The leave-train, which had been in motion for quite ten minutes, stopped once more with a jerk, and Bill, curled up in a corner, swore comprehensively.
"Lord," he said, "if I didn't know it was Blighty I was bound for, I'd get out an' walk back to my blinkin' battalion."
"Don't seem too anxious to get away from the front, do they?" said a gunner sitting opposite. "Seems as though the old engine can't bear to leave it. 'Ullo, we've started again. Bet you we don't go further'n that little bridge along there."
"It's a bet!" said Bill. "'Ere, Alf, wake up an' 'old the stakes."
With keen interest they watched the bridge coming nearer. At last they rattled across it in a leisurely manner.
"I win," said Bill. "'And over, Alf."
"On'y just, though," said the gunner with a rueful grin, as the train stopped once more with a grinding of brakes.
"'Ere, I'm tired o' this bloomin' train. Come out an' stretch yer legs a bit, Alf."
"Don't get left be'ind," advised the gunner. "I want to win my franc back."
They sat down by the side of the track.
"Some train!" said Alf, breaking a long silence.
"Perishin'," answered Bill. "But it's a bit better'n doin' them blinkin' fatigues for the sergeant, eh?"
"You bet!"
The two men had spent a very wearing week. Wherever they went the cold disapproving eye of Lieutenant Donaldson seemed to be upon them; and they had been constrained to live a life of painful and laborious virtue. Sergeant Lees, divining their feelings, had taken shameful advantage of them with a view (he explained) to keeping them out of mischief.
As a consequence they had for the past week lived in a giddy social whirl of ration-parties, carrying-parties and similar entertainments. But relieved as they were at having started their journey, they were not beyond chafing at the dilatory methods of the train. At no time did it travel at much above a walking pace; and it was liable at any time and for no apparent reason to abandon all attempts to proceed. It would stand miserably for minutes together, and when it moved on, it did so without warning—a habit which, in a more energetic train, might have proved annoying.
"Come on," said Alf suddenly. "Train's starting."
"No 'urry," Bill grunted placidly. He got up, stretched himself and trotted leisurely along the train till he came to his own carriage, and swung himself in.
"'Ow about another bet?" said the gunner as they appeared. "A franc we don't pass that church over there this spasm."
"Righto. But you'll win—it must be 'arf-a-mile from 'ere."
"Well, if we're goin' to get to Blighty at all this week we'll 'ave to do a 'arf-mile stretch now an' again, you know."
But Bill's prophecy proved correct. Long before the church was reached he had handed back his newly-won franc to the gunner and, in sheer irritable restlessness, insisted on the somnolent Alf leaving the train once more.
"What makes me sick," he said, "is to think of that 'ouse in Blighty all ready an' waitin' for us, an' beer an' drinks, an' 'ere we are as dry as a bone in a 'owlin' French desert."
"Tell you what, then," answered Alf, struck with an idea. "What's to prevent us slippin' away be'ind that bridge an' lettin' the train go on without us?"
"An' tell Eustace to.... Lumme, you must be wakin' up, Alf. Why, it'll mean us 'avin' about three days extra leave. Come on!"
They strolled casually along the line without exciting comment or interest on the part of their fellow-travelers scattered about the line, and whenthe train started these were much too busily occupied in scrambling back to their own places to notice that two of their number had unostentatiously slipped behind a culvert. The train puffed off busily; after it had gone a hundred yards or so a head appeared at one of the windows.
"Keep down," cried Bill. "It's the gunner—wonder what 'e'll do with our kits?"
The question was hardly out of his mouth before it was answered. The gunner—obviously a creature of impulse—was seen to push the two packs and rifles of his late companions out of the window of the train.
"Nice fool 'e'd 'ave looked if we'd been on the train arter all, in another carriage," said Bill. "Still, p'raps it's just as well to 'ave the things. Now for Blighty."
Alf removed the black covering which still shrouded his talisman.
"Better wait till the train's out o' sight," said Bill. "She seems to be gettin' really started at last.... I s'pose there'll be plenty o' beer in your new 'ouse?"
"If there ain't we'll jolly soon 'ave some. Tell you what, Bill: 'Ow'd it be to 'ave one room in the 'ouse rigged up as a bar. We c'd 'ave proper sanded floors, an' a barmaid, an'—an' no closing time. Just for you an' me, so's we could 'ave a drink any ole time. Make it seem more 'omelike, wouldn't it?"
Bill stared at him in hopeless disgust.
"An' I thought you was beginnin' to think!" he said. "This fair takes the biscuit. What low ideas you do 'ave! Why whatever'd the wife think, an' your swell neighbors? You'll 'ave to be'ave like a gentleman, you know, when you marries a lady."
"'Ow'm I goin' to do that?"
"I'll teach yer. You trust me."
"You! An' 'ow d'you know?"
"I do know. It's easy enough. Never you fear, I'll look after you."
Alf, looking a little skeptical, returned to the subject nearest his heart.
"Well, then, when'll I be able to get a drink when I'm a gentleman?"
"Why, you can 'ave 'em all day long. You sits in one easy chair an' me in another, an' a footman brings us whatever we wants."
"Lumme! A footman?"
"O' course. An' then, in the evenin', we 'as a reg'lar slap-up spread every day of our lives, with your missus in laces an' diamonds: an' then when she's finished 'er supper she goes off an' leaves us to finish the drinks."
"'Ow d'you know she will?"
"They always does. 'Aven't you been to no plays, nor read no books? Lucky you'll 'ave me to keep you straight. 'Ullo, the ole train's pretty near out o' sight now. 'Adn't we better ...?"
Alf, his hand shaking excitedly, rubbed his Button.
Eustace appeared.
"That 'ouse," said Alf. "It's still all right about that, I s'pose?"
"Master," answered the djinn, "for a week past it hath been prepared for thine entry. Say but the word and I will transport thee thither."
"Right. Me an' Mr. Grant's quite ready now. On'y just get our kits an' rifles off the side o' the line first."
"'Ome, John!" added Bill facetiously.
Eustace advanced upon them and they closed their eyes involuntarily. As before, nothing seemed to happen to them; and yet, when they opened their eyes again they were standing on the carriage sweep before the front door of an imposing country-house built of gray stone, overgrown for the most part with ivy and Virginia creeper. The building seemed to them vast—immense. It was long and low, and covered a great deal of space. They gazed about them hurriedly, and received an impression of great trees and smooth-shaven lawns, ornamental waters and flagged paths.
Alf gazed about him in awe.
"What do we do next?" he asked in a whisper.
"Ring the bell," answered Bill. "It's yours."
