"Will you tell me how Mr. Jacks is?" he asked.
"I am sorry to say, sir," was the subdued answer, "that Mr. Jacks
died at three this morning."
Piers turned away. His eyes dazzled in the sunshine.
The evening papers had the news, with a short memoir--half of
which was concerned not with John Jacks, but with his son Arnold.
It seemed to him just possible that he might receive an invitation
to attend the funeral; but nothing of the kind came to him. The
slight, he took it for granted, was not social, but personal. His
name, of course, was offensive to Arnold Jacks, and probably to Mrs.
John Jacks; only the genial old man had disregarded the scandal
shadowing the Otway name.
On the morrow, it was made known that the deceased Member of
Parliament would be buried in Yorkshire, in the village churchyard
which was on his own estate. And Otway felt glad of this; the sombre
and crowded hideousness of a London cemetery was no place of rest
for John Jacks.
A fortnight later, at eleven o'clock on Sunday morning, Piers
mounted with a quick stride the stairs leading to Miss Bonnicastle's
abode. The door of her workroom stood ajar; his knock brought no
response; after hesitating a little, he pushed the door open and
went in.
Accustomed to the grotesques and vulgarities which generally met his
eye upon these walls, he was startled to behold a life-size figure
of great beauty, suggesting a study for a serious work of art rather
than a design for a street poster.
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