He had the key but he could not in that darkness fit it into the padlock;
and he asked me if I had any matches. I had a little silver box of wax
vestas in my pocket, and struck one to help him in his search for the
keyhole which he found to have been covered by the escutcheon. Before I
threw the match away I held it up and glanced back across the garden. The
shadows leaped and stiffened to attention, and I flung the match away, but
it did not go out. It lay there on the path throwing out its tiny
challenge to the darkness. It was still burning when I looked back after
passing through the iron gates.

As we came out of the park, Jervaise took my arm.

"I'm afraid this is a pretty rotten business," he said with what was for
him an unusual cordiality.

* * * * *

Although I had never before that afternoon seen Jervaise's home nor any of
his people with the exception of the brother now in India, I had known
Frank Jervaise for fifteen years. We had been at Oakstone together, and
had gone up the school form by form in each other's company. After we left
Oakstone we were on the same landing at Jesus, and he rowed "two" and I
rowed "bow" in the college boat. And since we had come down I had met him
constantly in London, often as it seemed by accident. Yet we had never
been friends. I had never really liked him.

Even at school he had had the beginning of the artificially bullying
manner which now seemed natural to him. He had been unconvincingly blunt
and insolent. His dominant chin, Roman nose, and black eyebrows were