Читать книгу Anthony Lyveden - Yates Dornford - Страница 5

Before you sailed you were urgent upon me that I should constantly report progress. Nine months have gone by, and I have not written once. Still, my conscience is clear. Hitherto I have had no progress to report.

Now, however, I have news for you.

You are friends with a footman, Toby. You need not deny it, because I know better. You see, I have been in service for one week to-day.

My mistress is indescribable—a very mammoth among women. Except during prohibited hours, her replica may be seen behind the saloon-bar of any public-house in, say, Bethnal Green. Below stairs she is known as "the dream-child." My master appears to have married, not so much beneath him as beyond him. He is "something in the City." This is as well, for he is nothing in Lancaster Gate. I like him rather.

You would get on with the butler, who is addicted to drink. The ladies of the servants' hall are rather trying, but mean well. The chauffeur is a most superior man. In fact, except that he has been twice convicted of felony and continually boasts of his successful desertion from the Army in 1917, there is nothing against him. My work would be comparatively light if the unfortunate resemblance, to which I have alluded above, were less pronounced. In a word, the butler's working day finishes at 2 p.m., and on two occasions I have had to repair to "The Blue Goat" as late as seven-thirty to hale him out of the tap-room in time for dinner. His carriage in the dining-room, when he can hardly see, is one of the wonders of the world.

Of course I go out with the car—usually to a wedding. The solemnization of matrimony, especially if one of the parties is of noble birth, draws the dream-child as a magnet the steel. Need I say that she is an uninvited guest? Yesterday, at the wedding of a young Marquess, she was stopped at the doors. "Lef me card at 'ome," was her majestic reply. Before they had recovered she was in the aisle. Having regard to her appearance, I am of opinion that such conduct is libellous.

On Monday she gave what she calls a "Serciety Crush." This was well attended, chiefly by aliens, many of whom wore miniature decorations, to which, I fear, they were not entitled. These were, I fancy, hired with the dress-coats to which they were fastened. That they enjoyed the viands is emphasized by the fact that, prior to their departure, several of the guests concealed about their persons such delicacies as the flight of time alone had prevented them from consuming. But for the indisposition of the butler, I should have spent a most amusing evening.

Little altercations between my master and mistress are of frequent occurrence. Occasionally they appeal to me to settle the dispute. Once I actually took the liberty of separating them. Indeed, as recently as yesterday evening the dream-child, who had been keeping up her reading, observed that "the rilewise was thinkin' of givin' up the narrer gorge."

"Gage, me dear—gage," says Mr. Slumper.

"That's right," says his wife with hideous irony. "Put yer betters to rights, Schooly. Ugh, I wonder yer dare! An' wot do you know about it, you hugly worm?"

Stung to the quick by the painful accuracy of this appellative, her husband was understood to mutter that he had rather be an ill-favoured worm than an overdressed parrot with a swollen head.

Only waiting to throw a glass of water in his direction, the dream-child demanded my ruling in a voice shaking with indignation.

I immediately declared in favour of "gouge"—a decision for which Mr. Slumper, to whom victory is even more terrible than defeat, will thank me yet.

Of such is my life. Either Saturday or Sunday afternoon I go off duty. Then I dive into the country and visit my dog, who is well cared for. We spend a hilarious few hours, and Lancaster Gate is never mentioned. In the servants' hall, by the way, I am credited with a delicate wife—an impression which I have taken care not to correct, for where there are gathered together eight single ladies, les avantages de manage cannot be over-estimated.

And now I must take up the tea.

If ever you receive this letter, find time to reply. I know I have spoken ill of your hand-writing, but I take it all back.

Bien à toi, vieux sot,

ANTHONY LYVEDEN.

Anthony, then, was surveying himself, if you remember, in a long mirror. He had just taken up the tea. He was taking a second look at what he could see of his back, when the front-door bell rang. Even at this elevation there was no mistaking its deep peremptory note. Lyveden descended the stairs.

He opened the door faultlessly to find himself face to face with a man who had been his first servant when his battery had been in France.

For a moment the two footmen stared at one another. Then—

"Glad to see you, Walters," said Lyveden heartily.

"Same to you, sir," said Walters, touching his hat. "An', beggin' your pardon, sir, is Lady 'Elen at 'ome?"

"There's no Lady Helen here," said Lyveden. "This is Mrs. Slumper's house."