Alf advanced timidly up the steps, but recoiled in alarm as the door opened unexpectedly. It disclosed an Eastern personage whose clothes were stiff with gold and dazzling with gems; bowing low, he took both Alf and Bill respectfully by the hand andled them through the doorway. Here the personage with another deep obeisance stood aside and motioned to them to precede him.
They crossed the vestibule towards the great hall which formed the center of the building, realizing that the whole house was one glittering mass of shifting barbaric color. In the hall itself stood slaves in ordered ranks, black and white, male and female, each attired with magnificence only one degree less than that of the personage who had received them. The whole crowd stood waiting, silent and motionless, for their new master to appear.
Bill came first. He sauntered easily into the hall with his hands in his pockets—that is, as easily as is possible on mosaic pavement to one wearing ammunition boots—and stood looking about him in a silence in which a pin's fall would have caused a reverberating crash; then Alf, who had been wrestling with a demon of shyness in the darkness of the vestibule, clattered sheepishly across the threshold.
In that instant the silence was shattered into a million pieces. Seven bands of weird and piercing oriental instruments came simultaneously into action in seven different keys and, so far as could be discerned above the frenzied beating of tambours, playing seven different tunes. Such of the gathering as had no instruments contributed to the joyful effect by shrieking and howling at the tops of their voices.
Alf—already awed by his surroundings—wasquite overwhelmed by this demonstration. For one moment he seemed to contemplate flight; then, pulling himself together, he sought the side of his mate.
Bill turned towards him and shouted something, but it was utterly lost in the hideous din.
"Can't 'ear!" bellowed Alf, and shook his head in confirmation.
Bill's mouth opened and shut in a frenzied manner, and his face turned purple. He was utterly inaudible. At last, encircling Alf's ear with his two hands and using them as a trumpet, he bawled with the full force of his lungs:
"Stop it!"
Alf leapt away as if he had been shot and began to massage his ear tenderly. His lips moved fervently, and his eyes held bitter reproach. The joyous din of welcome continued and swelled. Forgetting his injury Alf bawled back in the same way:
"'Ow?"
"Eustace!" returned Bill impatiently.
Alf's fingers flew to his Button; in the mental paralysis caused by the awful din he had forgotten the djinn; but the instant his fingers touched the talisman every sound ceased. It did not die away; it ended suddenly, as though a giant had stopped his gigantic gramophone in the midst of a bar. At the same moment the entire assembly, even to the magnificent major-domo behind them in the vestibule, fell forward on its face and remained motionless. Alf and Bill—to whom, after three years at thefront, it was second nature to take cover whenever their neighbors did so without asking questions—groveled likewise for a moment. Then they rose sheepishly and stared about them in astonishment. Not a sound or a movement came from the assembly. Then Alf, whose fingers had paused involuntarily when the noise shut off, rubbed the Button and the djinn appeared.
"'Ere, Eustace," said Alf with some heat, "what was all that blinkin' noise about, eh? We can't 'ear ourselves think."
"Lord," said the djinn in pained surprise, "this was a concert of music in thine honor such as delighted the ear of the great Caliph Haroun Alraschid."
"Aaron 'oo? Never 'eard of the bloke, but 'e must 'ave 'ad a queer taste in music. Any'ow there's no need to kick up such a blinkin' row about it. Very nice of you an' all that, but you're bein' too 'olesale again. My ears is singin' now—let alone Mr. Grant 'avin' near busted me ear-drum." He caressed his injured member again.
Eustace, who only half comprehended this harangue, but gathered that his unaccountable master was once more finding unexpected faults in his arrangements, said nothing.
"Look 'ere, Alf," suggested Bill suddenly, "'adn't you better let some o' these pore blighters get up? The blood'll be running into their 'eads something 'orrid."
Alf addressed himself to the prostrate crowds. "'Ere," he said in diffident tones, "you can get up now." Not a soul moved.
"Squad!" said Bill loudly, in the formula sacred to the use of the army instructor in physical training. "On the feet—UP!"
The assembly remained prostrate.
"The blinkin' 'eathens don't understand English, that's what it is," said Alf with sudden enlightenment. "You tell 'em, Eustace."
The djinn uttered one guttural, staccato syllable. In a moment the multi-colored crowd had melted away, and the great house began to hum with life. In every direction slaves could be seen, each engrossed in his or her duties. Alf, master of all he surveyed, felt for the first time the full weight of his responsibilities.
"I say, Eustace," he said querulously, "'ow the 'ell am I goin' to look after a lot o' niggers as don't understand a word I says to 'em? Can't you get me an English 'ousemaid or two?"
"Can't be got," said Bill. "I read it in a paper t'other day. They called it the Servant Problem. You be thankful you've got these. An' very nice too!" he finished, his eyes on two langorous-eyed maidens in brilliant draperies who were descending the stairs.
"Lord," said Eustace, "none are there of thy speech among the slaves of the Button. But thy steward"—he indicated the personage who hadwelcomed them, now waiting patiently till he should be required again—"he is skilled in thy tongue, and through him will these thy servants perform all thy will. His name is Mustapha."
Eustace disappeared.
"Phew!" said Bill, looking about him. "All gold, an' silk, an' marble! Looks more like one o' them pantomime scenes than a real 'ouse, don't it? An' all them niggers, an' the girls an' all. An' 'im!"
He indicated once more the major-domo.
"Ain't much furniture about, is there?" said Alf after a pause. "Only sofas an' things."
"No. That's Eustace an' 'is old-fashioned ideas. Don't matter, though. Anything we want later on we can send 'im for. What I want now's a drink. Tell 'im."
"What did Eustace say 'is name was?"
"Mr. Farr, I think. Something like that. Call 'im an' see if 'e answers."
The major-domo did answer. Before long the two warriors were slaking their mighty thirst with real beer. Eustace might be slow to learn, but he seldom forgot a lesson.
"Ah!" said Bill, smacking his lips. "Now, I begin to feel something like. What's the next move? Farr 'ere seems to 'ave something on his mind. What's up with you? Speak up."
Mustapha, with another obeisance, spoke up.
"If my lord permits, thy slaves await thee that they may bathe thee and change thy traveling-dressfor a garment better befitting thy state. After this there is prepared for thee a banquet."
"Civvy clothes? That's a bright idea o' yours," replied Bill condescendingly. "Of course we can't go on wearing these 'ere things. We'll 'ave another drink—a long 'un, Farr, an' a strong 'un—an' then you can do what you like."
"While I think of it," said Alf, "p'raps I'd better take the Button off me tunic; then it can't get lost."
He suited the action to the word, and threaded the talisman on to the cord which hung round his neck and supported his two identity disks.
The drink was brought. This time it was not beer, but some far more potent liquid. Its immediate effect on Bill was to stimulate his imagination.
