im. Then his voice
changed to that of a man belittling his misfortunes. "Oh, it hasn't been
the best of times, of course. But then one didn't expect the best of
times. And at the worst, one had always the afterwards to look forward
to ... supposing one didn't run.... I'm not sure that when the whole
thing's balanced, it won't come out that you have really had the worst
time. I know you ... it would hurt you through and through, pride and
heart and everything, and for a long time just as much as it hurt that
morning when the daylight came through the blinds. And you couldn't do
anything! And you hadn't the afterwards to help you--you weren't looking
forward to it all the time as I was ... it was all over and done with
for you ..." and he lapsed again into mutterings.

Colonel Trench's delight in the sound of his native tongue had now given
place to a great curiosity as to the man who spoke and what he said.
Trench had described himself a long while ago as he stood opposite the
cab-stand in the southwest corner of St. James's Square: "I am an
inquisitive, methodical person," he had said, and he had not described
himself amiss. Here was a life history, it seemed, being unfolded to his
ears, and not the happiest of histories, perhaps, indeed, with
something of tragedy at the heart of it. Trench began to speculate upon
the meaning of that word "afterwards," which came and went among the
words like the _motif_ in a piece of music and very likely was the life
_motif_ of the man who spoke them.

In the prison the heat became stifling, the darkness more oppressive,
but the cries and shouts were dying down; their volume was less great,
their intonation less shrill; stupor and fatigue and exhaustion were
having their effect. Trench bent his head again to his companion and now
heard more clearly.

"I saw your light that morning ... you put it out suddenly ... did you
hear my step on the gravel?... I thought you did, it hurt rather," and
then he broke out into an emphatic protest. "No, no, I had no idea that
you would wait. I had no wish that you should. Afterwards, perhaps, I
thought, but nothing more, upon my word. Sutch was quite wrong.... Of
course there was always the chance that one might come to grief
oneself--get killed, you know, or fall ill and die--before one asked you
to take your feather back; and then there wouldn't even have been a
chance of the afterwards. But that is the risk one had to take."

The allusion was