"Oh, very good, sir," said Walters jerkily. "Sorry to 'ave troubled you, sir." He touched his hat and turned away nervously. …

Anthony continued to hold the door open till the car should have passed on.

Walters was making his report. It appeared that this was unsatisfactory, for a moment later he was again at the door.

"Excuse me, sir, but would you speak to my lady?"

Lyveden descended the steps.

From the luxury of a smart landaulette a dame of some consequence regarded him shrewdly. She had, of course, witnessed the comedy upon the steps.

"Who lives here?" she demanded haughtily.

Lyveden drew himself up.

"Mrs. Slumper, madam."

His statement was received with an irrational suspicion.

"Indeed! I didn't know that Lady Helen Amiens had let her house."

"Neither, madam, did I."

The great lady stared at Anthony, who looked straight ahead. Then—

"I—I beg your pardon," she murmured.

Anthony bowed and turned on his heel. As he passed Walters, who was standing wide-eyed, the latter touched his hat faithfully.

When the car had passed on, Anthony closed the door thoughtfully. It had not occurred to him that the house had been hired as it stood. Certainly the Slumpers had given no hint of such a state of affairs. Probably they felt it to be beneath their dignity. It being no affair of his, Lyveden decided to keep his own counsel.

* * * * *

Two days later Anthony visited Patch for the second time.

The same relentless train that had rushed the two down to Hertfordshire that dreadful Thursday had become an easy-going friend. By pocketing his lunch, Lyveden could catch it with anything under five minutes to spare. This gave the two another three-quarters of an hour.

Their second meeting was a replica of the first.

Anthony was admitted, announced his desire, and sat down in the dim hall. Presently a brisk familiar step made itself heard—firm little paws meeting the tough linoleum squarely—and Anthony rose to his feet. Out of a passage came Patch readily, the fair-haired girl behind him bidding him go ahead. For a moment he looked about him. Then he saw Lyveden, stiffened and stood stock still. The next second, with his body clapped to the floor, he had darted sharply across and, laying his head sideways, crouched at his idol's feet—an adoring suppliant, craving to be raised.

"Why, Patch——"

The white scrap quivered and flung up a panting visage. Lyveden stooped and gathered him in his arms. The terrier licked his face frantically. Then he squirmed like a mad thing till he was down, tore to a basket of logs, and of his strength brought a billet gripped in his big mouth and laid it at Anthony's feet.

The girl laughed merrily.

"What did I tell you?" said Lyveden. "It's just the way of his heart.

I must always have a present when I have been away."

Lord and squire went for a wonderful walk. The woodland and meadows of

Hertfordshire fairly beggared the Parks. …

Tea at a tiny inn sunk in a dell through which a sleepy lane trickled between high banks—tea in the pocket garden under sweet-smelling limes, where stocks stood orderly and honeysuckle sprawled over the brick-nogging, brought back old days of happy fellowship, just to outshine their memory.

From the cool of the house came on a sudden the click of metal and the swift whirr of wheels. Somewhere a clock was in labour—an old, old timepiece, to whom the telling of the hours was a grave matter. A moment later a thin old voice piped out the birth of a new period.

Five o'clock.

Peacefully Lyveden expelled a cloud of smoke. He need not be moving for another quarter of an hour. Upon the warm red bricks at his feet Patch lay dozing after his dish of weak tea.

"Could you give it me in the garden?"

The fresh clear voice floated out of the doorway just in front of my lady herself. Arrived there, she stood for a moment looking pleasedly round. It is doubtful whether the old woodwork had ever before framed such a picture.

There was nothing remarkable about the dress, except her wearing of it. There is a grace of carriage that will make purple of sackcloth. Still, the gown was well cut of fawn-coloured stuff, which her stockings and shoes matched. Her face was generous—proud, too, yet tender and very beautiful. The soft rose of her cheeks, the misty blue of her eyes stood there for gentleness, the curve of the red lips for pride. Wisdom sat in her temples under the thick dark hair. Strength herself had moulded the exquisite chin. And a rogue of a dimple was there to mock the lot of them—the print of the delicate finger of Laughter herself, set in a baby's cheek twenty-five years before. A tiny watch upon a silk strap served to enhance the slenderness of a white wrist. Against the dark cloud of hair, which they were setting straight, the pointed fingers stood out like living statuary. Lifted elbows gave you the graceful line of her figure: the short skirt, ankles to match the wrists. …

Looking upon her, Lyveden forgot the world. He may be forgiven, for she was a sight for sore eyes.

