“You did not wish your friends at the Quarry House good-bye?” said Fosbrook.

“No.  It might have seemed that I was making claims, and, after all, one has one’s pride.  I would never, I think, ask a woman to wait for me.  But she heard of course after I had gone and—­I am speaking frankly—­I believe the news woke the woman in her.  At all events there was little talk after of Tangier at the Quarry House.”

Mr. Jerkley related his subsequent history.  He had sailed at his own charges to Africa; he had enlisted as a gentleman volunteer in The King’s Battalion; he had served under Major Lashley in the Charles Fort where he was in charge of the great speaking-trumpet by which the force received its orders from the Lieutenant-Governor in Tangier Castle; he took part in the desperate attempt to cut a way back through the Moorish army into the town.  In that fight he was wounded and left behind for dead.

“A year later peace was made.  Tangier was evacuated, Major Lashley returned to England.  Now the Major and I despite the difference in rank had been friends.  I had spoken to him of Miss Mardale’s admiration, and as chance would have it, he came to Leamington to take the waters.”

“Chance?” said Sir Charles drily.

“Well it may have been intention,” said Jerkley.  “There was no reason in the world why he should not seek her out.  She was not promised to me, and very likely I had spoken of her with enthusiasm.  For a long time she would not consent to listen to him.  He was, however, no less persistent—­he pleaded his suit for three years.  I was dead you understand, and what man worth a pinch of salt would wish a woman to waste her gift of life in so sterile a fidelity....  You follow me?  At the end of three years Resilda yielded to his pleadings, and the persuasions of her friends.  For Major Lashley quickly made himself a position in the country.  They were married, Major Lashley was not a rich man, it was decided that they should both live at the Quarry House.”

“And what had Mr. Mardale to say to it?” asked Fosbrook.

“Oh, Sir,” said Gibson Jerkley with a laugh.  “Mr. Mardale is a man of wheels, and little steel springs.  Let him sit at his work-table in that crowded drawing-room on the first floor, without interruption, and he will be very well content, I can assure you....  Hush!” and he suddenly raised his hand.  In the silence which followed, they both distinctly heard the sound of some one stirring in the house.  Mr. Jerkley went to the door and opened it.  The door gave on to the passage which was shut off at its far end by another door from the square tulip-wood landing, at the head of the stairs.  He came back into the bedroom.

“There is a light on the other side of the passage-door,” said he.  “But I have no doubt it is Mr. Mardale going to his bed.  He sits late at his work-table.”

Sir Charles brought him back to his story.

“Meanwhile you were counted for dead, but actually you were taken prisoner.  There is one thing which I do not understand.  When peace was concluded the prisoners were freed and an officer was sent up into Morocco to secure their release.”