"What's your name goin' to be, Alf?" he asked suddenly after the first draught. "I'm goin' to be Mr. Montmorency."
"Why?"
"Well, you don't want anybody recognizing us, do you? If this girl o' yours knows you're Private Alf 'Iggins of 'Ackney she'll never look at you. But if you shaves off yer mustache and calls yerself Wentworth, and dresses yerself like a gentleman—what ho, how about it?"
"You are a one," said Alf admiringly, wiping his lips and then his eyes. "You think of everything. This stuff don't 'arf tickle you up, do it? What about you? You 'aven't got a mustache to shave off. Will you 'ave a false one?"
"Eh? Oh, I don't marrer," said Bill thickly.
The effects of the drink—whatever it was—were now the reverse of stimulating. They were swift and complete. When Mustapha entered a moment later his lord and his lord's companion were side by side on the floor in stertorous slumber. At his command a party of slaves entered and carried the recumbent forms reverently upstairs.
* * * * * * *
Next morning Alf was awakened by the sun shining through the latticed windows and falling in brightly colored patches across his room. Wherever the light struck there was a glitter almost unbearable to his heavy eyes. He was lying in a bed of wonderful softness in a lofty chamber in which everything about him gave the impression of sumptuousness and luxury. Where the sunlight struck his coverlit it shimmered and shone and twinkled till he was completely dazzled. It was made of cloth of gold thickly sewn with diamonds and pearls.
He gazed about with an idiotic expression, for his intellect was still in abeyance; and he tried without much success to remember where he was and how he got there. He could recall nothing clearly since he had fallen asleep in the great hall, still in his worn khaki with the dust of France upon him. He knew in a dim way that much had happened to him since then. There were various hazy recollections in his mind: of a bath, warm and scented, wherein he had lain at ease while other hands than his had cleansed him; of being clothed in garments moregorgeous than his imagination could have conceived, and of reclining with Bill (no less gorgeously clad than himself) on a divan where strange foods had been brought to them by lustrous-eyed girls; of listening to weird music and witnessing queer, sinuous dances. Lying here this morning he could not say whether these things had really happened or whether he had dreamed them. Only he knew that the effort to think made his head ache, and that judging by his general condition he must have had a remarkably "thick" night.
He closed his eyes and dozed uneasily, but was soon awakened by the sound of stealthy footsteps and the swish of silken draperies. He half opened his eyes, and, glancing cautiously under lowered lids saw that his room was gradually filling with people whose one care seemed to be to avoid waking him. They disposed themselves round the chamber in some kind of settled order and, with eyes fixed on his recumbent form, stood waiting. Alf, still wondering what this might mean, suddenly noticed that quite half of his unexpected visitors were women—just such women as haunted his hazy recollections of the night before.
Shocked to the depths of his respectable soul, Alf opened his eyes and sat up. Instantly the entire assemblage prostrated themselves—except some of the women, who, Alf saw with horror, carried musical instruments and displayed every sign of being about to play upon them.
Alf clutched his aching head.
"No, no!" he shouted imploringly. "Stop it. Farr—Mr. Farr! Take 'em away!"
"Lord," said Mustapha, entering and bowing gravely. "I am here."
"Turn them shameless 'ussies out o' my room. What are they doin' 'ere? I never 'eard o' such goin's on."
"Verily, Lord, they are the ladies of thy household, whose duty it is to be present at thylevée. And these others are ladies skilled in music, who are about to wish thee good-morrow with a concert of soft sounds."
"Not if I know it—not while I've got a 'ead on me like this, any'ow. Clear 'em all out, every last one of 'em—men as well."
Mustapha said a few words to the concourse, which went away saying no word but looking very much astonished.
"An' now," said Alf, "where's me clothes?"
"Lord, they are here." Mustapha indicated a magnificent garment which was lying with a jeweled turban on a cushion at the side of the bed.
"Clothes, I said," remarked Alf caustically, "not a blinkin' dressing-gown—what's that?"
"That" was a bull-like roar in the distance, which repeated itself over and over again until it at last resolved itself into a call for "Alf."
"'Ere, Bill," bellowed Alf in return.
"Oh! 'Ere you are," said the newly-christened Mr. Montmorency in wrathful tones as he entered. "Every room I go into seems to be full o' women.'Ere, what d'you think o' this?" He displayed the garment he was wearing—a voluminous coat of some rich shimmering stuff. "Pinched me clothes, they 'ave, an' left me this ... this...."
Words failed him.
"An' a pair o' pink satin trousers," he concluded with heat. "What's the game?"
"Dunno. Same 'ere," answered Alf. "Look 'ere, Farr, don't you start no funny jokes with us. Clear this mess away an' bring us some proper civvy clothes."
"Same as what a gentleman 'ud wear," added Bill. "Pot 'at, an' gloves, an' spats, an'—an' so on. An' 'urry up."
"But, Lord," protested Mustapha, "these are garments of the greatest magnificence, such as the great Caliph Haroun Alraschid delighted to wear...."
"All right, take 'em to 'im. 'E can 'ave 'em, for all I care. Look 'ere, 'ave you got any ordinary clothes or not?"
"Suits less magnificent have I many, O Master. But as for the hat called pot, or the spat, I have no knowledge of such. Nevertheless...."
"I see what it is," said Alf disgustedly. "It's just Eustace. 'E's mucked it again. We'll just 'ave to send for 'im an' tell 'im what sort of a rig-out we want. Pity 'e can't never get nothing right the first time, ain't it?"
He sat down on his diamond-studded coverlet and once again summoned his sorely tried familiar.
"Well, Julian," said Mrs. Davies in her most determined tones. "I think it's your plain duty to call at once."
The Vicar of Denmore sighed, and laid down his paper on the breakfast-table.
"But, my dear," he protested mildly, "we know nothing of the new people at the Manor. We don't even know if they have taken possession. If it is true that extensive alterations are going on, they can hardly be there yet. Why, it's only a week since they took the place."
"Julian," returned his wife, "there is no use in arguing the point. It's quite time that all the mystery about the Manor was cleared up. You know I hate gossip...."
She paused. The vicar took a drink of coffee.
"You know," resumed Mrs. Davies very distinctly, "that I hate gossip...."
"Of course, of course, my dear," agreed the vicar hastily.
"But it is impossible not to know that the whole neighborhood is talking. I'm not asking you to pay a ceremonious call. If the people turn out to be German spies.... The feeling of everybody is that the sooner somebody finds out just what ishappening at the Manor, the better. And you've got the best excuse."
Mr. Davies got up and walked about the room.
"Really, my dear," he said at last in what was (for him) quite a fierce tone, "if you're asking me to do this out of mere idle curiosity...."
