Itwas pleasant to get about the square of the station—where luggage had to be labelled and heated passengers stormed at porters and a rather stout brass bell was rung, and where at moments of pressure it did seem that the world had suddenly gone mad—pleasant to stroll there and to feel you were one of the few who recognised the identity of the quiet man smoking a briar pipe and carrying an umbrella, over near the label case. He was middle-aged, with an unobtrusive manner; in the summer he wore a straw hat sedately; he seemed to be always waiting for a train that never arrived. If a loiterer made his way into the station and stood about the bookstall longer than seemed necessary, the quiet man would go near to him, moving when he moved, stopping when he stopped, and losing no sightof him until he went off. The quiet man had apparently no friends, and the staff addressed him rarely.
Now the Station Master’s boy knew that this man was a retired member of the police force, the plain-clothes detective attached to the terminus. And in connection with a predecessor of this mysterious official they told him, in the Up Parcels Office, an incident.
* * * * *
Sergeant Bellchambers had not succeeded in gaining the popularity that most men, in this world, desire, but one or two of his first investigations received favourable comment from the General Manager, and this repaid him for lack of sympathy from others. It was said that in the M division they had been glad to see him take his pension and go, the opinion of the Inspector’s desk being that Bellchambers was a born muddler. This might have been the invention of the station staff; what was quite certain was that in his reports on blue paper in the early cases referred to he fixed blame on men whom the station considered innocent, and these men were, in consequence, fined or reduced. Moreover, he had not been content with singling outindividuals and recommending them for the stocks, but he condemned an entire department; for which reason the station said darkly:
“We shall ’ave to get our own back.”
This was the state of things when the cigar robberies began. Parcels of cigars came up regularly from a certain firm and from a certain local station, sometimes for delivery in London, sometimes for transfer to another railway; one parcel in four reached its destination in good appearance outwardly, but with part of the contents abstracted. The firm made heavy claims, wrote furious letters, and at last managed to get a communication into the public press in which bitter reference was made to the supineness and slothful behaviour of the railway company. The Superintendent of the Line sent for Bellchambers, withdrawing him from easy duties on the station square.
“The only question is—” said the high official.
“Where do these robberies take place?” suggested Bellchambers. “That’s the point,” he added sagely, “that’s what we’ve got to get at.”
“What is your opinion, Sergeant?”
Sergeant Bellchambers made a fine pretence of taking thought before he answered. Then with red-ink pen he wrote on an envelope and passed it across the table.
“Up Office,” read the Superintendent.
“’Ush,” said Bellchambers warningly.
“Do you think you can find the thieves?”
“If I’m given a free hand,” said Bellchambers, “and no quibble raised, sir, about my petty disbursements.”
“Go in and win,” said the Superintendent. “When do you start?”
“This very night, sir?”
“Let me have a report in the morning.”
That evening the head of the department sent to the Up Office a new hand to assist the late-duty men. He was black-bearded with a very ruddy face, and he wore a uniform that had apparently belonged to a shorter and a slimmer person. His name, he said, was Edward Jones, but the Up Office seemed not contented with this and decided on the suggestion of a junior clerk to call him by the title of “Sunset.” He settled to the work with moderate determination, calling off parcels and sorting them into bins fordelivery with perhaps more intelligence than the raw amateur usually showed: he spoke in a hoarse voice, and this he accounted for by confessing himself a slave to tobacco; he discussed the matter with the other men, between the arrival of trains, and seemed, not unnaturally, more interested in those who smoked than in the one or two who limited themselves to a cigarette a week, consumed after dinner on Sundays. The Up Office always had a composite scent, in which fruit, game, cheese, and other things mixed, with sometimes one gaining ascendancy, sometimes another; a new flavour of a more pleasant and a vaguer character was contributed presently by a small brown-paper-covered box, brought in from an arrival platform, bearing a proud label:—
VALUABLE CIGARS.
KEEP DRY.
“’Ere’s a chance for some one,” said the porter, as he called it off. “Sunset, old chum, these’d do your palate good.”
“Silly thing to mark ’em like that,” remarked the new man. “It’s throwingtemptation in anybody’s way. I should say they’re likely enough worth about fifteen pence to one-and-six a-piece.”
“How d’you know?”
“I don’t profess to know,” said the new man hurriedly. “I’m only giving a rough estimate. But bless my soul,” he went on after a pause, “what a refining influence a cigar has.”
“If it’s a good one,” suggested a boy porter.
