A Poor Wise Man
Old Anthony's excursion to his daughter's house had not prospered. During the
drive to Cardew Way he sat forward on the edge of the seat of his limousine, his
mouth twitching with impatience and anger, his stick tightly clutched in his hand.
Almost before the machine stopped he was out on the pavement, scanning the
house with hostile eyes.
The building was dark. Paul, the chauffeur, watching curiously, for the household
knew that Anthony Cardew had sworn never to darken his daughter's door, saw
his erect, militant figure enter the gate and lose itself in the shadow of the house.
There followed a short interval of nothing in particular, and then a tall man
appeared in the rectangle of light which was the open door.
Jim Doyle was astounded when he saw his visitor. Astounded and alarmed. But
he recovered himself quickly, and smiled.
"This is something I never expected to see," he said, "Mr. Anthony Cardew on my
"I don't give a damn what you expected to see," said Mr. Anthony Cardew. "I
want to see my daughter."
"Your daughter? You have said for a good many years that you have no
"Stand aside, sir. I didn't come here to quibble."
"But I love to quibble," sneered Doyle. "However, if you insist - I might as well tell
you, I haven't the remotest intention of letting you in."
"I'll ask you a question," said old Anthony. "Is it true that my daughter has been
"My wife is indisposed. I presume we are speaking of the same person."
"You infernal scoundrel," shouted Anthony, and raising his cane, brought it down
with a crack on Doyle's head. The chauffeur was half-way up the walk by that
time, and broke into a run. He saw Doyle, against the light, reel, recover and
raise his fist, but he did not bring it down.
"Stop that!" yelled the chauffeur, and came on like a charging steer. When he
reached the steps old Anthony was hanging his stick over his left forearm, and