"Idle fiddlesticks! Do remember there's a war on, Julian. When a great big house like that suddenly becomes full of people from nobody knows where, who never seem to come out of the grounds, and who certainly don't deal with the local tradesmen, what is one to think?"
"That they import their provisions from London," suggested the vicar.
"But they don't. The only London van that comes here is Harrods'—the FitzPeters deal there, but I know they don't call at the Manor."
"Did Miss FitzPeter tell you that?"
"No. She doesn't seem very interested in the concerns of the village. She could or would tell me nothing.... But I stopped Harrods' van in the village and asked the driver. The whole business is most suspicious. So we think—I think that it's quite time you went up to the Manor and found out whether they're going to use the Manor pew."
The vicar sighed deeply.
"Very well, my dear," he said with resignation. "Since you insist. But I fear my talents do not lie very much in the direction of private detection. What is the nature of the gos ... the—er—tales that are going about in the village?"
"Oh, just vague and exaggerated rumors. You see, nobody has been allowed inside the grounds at all. There haven't even been any letters for the people yet. I was at the post-office yesterday and Mrs. Rudd was most aggrieved about it. Of course everybody thinks they're spies, or horrible plotters, or something. Otherwise, why should they behave like this? Bobby Myers says that he and another boy climbed over the fence and saw a lot of black men in the garden, but that I donotbelieve. I have seldom found Bobby truthful."
"I fully expect that I shall find something in the nature of a mare's nest," said the vicar. "But perhaps I can do some good by reminding these people that a village is always a hotbed of—that is, that people will talk, and that...." He broke off, realizing that to express tactfully just what he wanted to say was beyond his power. "All the same," he finished, "if there is anything wrong, I am afraid that so very shortsighted an emissary as I will prove of little use."
"Never mind about that, Julian. I shall do all that part of it—as if I could trustyou! You are just my excuse, that's all."
"But, my dear, is it quite usual ...?"
Mrs. Davies snorted.
"Is it usual to shut oneself up as these people are doing—especially in war-time? Anyhow, usual or not, I'm going. For a whole week there's been something mysterious going on in that house and I mean to find out what it is before anything dreadfulcomes of it. I'll be ready soon after lunch, Julian."
Later in the day the reluctant clergyman and his far from reluctant wife turned in at the drive gates of Denmore Manor. They walked along the thick and somber avenue, at the end of which the trees suddenly ceased altogether and the drive gave a half-turn before sweeping on to the house. There was no one visible except a far-away gardener, of whom so little could be seen that it was quite impossible to judge whether he were a suspicious-looking character or not. The visitors looked round them at the smooth, green lawns and the riot of flowers, and the vicar sighed once more—this time in content.
"I should like to know," observed his wife with asperity, "how many men of military age it took to do this in a week? Why, the place was a wilderness. It had not been looked after for two years, and even in peace-time it took a small army to look after it. However, I suppose you can get things done even in war-time if you're rich enough and unpatriotic enough."
She marched resolutely up the steps, evidently more firmly convinced of the righteousness of her mission than ever, and paused with a hand on the bell.
"All the windows are barred," she commented darkly, as the lattices which Eustace's Eastern taste had brought into being struck her questing eye. "Doesthatconvey nothing to you?"
The vicar, who could not honestly have said that it conveyed anything very sinister to him, merely looked uncomfortable. Mrs. Davies pulled the bell-handle. The door opened with embarrassing suddenness to display two massive negroes, clad in uniforms of startling brightness. Inside the vestibule could be seen the magnificent Mustapha.
"My goodness!" said Mrs. Davies, shrinking back suddenly. "Blacks!! Bobby was right."
The major-domo bowed low and with a gesture invited them to enter; but the lady, who distrusted "blacks" fervently, left her husband to reply.
The vicar beamed vaguely in the direction of the doorway.
"Er—is Mr.—er—that is," he began feebly.
"Enter, O Master," said Mustapha, leading the way inside, "thou and thy woman with thee."
"Woman, indeed!" muttered Mrs. Davies in outraged tones as she followed them. "Woman!! A black...."
"My dear," urged the vicar in an earnest undertone. "It's probably only the Eastern way. I do not suppose he means any disrespect."
"I hope not, indeed.... Good Heavens!"
The newly decorated hall had burst suddenly on Mrs. Davies' vision, and her injured pride was forgotten in her amazement at the sight. The vicar, who could only discern a blaze of color, gazed too. Mustapha moved majestically across the hall and disappeared up the marble staircase.
"Julian," demanded Mrs. Davies, "are we dreaming? What has happened?"
The vicar, who had now managed to focus his myopic eyes, glanced at the wall opposite the front door, and gave a wail of anguish and horror.
"The tapestry!" he cried. "The great tapestry. They've taken it down. Howcouldthey?"
He went over to the wall where once the tapestry had been and gazed forlornly at it as though he hoped by some occult power of thought concentration to bring it back.
"Well," said Mrs. Davies acidly, "they are at least consistent. You could hardly expect tapestries to go with this kind of thing." She was at the foot of the stairs, examining the knob of the heavily gilded banisters. It was studded with diamonds and completed with an enormous ruby worth about as much as the house. "Terrible pieces of glass stuck about everywhere. Dreadful sham orientalism; why, they've even had that fine old staircase taken down and marble put in instead. It looks more like a second-class restaurant than...." She wandered off on a tour of inspection; a moment later her voice was angrily upraised.
"What do you want, you shameless hussy? How dare you touch me? Go away. Do you hear me? Take your hands off me and go away.... Let me go, woman.... Julian! Julian!!"
The vicar rushed blindly in the direction of his wife's voice; his pince-nez fell off and flew wildly at the end of their cord. He stumbled over a divan,slithered across the marble floor and stood, panting and peering, at his wife's side. He found her, flushed and angry, standing at bay before a group of lovely and perplexed but very scantily clad female slaves, who had approached at Mustapha's command to conduct her to the women's quarters of the house. As the vicar arrived, the leader made another attempt to take Mrs. Davies' hand, and received from the angry lady a stinging smack across the face. Instantly she and her following prostrated themselves on the floor.
"My dear Hermia!" murmured the vicar.
"Julian," returned Mrs. Davies in a terrible voice, "this is no place for me, or for you either. Take me home at once. This"—she eyed the prostrate but shapely forms around her, and shuddered—"is worse than I could have imagined. I insist on your taking me home at once."
"But really, Hermia," said the vicar mildly, "I am sure this young lady ... perhaps in the East...." The leader of the slaves, taking heart of grace from the vicar's gentle tones, was rising to her feet; but meeting a glance of concentrated venom from his wife, she flopped back once more, appalled.