“They’re all good,” declared the new man with enthusiasm. “They’re like the ladies in that respect. Some are better’n others, but they’re all good.”
“Not a married man, then?” asked a foreman.
“I’m a bloomin’ bachelor,” said the new chum. “And what a thing it is on your Sunday off, when you’re waiting at the end of her road, to light up a cigar with a fine aroma to it. It not only gives you an air of belonging to the ’igher aristocracy, but it also carries away any suspicion of corduroy that might be ’anging about.”
“I’ve never give less than twopence,” remarked the boy porter.
“I’m sorry for you,” said the new man.“I should have thought a chap with your fore’ead had got more ambition. Why, when I was a lad of your height—”
“Pardon me,” interrupted the foreman, “you seem to ’ave a most extr’ordinary flow of conversation.”
“I’m celebrated for it.”
“I wonder,” said the foreman curiously, “whether you’d mind stopping it for a moment and doing a bit of work instead. Reason I suggest it is that the Company pays you for what you do and not for what you talk.”
“I can take a ’int,” said the new man coldly.
There seemed a desire on the part of the others that night to make Porter Jones work as hard as it is possible for a man to work. The heaviest hampers were confided to his care; the slimiest cases of fish were placed upon his shoulder; he it was who was told off to see to some consignments of rather advanced venison. The parcel of valuable cigars remained in the Number Five bin to be transferred to another Company by the first delivery in the morning, and it was observed that whenever Porter Jones came into the office he glanced in that direction. Nowthe Up Office, as I have hinted, had been perturbed over the recent complaints, and the mere fact that they had to fill up memoranda in regard to the various investigations, to the effect that, “I beg to say in reference to the attached papers that I know nothing whatever of the matter, I am, sir, your obedient servant,” this in itself was enough to put a keener edge on observation. Wherefore, a secret meeting was held near the gas-stove by the booking-up desk, and it was decided that the new man should be watched closely; it was felt it would be a proud and estimable thing for the office, the character of which was at this period slurred, if it could itself detect a wrong-doer and take him to justice. And should it happen that the detected one proved to be a new man with no friends in the department to lament his fall, then the most doubtful would have to revert to old beliefs in a wise and thoughtful Providence. Their suspicions were increased by the fact that whenever Porter Jones, in the brief intervals between work from nine o’clock onwards, resumed conversation, he invariably bent its direction towards the subject of cigars.
“Take no notice,” whispered the foremanto his colleagues. “At least when I say take no notice, I mean take all the notice you can, but keep your little heads shut as tight as possible.”
“Shall one of us lay up for him?”
“Who’s the smallest?” asked the foreman, with an air of having already thought of this device.
“I are,” said the boy porter.
“Evidently,” remarked the foreman, looking down at him, “evidently a chap of superior education. Country born, ain’t you?”
“I were.”
“Then,” said the foreman, “up you jump behind them ‘books off’ and you watch, my lad, watch Sunset for all you are worth.”
The Up Office closed at midnight in order to sleep for a few hours. Before that time the men had made preparations for departure, packing shining hand-bags and exchanging the official cap for a bowler hat, and brushing their boots; this last act is one of which the railway man never tires. Porter Jones alone seemed to be taking no preliminary steps, and when asked where he lived replied lightly and evasively that he should probably finish up at the Carlton Club. The gas lights wereturned down one by one and darkness increased its possession of the office. Porter Jones went up to the end where Bin Number Five was situated; the others hummed to give a suggestion of unconcern. Suddenly there was commotion at the darkened end of the office, and seizing hand lamps, they hurried forward.
“’Old him, ’old him,” cried the boy porter. The counsel seemed unnecessary, for he gripped Porter Jones most effectively by the collar of the corduroy jacket. “Set on his ’ead. Lam him one.”
“What’s all this fuss about?” demanded the foreman.
“He’s got it,” screamed the boy porter. “Sunset’s got it hid under his jacket.”
“Got what hid?” asked the foreman. “Let’s ’ave the facts first of all.”
“I can easily explain,” gasped the new man. “I only wanted to see if— Make him leave go. He’s—he’s throttling me.”
“He’s a-trying to,” admitted the boy porter.
“Let him loose,” ordered the foreman. “Men, stand around him so as he can’t make his escape. What’s that bulging under your arm, matey?”
The new man gave an awkward laugh, as he withdrew the labelled parcel.
“I can explain it all to you,” he said, addressing the foreman and trying to rebutton his torn collar, “if you will favour me with two minutes alone outside.”