Having set her hair to her liking she put on her hat, pulling it down with a fine careless confidence such as no manner of mirror could give.

She had not seen Lyveden when Patch, counting her Irish terrier an intruder, took him suddenly by the throat. …

In an instant the place was Bedlam.

My lady hovered about the combatants, one hand to her breast, the other snatching frantically at her favourite's tail: Lyveden leapt to his feet and, cramming his pipe into a pocket, flung himself forward: the mistress of the inn and her maid crowded each other in the doorway, emitting cries of distress: and the now ravening flurry of brown and white raged snarling and whirling upon the brick pavement with all the finished frightfulness of the haute école.

Arrived at close quarters, Anthony cast a look round. Then he picked up the pair anyhow and swung them into the water-butt two paces away.

For a moment the contents boiled, seething as if possessed. Then, with a fearful convulsion, the waves parted and the water gave up its prey. Two choking, gasping, spluttering heads appeared simultaneously: with one accord four striving paws clawed desperately at the rim of the butt. The fight was off.

Intelligently the girl stepped up on to a convenient bench, and Anthony lifted the Irish terrier out of his watery peril. As was to be expected, he shook himself inconsiderately, and Anthony, who was not on the bench, was generously bedewed. Then Patch was hauled out by the scruff of his neck. … So far as could be seen, neither of the dogs was one penny the worse. There had been much cry, but little wool.

Lyveden turned to my lady and raised his hat.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said. "My dog was entirely to blame."

"D'you mind controlling him now?" she said coldly.

Lyveden called Patch, and the Sealyham trotted up, shaking the water out of his ears as he came. Wet as he was, the man picked him up and put him under his arm.

"I hope your dog isn't hurt," he said quietly. "I'm very sorry."

The girl did not deign to answer, but, stepping down from her perch, summoned her terrier and strolled down the little greensward with her chin in the air.

Anthony bit his lip. Then he turned on his heel and, clapping his hat on his head, tramped into the inn. A moment later he had paid his reckoning and was out on the road. After all, he reflected, Patch wasn't to blame. He had acted according to his lights.

When he was out of sight of the inn, Anthony sat down by the wayside and dried his terrier's ears with his pocket-handkerchief and the utmost care.

* * * * *

The rain was coming down in sheets, and, in spite of the mackintosh which he was wearing above his livery, drops were beginning to make their unpleasant way down Anthony's neck. His feet had been wet for hours. The violence of the language employed by the press of grooms and footmen huddled about him at the doors of the Opera House suggested that their plight was no less evil.

It was a big night, and of "the distinguished audience" Mr. and Mrs. Slumper were making two. They were inexpressibly bored, but that was beside the point. By occupying two stalls, Mrs. Slumper was sure they were doing the right thing. A box would have been better, of course, but there had been some difficulty, and Slumper, being a weak-kneed fool, had been bluffed into taking the stalls. Mrs. Slumper would like to see the clerk who could bluff her. By dint of concentrating upon her grievance, she had worked herself into a passion by the end of the second act. …

It continued to rain copiously.

At last flunkeys appeared and set the inner swing-doors wide open. A blasphemous murmur of relief went up from the company of servants.

"Bet yer my gint's fust," squeaked a little bow-legged Cockney. "'E's a fair winner, 'e is." A pompous prelate appeared in the lobby, walking with an air of having just consecrated the building free of charge, and followed by a nervous-lipped lady and a deacon who looked like a startled owl. "There y'are! Wot 'd I s'y?" he added, turning to scuttle off to his car.

"Ser long, 'Arry!" cried somebody. "See yer at Giro's."

There was an explosion of mirth.

The rain, the discomfort, the waiting—three familiar malefactors—all in a moment discomfited by a sudden guffaw, reminded Lyveden vividly of his service in France. His thoughts ramped back to the old days, when there was work and to spare—work of a kind. Of course, the competition was not so keen. …

People were coming fast now, and the entrances to the lobby were getting choked. Attendants were bellowing big names, innumerable engines were running, the police were shouting orders, gears were being changed.

"Number a nundred and one!" thundered a voice.

