But his presence was not a cheerful one. He was always courteous, always
refined, but singularly silent and retiring. I have never lived so long
with any man and known so little of him. If he were indoors he spent his
time either in his own small study in the Eastern Tower, or in the
library in the modern wing. So regular was his routine that one could
always say at any hour exactly where he would be. Twice in the day he
would visit his study, once after breakfast, and once about ten at
night. You might set your watch by the slam of the heavy door. For the
rest of the day he would be in his library—save that for an hour or two
in the afternoon he would take a walk or a ride, which was solitary like
the rest of his existence. He loved his children, and was keenly
interested in the progress of their studies, but they were a little awed
by the silent, shaggy-browed figure, and they avoided him as much as
they could. Indeed, we all did that. It was some time before I came to know anything about the circumstances
of Sir John Bollamore’s life, for Mrs. Stevens, the housekeeper, and Mr.
Richards, the land-steward, were too loyal to talk easily of their
employer’s affairs. As to the governess, she knew no more than I did,
and our common interest was one of the causes which drew us together. At
last, however, an incident occurred which led to a closer acquaintance
with Mr. Richards and a fuller knowledge of the life of the man whom I
served. The immediate cause of this was no less than the falling of Master
Percy, the youngest of my pupils, into the mill-race, with imminent
danger both to his life and to mine, since I had to risk myself in order
to save him. Dripping and exhausted—for I was far more spent than the
child—I was making for my room when Sir John, who had heard the hubbub,
opened the door of his little study and asked me what was the matter. I
told him of the accident, but assured him that his child was in no
danger, while he listened with a rugged, immobile face, which expressed
in its intense eyes and tightened lips all the emotion which he tried to
conceal. “One moment! Step in here! Let me have the details!” said he, turning
back through the open door. And so I found myself within that little sanctum, inside which, as I
afterwards learned, no other foot had for three years been set save that
of the old servant who cleaned it out. It was a round room, conforming
to the shape of the tower in which it was situated, with a low ceiling,
a single narrow, ivy-wreathed window, and the simplest of furniture. An
old carpet, a single chair, a deal table, and a small shelf of books
made up the whole contents. On the table stood a full-length photograph
of a woman—I took no particular notice of the features, but I remember
that a certain gracious gentleness was the prevailing impression. Beside
it were a large black japanned box and one or two bundles of letters or
papers fastened together with elastic bands. Our interview was a short one, for Sir John Bollamore perceived that I
was soaked, and that I should change without delay. The incident led,
however, to an instructive talk with Richards, the agent, who had never
penetrated into the chamber which chance had opened to me. That very
afternoon he came to me, all curiosity, and walked up and down the
garden path with me, while my two charges played tennis upon the lawn
beside us. “You hardly realize the exception which has been made in your favour,”
said he. “That room has been kept such a mystery, and Sir John’s visits
to it have been so regular and consistent, that an almost superstitious
feeling has arisen about it in the household. I assure you that if I
were to repeat to you the tales which are flying about, tales of
mysterious visitors there, and of voices overheard by the servants, you
might suspect that Sir John had relapsed into his old ways.”

“Why do you say relapsed?” I asked. He looked at me in surprise. “Is it possible,” said he, “that Sir John Bollamore’s previous history
is unknown to you?”

“Absolutely.”

“You astound me. I thought that every man in England knew something of
his antecedents. I should not mention the matter if it were not that you
are now one of ourselves, and that the facts might come to your ears in
some harsher form if I were silent upon them. I always took it for
granted that you knew that you were in the service of ‘Devil’
Bollamore.”

“But why ‘Devil’?” I asked. “Ah, you are young and the world moves fast, but twenty years ago the
name of ‘Devil’ Bollamore was one of the best known in London. He was
the leader of the fastest set, bruiser, driver, gambler, drunkard—a
survival of the old type, and as bad as the worst of them.”

I stared at him in amazement. “What!” I cried, “that quiet, studious, sad-faced man?”

“The greatest rip and debauchee in England! All between ourselves,
Colmore. But you understand now what I mean when I say that a woman’s
voice in his room might even now give rise to suspicions.”

“But what can have changed him so?”

“Little Beryl Clare, when she took the risk of becoming his wife. That
was the turning point. He had got so far that his own fast set had
thrown him over. There is a world of difference, you know, between a man
who drinks and a drunkard. They all drink, but they taboo a drunkard. He
had become a slave to it—hopeless and helpless. Then she stepped in, saw
the possibilities of a fine man in the wreck, took her chance in
marrying him, though she might have had the pick of a dozen, and, by
devoting her life to it, brought him back to manhood and decency. You
have observed that no liquor is ever kept in the house. There never has
been any since her foot crossed its threshold. A drop of it would be
like blood to a tiger even now.”

“Then her influence still holds him?”

“That is the wonder of it. When she died three years ago, we all
expected and feared that he would fall back into his old ways. She
feared it herself, and the thought gave a terror to death, for she was
like a guardian angel to that man, and lived only for the one purpose. By the way, did you see a black japanned box in his room?”

“Yes.”

“I fancy it contains her letters. If ever he has occasion to be away, if
only for a single night, he invariably takes his black japanned box with
him. Well, well, Colmore, perhaps I have told you rather more than I
should, but I shall expect you to reciprocate if anything of interest
should come to your knowledge.” I could see that the worthy man was
consumed with curiosity and just a little piqued that I, the new-comer,
should have been the first to penetrate into the untrodden chamber. But
the fact raised me in his esteem, and from that time onwards I found
myself upon more confidential terms with him. And now the silent and majestic figure of my employer became an object
of greater interest to me. I began to understand that strangely human
look in his eyes, those deep lines upon his careworn face.