The Making of a Soul

The Making of a Soul, by
Kathlyn Rhodes

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Title: The Making of a Soul
Author: Kathlyn Rhodes

Release Date: June 4, 2007 [eBook #21674]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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THE MAKING OF A SOUL
by
KATHLYN RHODES
Author of "The Desert Dreamers," "The Will of Allah," "The Lure of
the Desert," "Flower of Grass," etc.

London: Hutchinson & Co. Paternoster Row
CHAPTER I
Barry Raymond drew the latchkey out of the door and entered his small
flat in Kensington just as the clock in the tiny hall chimed the hour of
ten.
It was a wet night; and he drew off his Burberry and hung it up with a
sense of pleasure in being again in his cosy little eyrie at the top of the
chilly stone steps.
Humming a tune, he crossed the diminutive hall and went into the
sitting-room, where the cheerful crackle of a small wood fire gave an
air of comfort to the hearth.
On the table, where his admirable man-servant had placed it, was a tray
bearing glasses, a siphon and a bottle of whisky; and beside the tray
were the few letters which had come by the last post; while in a
conspicuous place lay a telegram in its tawny envelope; and this,
naturally enough, was the first thing Barry touched.
Taking it up, he tore it open decisively; and as the envelope fell to the
ground he unfolded the pink paper and read the message scrawled
thereon.
"Just arrived Southampton will be with you about ten o'clock. OWEN."

The paper fluttered to the floor and Barry consulted his watch hastily.
"Ten o'clock! Why, it's that now. So Owen's home. By Jove, what an
unlucky day he's chosen!"
He stood still for a moment, rapt, it would seem, in contemplation of an
unpleasant vision. Then with a shrug of his shoulders he moved to the
fireplace and turned on more light.
"Well, it'll have to be done sooner or later; but"--for a second a rueful
smile lit up his despondent young face--"I wish I hadn't got to do it ...
and at ten o'clock at night into the bargain!"
He looked round him as though considering some serious matter.
"Food--and drink. Here's drink, anyhow. What about food?"
Seizing a hand-lamp from the bureau at his elbow, he quitted the room
and made for the kitchen, which his man had left, as usual, in the
perfection of neatness on his departure two hours ago.
Hastening to the cupboard which did duty, in the flat, for a pantry,
Barry flung open the door and surveyed the shelves with anxious eyes.
Ah! There was plenty of food, of a sort, and suddenly Barry
remembered, with gratitude, the fact that he had intended to dine at
home, and had been prevented doing so at the eleventh hour owing to
an unexpected invitation which he had then regarded as an unmitigated
bore, but now looked upon as a direct interposition of Providence.
A cold roast chicken, an apple tart and cream, cheese and
biscuits--surely the traveller could make a meal off these provisions,
and Barry carried them gaily into the sitting-room and laid the table
with much good-will and no little celerity.
Knives, forks, glasses--for he intended to share the meal--salt, pepper,
bread--in a dozen light-hearted journeys he managed to bring
everything he considered necessary; and he was just standing back to

admire his own handiwork when the electric bell pealed loudly through
the silent flat.
"Here he is, by Jove!" Barry all but dropped the vase of
chrysanthemums he was carrying to the table, and setting it down
hastily he went to the door, in a flutter of anticipation, of hospitality,
and, if the truth be told, of nervousness.
Opening the door:
"Is that you, Owen?" he asked--a superfluous question, for he knew his
visitor well enough. "Come in, old chap--you must be soaked--it's a
frightful night!"
"Soaked--I should just say I am!" Owen Rose accepted the invitation
and stepped inside, shaking himself like a dog as he did so. "Lord,
Barry, what a climate! I declare I'd sooner live in Timbuctoo!"
"Oh, the climate's all right--only a bit moist," returned Barry
philosophically. "But come on in--take off your coat and come to the
fire. Any luggage?"
"No, I've sent it on to