"East, indeed!" Mrs. Davies laughed scornfully. "Hussies from the stage, most likely. Of course you'll take their part, Julian. Men are all alike. I'm only thankful that I came with you to this place."
She swung round to depart and came face to face with Alf, who had ventured out to receive his first guests. He was in a state of great trepidation whichthe sound of Mrs. Davies' angry high-pitched voice did nothing to allay. It was a transformed Alf. He had compelled Eustace to take away all the wonderful but highly unusual garments with which he had stocked his master's wardrobe, and, explaining once more to his familiar how useless it was to be wholesale without at the same time being up-to-date, had commanded him to supply instead modern clothes suited to every requirement of his new position. He now appeared resplendent in a voluminous frock-coat, gray trousers, a stand-up collar of inordinate height and patent leather shoes. The whole effect was completed and rounded off by a very shiny top-hat.
This Alf at once removed. He stood nervously twisting it in his hands. Mrs. Davies, not knowing quite what to make of him, gave him a menacing glare.
"Good afternoon!" she said in threatening tones.
"Yes 'm," said Alf feebly.
"You, I suppose, are the butler. Is your master in?"
"Yes 'm ... I'm ... that is, 'e's ... er, I'm 'im," was the lucid reply. It conveyed nothing whatever to the lady. The vicar, however, who had realized from the top-hat that he could not be speaking to a butler, rose to the occasion.
"My name is Davies," he said courteously. "Er—my wife—I have called to—er—the Manor pew...."
Alf, feeling a shade happier, put his hat on again.
"Sit down, sir," he said. "Won't the lady take a chair—that is a—er—cushion?"
"I will not," snapped Mrs. Davies fiercely. "I am shocked and astonished at the things I have seen and the way I have been treated, and if you are responsible I demand an explanation, Mr.... Mr...."
"Ig ... Wentworth," supplied Alf, remembering at the last moment his change of name.
Once more he clutched his hat. It seemed to afford him moral support in dealing with this terrifying lady, and he clung to it for the remainder of the interview.
"Really, my dear, Mr. Higg-Wentworth can hardly be blamed for an error on the part of his ... er...."
The vicar's eyes rested with unclerical appreciation on the form of the recently smacked leader of the slaves. He wondered what her exact status in the establishment might be. Was she guest or servant? He decided not to risk it. "I am sure the—ah—young lady acted under a pure misapprehension."
His wife snorted.
"It is disgraceful, and their clothing is nothing short of immodest. Please send them away at once."
Alf gave an order to Mustapha, who translated it into Arabic. The slaves rose and after bowing low to Alf disappeared up the stairs with much swirling of draperies and jingling of anklets. Mrs.Davies averted her face, but the vicar's gaze followed them up the stairs until the last had disappeared.
Alf was feverishly anxious to make things right, and he turned on Mustapha.
"Look 'ere, Farr," he said sternly, "what's all this mean? Why was them girls bothering this lady?"
"Lord," said the steward, "verily it was supposed that this man had brought the woman hither to sell her unto thee, and for that reason...."
"What!" Mrs. Davies' voice and expression were such that even the imperturbable Mustapha broke off in alarm. Alf stammered out something unintelligible, but was cut short.
"You need say no more. I have heard and seenquiteenough. I am ashamed to have set foot in such a place as this house has become. Dreadful!" She swept a glance of regal scorn round the hall. "Let me tell you, Mr. Higg-Wentworth, or whatever you call yourself, that you have not heard the last of this, nor those shameless undressed hussies of yours either. This is a law-abiding English village, where such things can be stopped I feel sure. I shall go straight to Sir Edward FitzPeter and see if something cannot be done. Come, Julian."
She stalked out. The vicar, perplexed and unhappy and far from being convinced that his wife was not making a fool of herself, followed.
Alf watched them out of sight, wondering miserably whether it was still too late to do something toretrieve the situation; then as Mrs. Davies disappeared with a jerk round the corner of the drive, he crammed his hat down on to his head with fierce despair, regardless of the havoc he was causing to its beautiful nap, and wandered dispiritedly up the stairs to Bill.
That warrior was far from being dispirited. He was lying on a divan with an expression of utter content. He was even more gayly clad than Alf; but he was now taking his ease, and his coat was lying neatly folded on a cushion near by, revealing to the gaze in all its glory a waistcoat which would have occupied the place of honor at any exhibition of futurist art. By his right elbow stood a tiny inlaid table on which was a foaming flagon of beer. At his feet, looking like a brilliant, shimmering heap of silk, lay yet another of the army of female slaves. She lay in an attitude of sinuous ease, but her dark eyes were fixed on Bill's face with something of the adoring expression of a faithful dog.
"'Ullo," began Mr. Montmorency (néGrant) with a cheerful grin. "'Ere you are. 'Ave a drink with me. This 'ere girl"—he jerked an expressive thumb at his attendant—"she's a fair wonder, she is. Mr. Farr, 'e's told 'er off special to look after me, an' she don't 'arf take a pride in 'er work neither. She don't understand a word I say, but it don't matter. She just fetches me another every time I finish, an' seems to like me better the more I make 'er do. Never 'ad such a time in all me little life. Lucy, I call 'er."
"Seems fond o' you," said Alf gloomily.
"She is that. Thinks I'm no end of a nut. Well, 'ow did you get on with the nobility an' the gentry? 'Oo was it came? None o' your girl's people, I s'pose."
Alf shook his head.
"That's all up," he said. "None of 'er people won't never come to this 'ouse."
"Rats!" said Bill. "Why, we ain't been 'ere more'n two days, any'ow, an' 'ere's somebody been to see us already. Why, it's on'y neighborly for them to look us up. 'Oo was it to-day, any'ow?"
"The parson and 'is wife."
"Very good, for a start," commented Bill.
"'Tisn't good at all," Alf retorted hotly. "I tell you, Bill Grant...."
"Montmorency," inserted Bill in gentle parenthesis.
" ... It's all up."
"What's all up?"
"We are. This place. It won't do. I've—I've mucked it all up, I s'pose. Comes of you not bein' there."
"That's right. Put it all on to me! I've got to trot round like a bloomin' nursemaid, 'ave I, to keep you out of mischief. What 'ave you been an' done, any'ow?
"This 'ere parson's wife, she's a fair terror. She thinks we ain't respectable, an' she's off to get ole Sir FitzPeter to fire us out of 'ere."
"'E can't."
"No, but it knocks the bottom out o' me gettin' 'is daughter. 'Twasn't much of a chance before, but it's all up now."
Bill considered.
"Why don't the ole girl think we're respectable?" he asked at last.
"'Cause of the blinkin' silly way Eustace 'as done the place up. An' she saw a lot o' them girls, an' she didn't like the way they was dressed."