“Don’t you do it,” advised the others. “See him ’anged first.”
“Whatsoever you ’ave to say,” declared the foreman steadily, “you’d better say it here and now.”
“Well, it’s like this. I’m the detective.”
“Ho!” said the foreman satirically. “Detective and thief in one, eh? Vurry ’appy combination, I must say.”
“See here,” said the other, annoyed at the incredulous tone, “I’ll take off this beard and then you can some of you identify me.”
As he did so the foreman held up his hand lamp, examining the features carefully.
“Do any of you chaps recognise him?”
The staff replied at once that to the best of their belief they had never before in this world set eyes on him.
“Don’t play the goat,” he urged anxiously. “We’ve all got our duties to perform.”
“That’s true; we shall ’ave to lock you up for the night.”
“Right you are,” said the other gleefully. “Take me round to the nearest police station and then—”
“That would mean losing our last train ’ome,” pointed out the foreman.
“I s’pose,” said the boy porter respectfully, “it wouldn’t do to put him in the lamp room?”
“Chaps,” said the foreman, “my idea is we’d better, I think, put him in the lamp room. Get Porter Swan to lend you the keys, my lad. As for you, you scoundrel—”
“If you so much as dare to lock me up there I’ll see that you regret it every day of your lives.” He argued vehemently.
“Look ’ere, me man,” said the boy porter, returning with the keys, “we want none of your empty threats. If you think we’re going to be bluffed by a chap of your calibre—”
“My what?” shouted the indignant man, struggling to get at the lad.
“Go on, my child,” said the foreman approvingly. “Let him have some of your long ones.” The foreman turned to the others.
“This is where your school teaching comes in ’andy,” he whispered.
“A chap of your calibre,” repeated the boy porter, encouraged; “you’re labouring under the very worst misapprehension—”
“Good!” said the others.
“Worst misapprehension that you ever suffered from or endured or tolerated or submitted to or underwent or—”
“That’s enough for him,” interrupted the foreman, “we’d best not overdo it. Got his arms tied, lads?”
“You’ll suffer for this,” he cried.
“I’ll take me oath you will,” said the foreman. “Now then, two of you at each arm and—march! Boy, blow out the gas and lock up.”
No one was encountered on the way to the lamp room who had authority to interfere with the plans of the Up Office, and the unfortunate man was conducted at a sharp walk to that gloomy, sooty, greasy haven. The place reeked with oily waste, and some appeared to have been smouldering, giving a result that nice people would call displeasing. The uneven flooring was laid out with lakes of dirty water; zinc counters did not permitthemselves to be touched. The foreman turned out the one glimmer of light as though by accident.
“Got a match on you?” he asked the prisoner in a kindly tone.
“Only one box.”
“Hand it over,” ordered the foreman, “for a moment. Thanks,” slipping it into his pocket. “Now we can catch our twelve-fifteen. Good night, old sort.”
“’Appy dreams,” cried the others.
“Don’t be late in the morning,” called out the boy porter.
The imprisoned man, not daring to trust himself to reply, heard the door close, heard the lock shoot. He groaned, and began to reckon the black hours that he would have to endure in the place; at the least, the number would be six; he did not care to think what it might be at the most. Throughout the whole of the time he was unable to close his eyes, and his only relief to the length of the hours came by thinking of the report that he would indite the following morning. He polished up in his mind some of the references to the boy porter, and to the man who gripped his arm in bringing him from the UpOffice; it seemed that his suspicions in regard to the pilferages were centred, for some reason, on those who had most aggrieved him. Before daylight began to grin at him through the barred window of the lamp room he had mentally completed his report, and the last paragraph he felt was especially good.
“I am able to speak with absolute certainty, and I can go so far as to say the men who are undoubtedly responsible for the recent pilferages are those I have named, and I beg to suggest respectfully that steps be taken to relieve them of their present duties at the earliest possible moment. The only alternative is a clean sweep of the whole of the Up Office staff, and this, sir, I hesitate to recommend. But for reasons that I have stated, and for others which I think it wise not to place upon paper, I earnestly hope that the recommendation I have made will be acted upon without delay.“W.Bellchambers.“P.S.—Especially the foreman and the junior.”
“I am able to speak with absolute certainty, and I can go so far as to say the men who are undoubtedly responsible for the recent pilferages are those I have named, and I beg to suggest respectfully that steps be taken to relieve them of their present duties at the earliest possible moment. The only alternative is a clean sweep of the whole of the Up Office staff, and this, sir, I hesitate to recommend. But for reasons that I have stated, and for others which I think it wise not to place upon paper, I earnestly hope that the recommendation I have made will be acted upon without delay.
