one hand pressed to her forehead. Daphnis’ face was a white mask of agony and fear. She was fighting against belief, I knew, and urging me with all the power of her will to say something—to give Paolo the he—to deny this ghastly thing of which I had been accused. But what could I say? Certainly nothing that Madame Diamopholus or Paolo Tortino would believe.
“Is—is your name Fernhurst?” Daphnis asked in a whisper.
“It was,” I murmured. There could be no purpose in denying that now.
There was another awful silence. Then a calm English voice suddenly cut in, breaking the tension as swiftly as the flick of a finger would snap an overtaut violin string. It was the British naval captain, and he had just appeared in the doorway. Either he did not sense the tragedy that was being enacted there, or in view of what he had to say deliberately chose to ignore it.
“Sorry if I’m interrupting,” he said in a casual tone, “but I’ve just received a belated message from my ship. The fool of a marine who brought it got himself lost in the town. Mussolini made a declaration at eight o’clock, our time, that Italy will enter the war against Britain tomorrow night. All British officers are ordered to return to duty immediately. I have a car here, Day, so I thought I could give you a lift back to your hotel on my way down to the harbour.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, and swallowing hard I stepped past Daphnis. The captain was already out in the passage, but I was still crossing the threshold as she staggered and fell fainting into Paolo’s arms.
Chapter VI
The War is on in Earnest
I Shall never forget the night and day that followed. For a well-proportioned blend of physical discomfort and acute mental distress I have never lived through their equal. First in darkness and later under a torrid, gruelling, merciless midsummer North African sun the endless chain of cars and lorries of which my vehicle was one stopped and started, crawled and spurted, hour after hour, along the coast road to Mersa Matruh.
We passed the old railhead at Hammam while it was still dark and reached El Imayid just before dawn. El Alamen, with its tattered palms and mud-walled houses, showed clear in the cool early-morning light, but by the time we reached El Daba we were already sweating, and after that the journey was positive unadulterated hell.
As I was not driving I had not even the job of keeping the car to its place in the steady stream of traffic to occupy my mind, and my thoughts revolved ceaselessly round that awful scene with Daphnis in which I had cut so sorry a figure.
It was largely my own fault for having kept my past concealed from her. I had meant to tell her the whole story of the tragedy which had ruined my promising career at its very outset as soon as a suitable opportunity occurred; the trouble was that I had really spent such a very little time with her, and Major Cozelli’s suspicions had caused me to force the pace in a way that I should never otherwise have done.
How right he had been about the possibility of the Italians’ coming in and how wrong everybody else’s complacence, including my own! Perhaps he was right, too, in his guess that Daphnis was concerned in conveying information to—yes, they were now quite definitely the enemy. I closed my eyes and my heart went sick at the thought. I tried not to believe it, fought against its acceptance with all my will, yet the damnable suspicion persisted. But if I had the least shadow of a doubt about my love for her it was gone now. Whatever she was, whatever she had done, made no difference. I loved her as I had never loved anyone before or should ever love again. I knew that to the very depths of my being, now that I had lost her.
My exposure by Paolo Tortino could not have been fuller or possibly have occurred at a more decisive moment. As the longsweltering hours dragged by I tried to face up to it that my chances with Daphnis were now utterly ruined. If
“Is—is your name Fernhurst?” Daphnis asked in a whisper.
“It was,” I murmured. There could be no purpose in denying that now.
There was another awful silence. Then a calm English voice suddenly cut in, breaking the tension as swiftly as the flick of a finger would snap an overtaut violin string. It was the British naval captain, and he had just appeared in the doorway. Either he did not sense the tragedy that was being enacted there, or in view of what he had to say deliberately chose to ignore it.
“Sorry if I’m interrupting,” he said in a casual tone, “but I’ve just received a belated message from my ship. The fool of a marine who brought it got himself lost in the town. Mussolini made a declaration at eight o’clock, our time, that Italy will enter the war against Britain tomorrow night. All British officers are ordered to return to duty immediately. I have a car here, Day, so I thought I could give you a lift back to your hotel on my way down to the harbour.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, and swallowing hard I stepped past Daphnis. The captain was already out in the passage, but I was still crossing the threshold as she staggered and fell fainting into Paolo’s arms.
Chapter VI
The War is on in Earnest
I Shall never forget the night and day that followed. For a well-proportioned blend of physical discomfort and acute mental distress I have never lived through their equal. First in darkness and later under a torrid, gruelling, merciless midsummer North African sun the endless chain of cars and lorries of which my vehicle was one stopped and started, crawled and spurted, hour after hour, along the coast road to Mersa Matruh.
We passed the old railhead at Hammam while it was still dark and reached El Imayid just before dawn. El Alamen, with its tattered palms and mud-walled houses, showed clear in the cool early-morning light, but by the time we reached El Daba we were already sweating, and after that the journey was positive unadulterated hell.
As I was not driving I had not even the job of keeping the car to its place in the steady stream of traffic to occupy my mind, and my thoughts revolved ceaselessly round that awful scene with Daphnis in which I had cut so sorry a figure.
It was largely my own fault for having kept my past concealed from her. I had meant to tell her the whole story of the tragedy which had ruined my promising career at its very outset as soon as a suitable opportunity occurred; the trouble was that I had really spent such a very little time with her, and Major Cozelli’s suspicions had caused me to force the pace in a way that I should never otherwise have done.
How right he had been about the possibility of the Italians’ coming in and how wrong everybody else’s complacence, including my own! Perhaps he was right, too, in his guess that Daphnis was concerned in conveying information to—yes, they were now quite definitely the enemy. I closed my eyes and my heart went sick at the thought. I tried not to believe it, fought against its acceptance with all my will, yet the damnable suspicion persisted. But if I had the least shadow of a doubt about my love for her it was gone now. Whatever she was, whatever she had done, made no difference. I loved her as I had never loved anyone before or should ever love again. I knew that to the very depths of my being, now that I had lost her.
My exposure by Paolo Tortino could not have been fuller or possibly have occurred at a more decisive moment. As the longsweltering hours dragged by I tried to face up to it that my chances with Daphnis were now utterly ruined. If
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