"Well, I don't know as I'm altogether surprised at that." Bill's eyes rested thoughtfully on Lucy's bare leg, ornamented with a flashing anklet. "You couldn't 'ardly expect it, could you? But we can easy change that, you know. It'll mean you 'avin Eustace up again, but after all that's 'is look-out. 'E ought to get things right first time. If 'e won't, 'e must take the consequences. You can 'ave all these girls dressed in nice black dresses, an' caps an' aprons—except my Lucy o' course. They won't change you, will they, my dear?"
He stirred Lucy gently with his foot, and she sprang up ready to perform her usual task. Finding her master's flagon still full, she sank back again into her place with a puzzled but still adoring smile.
"What's the good ..." began Alf.
"An' then," pursued Bill, taking no notice whatever of the interruption, "we'll 'ave some furniture in, an' about time too. Then what can the parson's wife 'ave to say, eh?"
"But what ..." began Alf.
"Mind you," Bill continued serenely, "you'll'ave to tell Eustace just exactly what you want. It's no good leaving it to 'im—we know 'ow much good 'is ideas are. Tell 'im what you wants an' see you gets it."
"Yes, but 'ow much good will that do? The ole woman's gone off ravin' like a blinkin' lunatic, an' once she gets round to ole FitzPeter all the furniture in the world won't do us no good. 'Ow can we stop 'er tellin' 'im?"
"Easy enough," said Bill with unabated confidence. "Strike 'er dumb!"
"Eh?" Alf's eyes and mouth opened to their utmost extent.
"Tell Eustace to make 'er dumb. Then shecan'ttell anybody anything."
"She could write it," said Alf, after consideration.
"Paralyze 'er, then," retorted Bill callously.
"Even then, 'er 'usband'd know. 'Sides, that ain't goin' to do us no good. The neighbor'ood 'ud be bound to notice it if she came 'ere an' then went dumb an' paralyzed—specially if we 'ad to do it to the parson too."
"True for you, Alf—it wouldn't make us what you might call popular."
Bill took a long drink, to assist thought. The faithful Lucy uncurled herself once more and left the room with the empty flagon.
"Good girl," said Bill, looking after her. "She'd make a fine wife, she would. I ain't goin' to 'ave no cap an' apron put on my Lucy, Alf; she can keep out o' the way when there's company about, butI'm goin' to keep 'er dressed as she is, see?"
"Seems to me," Alf answered crossly, "if you don't 'urry up an' think what's to be done, you an' your Lucy'll 'ave to part company any'ow. Once that ole woman gets to Ditchwater Park she'll make these 'ere parts too 'ot to 'old us. An' she must be 'arf way there by now."
Bill gave a scornful laugh.
"I'm ashamed of you, Alf, gettin' the wind up like that. I am, really. Tell you what to do. Tell Eustace to fix 'er whenever she tries to talk or write about us—she an' the parson, too. Then she can't do no 'arm to anybody! 'Ow's that for a scheme, eh?"
Bill put his thumbs in the armholes of his pictorial waistcoat; Alf stared in speechless admiration.
"Lumme," he said at last. "You do think o' things. But 'ow d'you know that Eustace can do it?"
Bill held up the old lady's brother's copy of theArabian Nights.
"I been readin' this," he said, "seems to be just the sort o' thing they used to like doing in them times. I tell you, I'm glad it's us as 'ave got Eustace an' not the 'Un, because ..."
Fearing that Bill was about to bring up once more his favorite scheme for using Eustace to kidnap the Kaiser and end the war Alf cut him short by producing his talisman. Lucy, entering the room at the same moment with a full tankard of beer forher lord, caught sight of the Button and instantly prostrated herself. The tankard reached the ground just before she did, with the result that Lucy's clothes and hair and Lucy's devout forehead weltered in a foaming pool of wasted beer.
Alf gasped.
"Tripped over the mat, I expect," he volunteered feebly.
"You silly owl," roared Bill, exasperated no less by the discomfort of his Hebe than by the waste of his drink. "Don't you know yet what 'appens if you bring out the Button in front of the servants? Down they goes an' down they stays. Put it away, quick, or you'll be drownin' the girl. 'Ere, Lucy, 'op it an' get dried."
Lucy, dripping with beer, fled, and Alf, looking rather sheepish, once again produced the Button.
He hesitated.
"You know," he said, "I 'ardly like to—I mean, we 'ad Eustace up on'y yesterday, you know. If we 'ave 'im again now won't 'e be fed up?"
"Let 'im," said Bill. "S'long as you don't ask 'im for a rook's egg, 'e can't turn nasty. An' any'ow you've got to 'ave 'im to swop the furniture, so 'e may as well do the two jobs together. And for 'eving's sake let's 'ave a few tasty pictures on the walls, an' some ornaments an' things. We want to make the place a bit 'omey."
"'Ave whatever you like," replied Alf. "You knows more about that sort o' thing than what I do."
He rubbed the Button.
* * * * * * *
Meanwhile, as the vicar and his wife had turned into the road at the Manor gates, the doctor's gardener, one Amos Goodwin, had chanced to be passing.
Amos was a sociable creature who measured his success in life by the amount of new and in some cases original gossip he managed to put into circulation. He was the most prolific purveyor of intimate domestic scandal in the neighborhood. Certainly he was the indispensable right-hand man of Mrs. Rudd the post-mistress, supplying her with the material on which she ran an informal Bureau of Unreliable Information. Amos had come past the Manor on the off-chance of seeing something which might suggest a plausible theory about the Manor mystery; but he was too good a journalist not to prefer to deal in the truth when he could get it; and the appearance of Mr. and Mrs. Davies actually leaving the suspicious premises held promise of a real and authentic "scoop"—if he could only hear what they were saying. He hobbled after the pair as quickly as he could, his long ear straining forward; but they swung off down the road at a pace that his rheumatic old legs could not hope to emulate. All the same, he had his reward; before she was out of earshot he heard Mrs. Davies' loud and piercing voice, remarking:
"Well, Julian, all I can say is thatIconsider the whole place a perfect scandal. Those black men,and the horrible women—ugh! The whole place looked more like a scene from 'Chu Chin Chow' than an English country house. And one thing I considermostsuspicious...."
Amos could hear no more. But on his way home he stopped at the post office.
That evening a deep peace had settled over Dunwater Park. Except for two people sunning themselves on the terrace, all the inhabitants of the hospital had gone to the tennis-court or the golf-links or the river.
"Oh dear," said Isobel, breaking a long silence. "I suppose I ought to go and finish the day's work before dinner."
"Don't," urged Denis Allen earnestly.
"But duty calls."
"Let it. And if you're as virtuous as all that, please note that it is your duty to entertain your guests—meaning me. Tell me the—I say, there's somebody coming across the lawn."