"Right!" cried Anthony, elbowing his way out of the crush.

He made his way quickly to where he had left the car.

The information that his employers were awaiting his services was received by the chauffeur with a volley of invective, which dealt more particularly with Mrs. Slumper's pedigree, but touched lightly upon a whole variety of subjects, including the ultimate destination of all composers and the uses of rain.

It was full five minutes before the limousine was able to be brought close enough to the entrance for Anthony to leave the running-board and advise his master. When it was next in order but two, he stepped on to the pavement and struggled towards the entrance. As he was about to tell an attendant to summon "101," a car slid into position, and the fellow set his hand on the door.

"Forty-six waiting!" he bawled.

A glance at the steps showed the approach of quality—all cloaks and soft hair and slim silk stockings—the attendant threw open the door and Lyveden stood still.

The taller of the two women was the second to enter the car. As she stood waiting, she glanced round quickly. Her eyes met Anthony's, rested a moment of time, and then swept on without a flicker. … A second later the door had slammed upon her high heels.

Lyveden was left to feel the blood come flaming into his face, to wonder whether my lady had known him again, and to stuff the breath of an exquisite perfume into the same reliquary as held the picture of a tall dark figure setting her hair to rights in the mouth of an inn.

* * * * *

Upon the next Saturday a particularly smart wedding was to take place.

Anthony, who had seen the announcements, was prepared for the worst.

Sure enough, on Friday afternoon as he was clearing the table of tea—

"I shall want yer to-morrow," said Mrs. Slumper. "I 'ave to go to the weddin' o' that there Finnigan boy. I'm sure I'm sick o' crushes, but 'er ladyship would never fergive me if I diddun show up."

Anthony hesitated with the tray in his hands.

"Mr. Hopkins is taking Sunday, madam, so I can't go out then."

"I can't 'elp that," was the testy reply.

"I don't wish to inconvenience you, madam, but, as it was arranged that

I should always have——"

"Subjec' to my convenience," snapped Mrs. Slumper. "That's wot I said." She had said nothing of the sort. "An' am I to go pushin' orf to a dandy crush without a servant? Hopenin' me own dores, an' fetchin' me own car, an' wot not, jus' like a common beggar in a 'ired fly? Look 'ere, young man, I didn't ought to 'ave took you at all, reelly. Wot with no refs an' no experience, yer might 'ave walked the soles orf of yer perishin' boots before yer got into a 'ouse like this. But I gave you a chance, I did. An' if you think ter try an' turn me own words agains' me an' talk 'igh about contrax, yer kin jus' shove orf." She regarded him furiously. "Ugh! I'm fed up with the bunch of yer. Nasty, ungrateful swabs! I serpose yer kin 'ave Monday, can't yer?"

"I will take Monday, madam."

The malevolent pig's eyes followed him in silence till he was out of the room. …

It was on Monday, then, that Lyveden called for his dog.

His decision to revisit the scene of his encounter with my lady was not fully formed until it was time to act upon it. He had deliberately walked in the direction of the inn, so that, when the hour came, he could, if he chose, indulge the inclination of which he was wholly ashamed. Honestly, he reflected, he had not a good word to say for the girl. (Observe, please, that the fact that the pleasaunce was to his liking did not weigh with him. The little inn and its curtilage had become but environs.) She had been unreasonable and worse than churlish. There was no getting away from it—she had been aggressively rude, administering a rebuff though he had made no advance. To pile Ossa upon Pelion, she now knew him for what he was—a flunkey, acting the gentleman and sporting a dog. And was not that a dainty dish for him to digest, sitting under the lime-trees in full view of that garden doorway which nine days ago had been so honoured? That, of course, was the trouble. Anthony had seen a picture which he could not forget. The girl had done her best to efface it, but had only succeeded in clouding a sunny memory.

With something of the mauvaise honte with which a player of "Patience" corrects a mistake he has made by restoring some cards, Anthony took Ossa off Pelion, said to himself, "I don't believe she recognized me," and, walking into the inn, desired the mistress to bring him some tea.

By the time he had finished his meal he had sunk so low in his own eyes—lost so much self-respect, that the rest did not seem worth keeping, and he inquired whether anything had been seen of the lady whose dog his had fought, in much the same spirit of recklessness as moves a bravo to toss his last piece to a beggar.

