo! Hullo! Where did you spring from, Jobbles?’ Sensation in court; the blushing Thursley explaining to a lot of brass hats that Jobbles was a nickname of his unregenerate youth. He didn’t like it a bit. After that they wanted to know whether he recognized Laydon as either Jack or Jim.” Manning shrugged his shoulders. “He got rattled, and hedged for all he was worth—said it might be Jack, three stone heavier; and then again it might just as easily be Jim, only his voice was different. When they wanted to know how it was different, he said he didn’t know, and got frightfully tied up—a perfectly hopeless witness. Laydon never turned a hair the whole time. Mind you, sir, it’s like seeing a fellow riding a horse on the curb; there’s something about it that makes you feel sick. I believe he’s having a perfect hell of a time.” Manning jumped down from the arm of his chair, went to the fire, and pushed the embers with his foot. After a moment he turned round again. “We put in Anna Blum’s statement and came away. You’ve got your copy?”