"Help!" Isobel pulled a face. "My pet aversion."
"Of course," grumbled Allen disconsolately, "thiswouldhappen the very first time I've had you to myself." He sat up and regarded the approaching couple with malevolence. "Which is your—er—friend? Male or female?"
"Oh, female. The vicar's rather a dear, but his wife...." She gave an all-expressive gesture, and rose to be polite to her unwelcome guests.
"This is Mr.... Why, do you know eachother?" For the vicar and Allen had fallen into one another's arms.
"Last time we met," explained the reverend gentleman, "I was bowling for your father's team and this young man was what is technically known as taking tea off me."
"I remember," said Isobel. "I was scoring and very busy you kept me."
"Well, well, how splendid to see you again, and recovering your strength, I hope? And what tremendous luck for you falling into the hands of friends!"
"I should rather think it was," agreed Allen with enthusiasm.
"No luck about it at all," corrected Isobel. "I heard he was in London, so of course he had to come here." Allen beamed. "I'd have every one of my friends here if I could only get hold of them," she added maliciously; Allen's face fell.
"We must organize some cricket for you," went on the vicar. He was proceeding to enlarge on this congenial topic when his wife brought him sternly back to the object of his visit.
"Is Sir Edward in?" she asked Miss FitzPeter. "The vicar and I have called to see him about...." She broke off her sentence in the middle with a startling suddenness and seemed to be struggling with herself. Mr. Davies, not knowing what was the matter, but anxious to cover his wife's confusion, hurled himself into the breach.
"Yes," he corroborated, "we feel that he oughtto be told that...." He got no further. A comical look of mingled fear and suspicion crossed his face. Isobel and Allen waited for the sentence to be brought to some conclusion, but in vain.
"Well," replied Isobel, when it was plain that no more was forthcoming, "I believe dad is in the library. I—I hope nothing awful has happened—nobody's dead, or anything, are they?"
The vicar looked distressed.
"Oh, no, no. Nothing of that kind at all—not in the least. I just want to tell him that...."
Again there was an awkward pause. All four were now plainly embarrassed.
"I'm sorry—perhaps I oughtn't to have asked," Isobel apologized at last. There was just a touch of stiffness in her tone, and poor Mr. Davies grew more troubled than ever.
"Not in the least," he protested. "Please don't think that. The whole matter is simply that.... I mean to say, you see, we...."
A strained silence followed.
"Please come in," Isobel said coldly. "I will see if dad is in."
She and her visitors went into the house, leaving Allen lost in amazement.
In a moment or two Isobel returned.
"Tell me," Allen asked in a melodramatic stage whisper, "have they confessed?"
"Not a thing. What can have made them behave like that?"
"I thought it was my presence that was worryingthem. After all, if he's murdered his mother-in-law for her lump sugar he'd hardly like to tell you about it before a comparative stranger."
"Perhaps," suggested Isobel, "they've come to clear up the mystery of Denmore Manor."
They both laughed. The Manor Mystery had become a family jest at Dunwater.
"What's the latest about it?"
"The plot thickens," answered Isobel. "My maid was full of rumors at teatime. Somebody—I couldn't make out who—has been up to the Manor and seen black men and, oh, every kind of horror. Martin was quite breathless with emotion when she told me about it."
"I wonder how much there is in it."
"I'd love to go and find out. Really, you know, it's time some sensible person went. According to the village these people might be cannibals."
"Perhaps they are."
"Well, whatever they are, I frankly own I'm curious about them."
"Why don't you take me as bodyguard and call on them?"
"No excuse."
"Go and ask 'em for a Red Cross subscription. It's about the only house in the neighborhood you haven't been to."
"D'you mean it?" Isobel asked eagerly.
"Of course I do. I'm as curious as anybody."
"Righto, then I will. To-morrow morning. Don't say a word to any one, or dad may object.Meet me at the garage at eleven, and we'll sneak out. You'll have to look after me like anything. Bring a card-case in one hand and a revolver in the other; then we'll be ready for anything. Hallo, dad—your visitors didn't keep you long. What did they want?"
Sir Edward came out on to the terrace and dropped into a chair.
"Mad!" he said meditatively. "Quite mad, so far as I can see."
"Who?"
"Both of 'em."
"But what did they want?"
"That's just it. I don't know. They kept on saying that they wanted to tell me something I ought to know, but not a thing more would they say."
He walked irritably up and down the terrace. Allen and Isobel looked at each other.
"In the end," said Sir Edward, "I lost my temper. I practically kicked 'em out, and I've no idea now why they came. I'll go and see Davies to-morrow, to see if he's recovered his sanity."
He paused in his pacing and faced them.
"By the way," he continued, "Malcolm tells me that he hears in the village that Denmore is full of black men, and done up like a scene from 'Chu Chin Chow'—what's the matter?"
Both Allen and Isobel had had a sudden fit of helpless laughter.
"Whata set of gossips we all are—go on, dad."
"All I was going to say," pointed out her father huffily, "is that these people are obviously from the East, and if so I shall be glad to cultivate their acquaintance. You know how interested I am in the East. Gossip, indeed!"
He shot into the house, still in a very ruffled condition.
Isobel glanced at her watch.
"Heavens," she said, "I must fly. I've a crow to pick with the War Office over the telephone before dinner. Don't forget—eleven to-morrow, and don't tell anybody."
Allen decided that he was not likely to tell any one. The mere feeling that he and Isobel shared a secret was too precious for that. Every day he fell more deeply in love with her, and every day he felt more sure that the spoilt beauty of the illustrated papers had never existed save in the perverted imaginations of unkind people. On the surface, he and she had slipped easily into the old intimacy they had enjoyed once before, when Isobel was a small girl, but every now and then some chance word or look had awakened a hope in Allen that some deeper bond was being or had been formed between them.
He lay in his chair pondering these and other imaginings with a pleased and fatuous smile, until the sight of his fellows returning reminded him that dinner-time was approaching, and he went in and changed from his flannels into uniform. That evening they played boisterous and childish games.Isobel, looking more than usually lovely, was in a mood of irresponsible gayety; and the patients, catching the infection, became over-excited to such an extent that the sister-in-charge (who was making as much noise as any one) had to assume an official demeanor and threaten to stop the revels. To Allen Isobel hardly spoke a word the whole evening; and if she was aware of his presence where he sat in a big arm-chair in a corner of the hall she gave no sign. When ten o'clock came and sister was shepherding her unruly flock to bed, Isobel was not there to say good night. Allen went to bed in a state of acute misery, convinced that Isobel had done this on purpose (which was the truth) and because she disliked him (which was not the truth). He lay awake pondering dismally on the incomprehensibility of women.
