I remember the occurrences of that visit especially, because this was the last time I saw the Nelson bungalow. On arriving at the Straits I found cable messages which made it necessary for me to throw up my employment at a moment’s notice and go home at once. I had a desperate scramble to catch the mail-boat which was due to leave next day, but I found time to write two short notes, one to Freya, the other to Jasper. Later on I wrote at length, this time to Allen alone. I got no answer. I hunted up then his brother, or, rather, half-brother, a solicitor in the city, a sallow, calm, little man who looked at me over his spectacles thoughtfully.
Jasper was the only child of his father’s second marriage, a transaction which had failed to commend itself to the first, grown-up family.
“You haven’t heard for ages,” I repeated, with secret annoyance. “May I ask what ‘for ages’ means in this connection?”
“It means that I don’t care whether I ever hear from him or not,” retorted the little man of law, turning nasty suddenly.
I could not blame Jasper for not wasting his time in correspondence with such an outrageous relative. But why didn’t he write to me—a decent sort of friend, after all; enough of a friend to find for his silence the excuse of forgetfulness natural to a state of transcendental bliss? I waited indulgently, but nothing ever came. And the East seemed to drop out of my life without an echo, like a stone falling into a well of prodigious depth.
