Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (63 page)

It
was
only
at
this
final
moment,
my
cousin
assured
me,
his
voice a
whisper
now,
that
he
recognised
de
Frasne,
as
though
the
shutter that
all
this
time
had
deliberately
hidden
him
from
memory
was lifted,
also
deliberately.
Yet
no
shock
accompanied
the
revelation.
His attention,
rather,
was
drawn
to
quite
normal
things
about
him—the waiter,
though
he
had
laid
a
second
cover,
as
bidden,
was
hovering near,
saying
something,
asking,
indeed,
whether
he
should
bring
the soup
since
perhaps
the
expected
gentleman
was
not
coming
after
all, and
a
moment
later
serving
the
single
plate
and
clearing
away
the second
unwanted
cover.

I
sat
silent
for
some
minutes,
finding
nothing
to
say,
wishing
only that
my
cousin
would
remove
his
fixed
stare
from
my
face,
and
relieved when
at
last
he
did
so
and
raised
his
glass
and
drank.
Yet
a
lot
of
things
crowded
jostling
in
my
mind
during
that
brief
silence.
While resisting
with
all
my
might
the
shivers
down
my
spine,
my
main
I
bought,
the
one
that
obsessed
me
chiefly,
was,
oddly
enough,
not
the wild,
forbidding
story
itself,
but
that
other,
almost
equally
sinister legend
about
my
cousin's
personal
appearance.
His
story
bewildered me
beyond
anything
I
could
understand,
of
course,
but
it
was
this point
of
his
physical
preservation
that
for
some
reason
kept
intruding dominatingly,
forcing
its
way
past
other
thoughts
and
feelings.
That lie
actually
looked,
and
was,
a
whole
generation
younger
than
he
had
I
lie
right
to
be,
that
he
had
evaded,
as
it
were,
the
march
and
decay
of
something
like
twenty-five
years,
that
those
missing
years
lay
in wait
for
him,
ready
to
pounce,
and
that
this
period
was
just
about what
de
Frasne
would
have
lived
had
he
not
killed
himself—it
was impossible
and
outrageous
ideas
of
this
kind
that
whirled
through
my mind
in
such
a
torrent
that
I
felt
as
though
I
were
going
mad.
I
made a
violent
effort
to
get
myself
in
hand.
Mantravers'
eyes
were
off
me for
a
moment
while
he
raised
his
glass,
but
as
he
drank,
his
stare
fixed mc
again
over
the
tumbler's
rim.
I
remember
shaking
myself
free, shaking
myself,
as
it
were,
mentally
and
physically,
opening
my
mouth
lo
speak.

Mantravers
was
before
me,
however.
"I'm
going
to
the
house,"
he said
quietly,
his
voice
no
longer
whispering.
"I
shall
keep
the
appointment.
I
must,
you
see."

It
gave
me
a
shock
to
hear
him,
but
his
next
words
brought
back another
thing
I
dreaded
more—the
long
cold
shuddering
down
my spine.

"I
want
you
to
come
with
me—in
case
I
go."

It
was
the
last
word
that
made
the
shudder
repeat
itself,
and
so uncontrollably
that
my
hand
was
trembling
as
I
lifted
my
own
glass. That
"go"
was
for
some
reason
awful,
so
that
I
dared
not
question even.
.
.
.