He came down to breakfast next morning in a state of anxiety, and found Isobel in the center of a clamorous mob busy dealing out coffee and tea, while sister dealt with the porridge queue. On his plate was a folded note, which he opened. Underneath a skull and cross-bones neatly executed in red ink was a message:
"Meet me beneath the gnarled oak at eleven. All is prepared. Be silent and secret. The password is 'coffee-pot'—A FRIEND."
"Meet me beneath the gnarled oak at eleven. All is prepared. Be silent and secret. The password is 'coffee-pot'—A FRIEND."
So all was well, after all!
Allen slipped away to the garage at the appointedtime, and found the little car, with which Isobel was accustomed to terrorize the countryside, being filled with petrol by an aged chauffeur.
"Who goes there?" demanded the car's owner.
"Coffee-pot," answered Allen, in sepulchral tones.
"Pass friend, and all's well. Jump in, and we'll get away quick."
"Nottooquick, please. I'm not in the Flying Corps," pleaded Allen. But Isobel—who had a wide reputation as a fearsome driver—let in the clutch with a suddenness which nearly sent Allen out over the back of the car, and they fled down the drive and disappeared amid the cheers of the few patients who happened to see them. The car went round the corner on one wheel at a speed which would have meant certain disaster had any other traffic chanced to be passing. Allen clutched at the sides of his seat lest sheer centrifugal force should deposit him head downwards in a ditch.
"It's all right," said Isobel reassuringly, as they gathered speed on the straight road.
"I'm glad to hear it," answered Allen. "Tell me when you're going to take another corner. I'm glad I'm not a nerve case."
The landscape streamed past them for a space, till Isobel slowed down.
"Here we are," she said.
They turned into the Manor drive, and a moment later pulled up before the house.
"I'm so excited. I feel just like a cinema actress," whispered Isobel.
"So'm I. I've got one hand on my revolver and one on my card-case. Which d'you suppose will be wanted?"
"Neither. You'll have to use the revolver hand to ring the bell with."
"No, I shan't. Somebody's coming. Get ready to fly for your life.... Why, it's an ordinary butler!"
It was Mustapha who was the cause of Allen's disappointed whisper—a transformed Mustapha, wearing instead of his gorgeous robes the sober black of the English serving-man, and looking so villainous that Allen wondered for one moment whether he ought not to have brought his revolver in real earnest.
"Er—" said Isobel, "is Mr.—er...."
Mustapha, casting one glance of appraising admiration over her, did not wait for more. Bowing low to Allen he signified by a sign that they were to await his return, and disappeared round the angle of the house.
"I—I hope it's all right," whispered Isobel a little nervously.
"We can still escape," Allen pointed out.
"No,—I'm going through with it. But—itwasa black man!"
"Very," said Allen. "Probably he'd look less of a villain in his native dress."
"I hope so, I'm sure."
On a lawn at the south side of the house stood two long chairs above which the blue smoke from twopipes curled heavenwards. On one lay Bill, with the faithful Lucy still curled up at his feet; on the other was thesoi-disantMr. Wentworth. Both had changed from the ceremonious raiment of the previous day, and now appeared in the rôle of gentlemen of leisure. Bill was gorgeous in a red-and-black blazer, white trousers, and brown-and-white canvas shoes; but Alf—as befitted the lord of the Manor—outshone him by far. He had a straw hat with a gaudy black-and-yellow ribbon; a Norfolk coat in the bold black-and-white check; and trousers and shoes like Bill's. A stiffly-starched collar nestled furtively behind a satin tie of aggressive color and immutable form. But the crowning glory of the whole get-up was a strange garment—a cross between a cummerbund and a dress-waistcoat—which encircled his middle and supported a gold albert watchchain ornamented with many dangling seals.
By the side of each chair stood an inlaid stool bearing each an enormous flagon of silver. As Mustapha approached the little group, an arm appeared from each chair, and the two flagons were simultaneously lifted, were inverted for a space and were replaced simultaneously on the stools. Bill's voice spoke ecstatically.
"Bit of all right, eh?"
Alf grunted. Not even his consciousness of sartorial perfection could cheer him up. He was brooding darkly on the probable results of the liberty he had taken with the Davies family, and wasfast working himself into a panic. All his experience of Eustace's enchantments filled him with profound misgivings; and in the circumstances Bill's soulless and unsympathetic delight in the ephemeral pleasures of the moment infuriated him.
"Cheer up, mate," said Bill. "What's the matter now? Still off it because the ole lady told you off? You've stopped'ermouth, any'ow."
"Well, an' even if I 'ave, 'ow much better are we then? We might sit 'ere for a year, an' never get nearer doin' anything than we are now. 'Ow are we goin' to get to know a toff like ole Sir FitzPeter, eh? 'Ow can we.... 'Ullo, Farr, what is it now?"
"Lord, there standeth at thy door one desiring entrance; and verily he bringeth with him a maiden possessing the rarest beauty, so that if her mind and attainments be but of a piece with her fairness of face, not less than ten thousand pieces of gold would be her price."
Alf gaped at him.
"I don't know what the 'ell you think you're talkin' about, Farr," he said at length. "But bring 'ooever it is along 'ere."
Mustapha bowed and retreated.
"If there's a lady in the case," said Bill, "Lucy 'ad better cut away. 'Ere! skedaddle, Lucy—quick! You ain't dressed for company."
Lucy departed disconsolately for the house, quite unable to understand why she was thus dismissed. In her lord's honor she had put on her most strikingfinery. She had touched up her eyes with kohl, her cheeks with carmine and her finger-tips with henna. She was comfortably conscious of looking her best. Why, then, was she dismissed the Presence?
"'Ere," called Bill after her, "not that way; you'll run right into 'em.... Lumme, 'ere they come.... Why, Alf—it's 'er—your girl ... an'—an' Lootenant Allen with 'er. 'E'd know me for sure. I'm off."
And while Isobel and Allen were occupied in gazing speechlessly after Lucy's disappearing form, Bill beat a panic-stricken and precipitate retreat into the rose-garden. Alf, unnerved almost as much by the unlooked-for good fortune which brought Isobel to him as by the embarrassment of having to face his old platoon-commander, turned to receive his visitors.
"I hope you will excuse us, Mr...."
"Wentworth," supplied Alf. He was getting used to his new name now.
"Mr. Wentworth, for bursting in upon you in this way. I am Miss FitzPeter, and this is Mr. Allen." Alf, quaking at the knees, shook hands with his late commander. He felt, in spite of his clean-shaved upper lip, that nothing could prevent his detection now; but Allen gave no sign of recognition. Indeed, he hardly looked at Mr. Wentworth's face at all in his delighted examination of his clothes.