“W.Bellchambers.
“P.S.—Especially the foreman and the junior.”
“Can’t make it hotter for them,” saidSergeant Bellchambers to himself regretfully, “without it looking as though I’d got some personal spite.”
The night seemed endless, but it proved to have a finish, and Bellchambers, when the lamp-man opened the door in the morning, went out, a tired, oil-scented, yawning, but a determined official. A wash and a shave increased the last quality, and when the Superintendent arrived at nine o’clock, morning paper under his arm, Sergeant Bellchambers was waiting for him in the lobby of the office with confidence written all over his face in large letters.
“Evening, sir.”
“Good-morning, Sergeant.”
“I mean morning,” corrected Bellchambers. “I’ve been up all night over that little affair you spoke about.”
“Ah!” said the Superintendent, sitting down in his arm-chair, “with no result?”
“On the contrary, sir,” said Sergeant Bellchambers importantly. “If it isn’t troubling you too much I’ll trouble you to cast your eyes over this report of mine.”
The Superintendent let his glasses flickopen and adjusted them on his nose. The Sergeant, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece, watched his superior officer, waiting for the sign of gratified approval. This, to his great astonishment, did not come, and the Superintendent’s face remained unchanged when he had thrown the report on the shining table.
“Do you mean to say that you want me to get rid of these men?”
“That was the impression,” said the Sergeant, with a touch of acidity, “I intended to convey.”
“And you think they’re guilty?”
“I’ll stake my reputation on it, sir,” said Sergeant Bellchambers.
“That is not much of a bet,” remarked the other.
“You can take it from me that these pilferages will never cease until the men I’ve referred to are turned out.”
“I’m very anxious to do something,” said the Superintendent, taking up a ruler thoughtfully.
“Like myself, sir,” said Bellchambers. “That’s me all over.”
“But not,” said the Superintendent, hittingthe table, “not in the direction you suggest. Read this!”
He handed over the morning paper to Sergeant Bellchambers, pointing to a letter headed “Recent Complaints of Pilferages.”
“Ah!” said the Sergeant exultingly, “they’re going for us again, then. ‘Dear Sir,’ he read. ‘With reference to our letters to you complaining of abstraction from our parcels of cigars sent by railway, we think it only right to inform you that we have discovered these pilferages were made by one of our own men. It appears that after delivering the parcels at the station here, and after they were weighed, he was in the habit of offering to take them to the train, and whilst doing this effected the robberies to which reference has been made. We need scarcely point out that if the station had been wisely managed these lamentable occurrences would in all probability never have taken place; the only question is, who is responsible? We are, dear sir, yours faithfully—’”
“A paltry trick to play on anybody,” said the Sergeant. “At the same time, sir, I think there’ll be no harm in making a change in the staff.”
“I intend to do so. Will you keep your eyes open, Sergeant—”
“Ain’t they always?”
“And,” said the Superintendent, “look out for another berth. Shut the door quietly after you.”
L.O.M. caught sight of M.R. two or three times on the journey, and M.R. made more than one effort to obtain completer details by inspection of the blue card label on L.O.M.’s bag. A certain coolness on M.R.’s side marked their first meeting, but this was the fault of the English Channel; it certainly looked like a practical joke, not quite in good taste, when a sudden lurch of the steamer sent him against her on the upper deck; despite his apologies, there was about the incident a suggestion of Holloway Road on Sunday evenings. M.R. told her married sister that she considered him a bounder; the married sister replied that this description could be applied to men in general, with one single exception.
“Be very careful, Margaret,” she added,“how you make acquaintances. We shall run up against all sorts.”
“All sorts,” complained the girl, “seem to be running up against me.”
At the Paris Station of the Lyons railway, L.O.M. appeared in a more favourable light, rescuing the married sister’s coat which had been taken from a peg in the buffet by a Frenchwoman who was either short-sighted or deficient in honesty. At Vallorbes, it was he who came to the window of their compartment—the hour being five a.m., and snow on the ground—and gave the welcome news that their registered luggage was not amongst the packages selected for examination at the Swiss frontier.
“Do you think I might get you some coffee?” he asked.
“Certainly not!” answered the married sister promptly.