"She had tea here the day before yesterday, sir," replied his hostess. "All alone, with her little dog. I don't think he's none the worse, sir. Thank you. Good day, sir."

Anthony left the house like a man in a dream. …

Why had she come?

To this question the answer which his heart vouchsafed was vain and a vanity. His head, however, gave innumerable replies—all of them obvious and none of them flattering. A hundred times Reason drove Hope headlong, but always the baggage returned. …

By way of relieving his feelings, Anthony cursed Mrs. Slumper with earnest bitterness. He began to feel that there was much in what the chauffeur had said about her forbears. At the time he had secretly deplored his epithets, but now. … Certainly he had misjudged the fellow. He was quite right.

As for Patch, he had never been paid so little attention. Not that he cared. The country was full of scents. …

By a quarter past seven Lyveden was back at Lancaster Gate.

The first thing he saw below stairs was the library silver, which he had cleaned that morning and the parlour-maid should have restored to its place. Without waiting to change, he picked up the tray and carried it upstairs, intending, if the room was unoccupied, to replace it at once.

As he gained the hall, the twitch of an inserted latchkey came to his ears. Then pressure was put upon the front door. This, however, remained fast shut. The key was withdrawn violently, reinserted, and wrenched. The pressure upon the door being maintained, the lock was jammed. Whosoever was there had lost his temper and was kicking against the pricks. This was unlike Mr. Slumper, but it could be nobody else. Lyveden set down his tray and stepped to the door. …

His master came in with a rush, stumbling. Anthony caught him, and he recovered his balance. There was running sweat upon his face, which was all grey, and he was shaking fearfully. Holding on to the furniture as he went, he tottered as far as the library, clawed at the switch by the door, missed it, and swayed out of sight into the black of the room.

Anthony stood spellbound. The spectacle of a bunch of keys dangling idly from the keyhole of the door, which he was still holding open, brought him to his senses, and, drawing the key from the lock, he closed the door swiftly and ran for brandy. …

Mr. Slumper was sitting in the dark, with his head plunged between his knees. At Anthony's coming he started up and would have gone back, but the seat of his chair catching him under the hocks, he subsided again almost immediately. Anthony went to his side and held the glass to his lips. As he drank, his teeth chattered upon the rim of the tumbler, and some of the spirit ran over his chin. Twice he made a gesture for more. After the third dose he had swallowed more than a tumblerful. … Presently he began to look less grey, and the trembling abated. In three or four minutes he was quite calm. Anthony was about to ask if he should help him upstairs, when he spoke suddenly.

"Shut t' door."

Anthony did his bidding. When he came back, his master had a letter-case in his hand.

"What are your wages?" he said.

"Seventy-two pounds a year, sir."

Mr. Slumper put a hand to his brow and knitted this wearily, as if the effort of calculation was more than he could bear. Then he took out two five-pound notes and two one-pound notes.

"There's twelve pound," he said slowly. "One month's wages, and another's in lieu of notice."

Anthony stared at the money.

"I haven't been here a month yet, sir."

His master waved aside the objection.

"Only honest servant I've ever had," he said shortly. "Gentleman, aren't you? Never mind. Couldn't let you down. Others can go to hell, but not you. And now—better clear out. Right away. Get your box and go. Don't let the others see you. Give 'em the slip."

"But—but won't you be dining, sir?" said Anthony desperately. He was trying instinctively to grapple with a situation which had put him upon his back.

At the mention of dinner Mr. Slumper laughed hideously. The brandy was getting into its stride now, and colour was beginning to climb into his cheeks.

"Dining?" he croaked. "Dining?"

In a deliberate, imperturbable tone a clock upon the mantelpiece chimed the half-hour, and the laugh snapped off short. The next moment the man had Lyveden's arm in a grip of iron.

"Listen," he breathed. "I'm broke … ruined … got to run for it. Couldn't stand gaol at my age. It ain't pretty, I know, but I'm fifty-nine, Lyveden, fifty-nine." The tense utterance broke into a whimper. "An'—an' that's too old for prison, Lyveden, an' they wouldn't give me a chance. The lawyers 'd make it out bad. You can gamble with others' money as long as you win, Lyveden, but you mustn't lose … mustn't ever lose. There's a law against that."

All the soldier in Anthony came to his aid.