The incident constituted a subject for discussion, the younger girl contending that the obliging male should never be curtly repulsed; the other arguing that a difficulty would have been found in persuading the youth to accept cash for refreshments supplied, and, consequent on this, the trouble inpreventing him from becoming intrusive could scarcely be measured. At Lausanne, where passengers took breakfast, he very properly kept his distance. At Bex, in the tram-cars, which were to make the climb with the aid of motive power at the back, he gave up his place to the elder of the two and sat side by side with the girl in the crowded luggage van.
“Yes,” she replied, “I skate, and I should like to learn to ski. Do you?”
“Moderately good at it,” replied L.O.M. “Did some in Norway.”
“Then, perhaps—”
“You will find an instructor up there,” he said.
She turned away huffily.
It was not, however, easy to avoid joining in the general conversation. Everybody had projects for the filling up of the winter holiday; the conductor, as the car went slowly up the hill, was appealed to for information concerning weather, and being a man of cheerful temperament, gave exactly the particulars that were hoped and desired, without allowing truth to mar the effect. Thus an atmosphere of hopefulness pervaded the luggage van, and even retiring military menperched upon trunks became vivacious, talking of desperate deeds already accomplished in other places on toboggans, and speaking with relish of the appetite that came after these exercises. The two were soon again in conversation, and the girl mentioned that her sister’s maiden name was Rodgers, a fact which enabled him to perceive acutely that this must be also the girl’s name. Turning the label on his valise, he introduced himself.
“Masterson,” he said.
“I like names of three syllables,” she remarked.
The hour and a half occupied by the journey was lessened by all this, and by the increasingly snowy aspect of the mountains on either side of the track; the conductor derided this as trifling, and endeavoured to give some idea of the downfall that had taken place up near the summit. At Gryon the steep part finished, and the cars went on with the assistance of overhead wires.
“You play and sing, I suppose?”
“I perform no parlour tricks of any description,” said Miss Rodgers definitely. “I leave these accomplishments to others.”
“Really?” Rather taken back, and the movement of his forehead slightly lifting his cap. “I had an idea—I’d got the notion that every girl did. My sisters—”
“I am the exception,” with pride. “Outdoor sports constitute my strong point. I could live for ever in the open air.”
“What about the bad weather?” inquired Masterson.
“How can you talk of bad weather at a time like this? Look back and see that dear, white, delightful little village. Tell me, do you think there will be a carnival on the ice rink? I’ve brought the sweetest fancy dress you ever saw. You won’t find me staying indoors, excepting for meals.”
When the cars reached the destination, the two alone out of the whole party exhibited scarcely any signs of the twenty-five hours’ journey from Charing Cross and London; the married sister compensated by showing every symptom of collapse, and he very courteously assisted her up the wooden steps and over the bridge to the hotel. There the flurried manager checked names as they entered; assigned the double room on the first floor to Mr. Masterson, and the singleroom on the third floor to Miss Rodgers and her exhausted sister; they united forces in protesting against this, and became more friendly in the presence of a common grievance. Despite the warmth of arguments used by visitors, the thermometer near the pile of brushes and toboggans registered four degrees of frost.
Lunch was served at once, and immediately after the meal the married sister, discovering that she had eaten veal under the impression it was mutton, announced her intention of resting indoors during the afternoon. The other two came down in jerseys and white caps, and the married sister gave Masterson gracious permission to escort Miss Rodgers to the rink.
“Mind you bring her back safely,” she commanded.
“I’ll do my best,” he said.
“Quite capable of taking care of myself,” remarked the girl. “Just lace up my boots for me, please.” They left the lady in the vestibule perusing a Cardiff journal bearing date of a Tuesday in the previous month.
One could see on their return that the afternoon on the rink had reached highest expectations; their animation caused somecompression of the eyebrows on the part of sedater folk taking tea. Everything had happened as the flushed, excited girl wanted it to happen. Her ability had excited favourable comment from other skaters; one of the professionals gave a compliment; the band played delightfully, and she—not caring for indoor dancing—completely and thoroughly enjoyed a waltz. Sun shining all the time.
“After tea,” she explained, “we are going out to do some ski-ing.”
“Who is meant, pray,” asked her sister carefully, “by the word ‘we’?”
“Mr. Masterson and myself, of course!”
“Oh!” commented her sister, giving an inflection which the printed word cannot convey.
“What’s your objection, Ellen?”
“It would be useless for me to offer any. I shall stay in and write. Does he know that you neither play nor sing?”
“I’ve told him,” snapped the girl.