"Are you going now, sir?" The other nodded, "Shall I get you a taxi?"

"Yes." Mr. Slumper jerked a contemptuous head at the ceiling. "She'll have to go with me," he added thickly. "Can't leave the old fool."

"I'll keep your keys, sir," said Anthony, "to let myself in."

With that he was gone.

Mrs. Slumper was in the midst of a very delicate operation, to wit, the obliteration of her natural complexion—obsequies which not even her maid was permitted to attend. Consequently she was anything but pleased when her husband entered the room. Such procedure was out of all order and convenience. That he came in suddenly and without first knocking upon the door was insufferable. She turned herself round on her seat, bristling. …

There was no time for a scene, and, when Mrs. Slumper hurled herself against Necessity, she fell back bruised and broken.

When she would have screamed, a hand was clapped over her mouth, breaking her false teeth, and all her stifled shrieks, queries and expostulations were literally cuffed into a whimper. Five minutes later, toothless, half-dressed and trembling, she thrust a few things into a dressing-case, struggled into a fur coat, and passed with sagging knees downstairs, clinging to the arm of a bully whom she had known as a worm.

Lyveden was waiting in the hall, beside him his case and hold-all—what belongings he had thrust into them anyhow. He was intending to see the couple into the cab and then go quietly away, for he was determined to avoid the loathsome saturnalia with which his colleagues were certain to signalize the débâcle. When the two appeared, he started involuntarily. He had been prepared for violence, he had expected tears. … The vision of a blubbering idiot, that mowed and mumbled, its wig awry, its dreadful face blotched, like a clown's, with paint, swaddled from head to toe in gorgeous furs, leaning desperately upon the very reed it had broken—this was unearthly, hellish. He found himself praying that it might not visit him in his dreams. …

It is to his credit that Anthony, having helped Mr. Slumper into his hat and overcoat and Mr. and Mrs. Slumper into the taxi, flung his own kit upon the canopy and accompanied the fugitives to Charing Cross.

The horror of that drive revisited him for months. The awful pregnant silence, broken only by the sound of rapid irregular respiration, gave to the cab the air of a death-chamber.

Arrived at the station, by his advice the two remained in the taxi whilst he procured tickets which would take them to the coast by the first available train. At the booking-office he learned, to his inexpressible relief, that they had but ten minutes to spare. He bought the tickets feverishly. …

As his master emerged from the cab, Lyveden perceived with a shock that his nervousness had begun to return. Terror was riding behind, coming up, overhauling him fast. The blood which had flooded his face had begun to recede. The hand that received the tickets and change was trembling. In a fever of anxiety the ex-officer hustled his charges towards the platform. …

People turned and stared as they passed. One woman screamed. …

At the sudden cry Mr. Slumper started violently. His face was very pale now, and there were tiny beads of sweat upon the side of his nose. His mouth was working painfully. It was a question whether they could board the train before he collapsed. The idiot upon his arm could have shambled another mile.

They came to the barrier.

Anthony had no ticket and could not pass, but he put them into the queue and steered them up to the gate.

The passenger behind Mr. Slumper turned suddenly and brushed against him. At the touch on his shoulder the poor devil started frightfully and drew in his breath with a hoarse whoop. The face that he turned to the offender was a wet grey. …

In front of them there were only two, now—one. They were in the jaws of the barrier. … Mr. Slumper had not the power to present his tickets, and the inspector took the pasteboard out of his shaking hand. He clipped it and handed it back, staring. Mr. Slumper fumbled, and the tickets fell to the ground. He stooped drunkenly, and the inspector put a hand under his arm.

"Gent ill 'ere, Joe," he threw over his shoulder, apparently addressing a colleague, whom Anthony could not see. "Give 'im a 'and up the platform."

Anthony heaved a sigh of relief.

The next moment he saw a burly station-constable—presumably "Joe"—step into view and put a broad arm tenderly about his master's back …

Mr. Slumper stiffened and stood quivering with the peculiar vibration of a wire that is taut. The ridiculous figure attached to him stood still also, rolling its head foolishly.

"Come along, sir," urged the official in a kindly tone.

Mr. Slumper stopped shaking, took out his handkerchief, and wiped his face. Then he turned to the speaker.

"It's all right," he said. "I'll go quietly."

Anthony turned on his heel and walked out of the station.

There was no more to be done.