Folk at the hotel attended meals with regularity, but their impatience towards the finish was something not easily concealed. A tall woman seated opposite at dinner, and possessing a complexion which looked almostnatural, hinted that she was arranging some amateur theatricals, and Mr. Masterson gave to the announcement an interest which Miss Rodgers considered so excessive that she turned from him and listened with attention intended to be equally extravagant to her sister’s talk concerning Henry. The lady with the complexion had been searching the hotels for some one who could sing and act; up to the present, she had found three able to sing, but not greatly desirous of doing so; they were more definite in their replies to her invitation in regard to acting. Also, she required some one who could play the pianoforte readily.
“Please help me if you can,” she begged, passing the French mustard across to Mr. Masterson, and assuming an ingratiating smile. “I shall be so grateful.”
“There’s a good deal to do out-of-doors,” he mentioned.
“Then,” said the lady, with resolution, “I must pray for mild weather!”
The concierge announced in the vestibule, as folk returned who had been out for moonlight tobogganing after dinner, that the frost was hard, the thermometer promising well;bridge players ordered him to close the doors, and keep them closed, but Masterson and Miss Rodgers coming in, flushed with exercise on the snow run, congratulated each other on the good news, and in the corridor, before saying good-night, made full and complete plans for the following day.
Masterson slept the sleep of a well-tired man until six o’clock, when the bell rang to arouse servants. He heard a drip, drip, drip from the roofs, and turning over dreamt of an amazing leap on skis from the top of Mont Blanc to the Dent du Midi, an exploit that created in his mind, not surprise, but genuine satisfaction. When he awoke again, it was to find the hour late, and in dressing hastily, to avoid the fifty centimes fine inflicted on those who took breakfast after ten, he shared the blame between himself and the heating apparatus which kept the room at a too comfortable temperature.
“Really very sorry,” he cried, entering the dining-room. Severe faces looked up from the tables; young Miss Rodgers helped her sister to honey and sighed. “You can’t think how full of regret I am.”
“It is a pity,” she said.
“I was awake early, mind you,” he went on eagerly. “Wide awake as I am now. And then I dozed off, and when I—”
The waiting maid brought his coffee and he poured it into the cup with the air of a man not deserving refreshment.
“You have been out alone, I suppose?” he remarked.
“Apparently,” interposed the married sister, “you are not aware that there has been a most wonderful thaw during the night, and that there is now a thick mist.”
The weather was not the only thing affected by the change. After breakfast, folk stood about in the corridor examining the notices there with a doleful expression. “Rink Closed” stood out in definite capital letters, and eyes turned from the stern announcement to gain some comfort from the slips which recorded loss of decorative articles. A few proclaimed intention of devoting the morning to sending postcards, and to the clearing off of arrears in correspondence, and stalked resolutely up to the drawing-room; others went to see if they could induce the concierge to make a cheerful prophecy concerning the weather, returning with the news thatthe official, discouraged by failure, refused to hold out anything that looked like hope. One or two inspected time tables and talked of going back to Lausanne.
“Why don’t you suggest something, Mr. Masterson?”
“Wish I had the necessary intelligence, Miss Rodgers. Is there anything we can arrange indoors, I wonder, to make the time go quickly whilst the weather is sorting itself? Think of something that you’re good at!”
“If you possessed a memory,” retorted the girl warmly, “you would recollect that I distinctly told you—”
The lady with the very fresh complexion interposed, with an apology. Would Mr. Masterson give her three minutes of his time in a corner of the vestibule? Masterson looked at the girl for directions, but she turned away, and he followed the other obediently.
Great mystery surrounded the ball-room, and especially the stage of the ball-room, that day, with janitors at doors, asking those who arrived: “Excuse me, but are you taking part?” and when a negative answer was given, adding: “Then will you kindly stay outside, please?” The pianoforte could beheard being played with the soft pedal down, and a sound came of choruses; occasionally, the voice of the made-up lady crying: “Oh, that’s not a bit like it!” and “We must try the first act all over again!” and “Do take up your cues smartly, please!”
At lunch she escorted Masterson into the dining-room, conveying him past the chairs occupied by Miss Rodgers and the married sister, and induced him to sit beside her during the meal. The doyen of the guests rapped three times on the table between the veal and the chicken course, and made an announcement. Volunteers were required to sing in the church choir. A bracelet had been found on the billiard table. To-morrow evening there would be a theatrical entertainment in the ball-room under the joint superintendence of Miss Ellicott and Mr. Masterson. Ladies willing to sing in the chorus were requested to communicate immediately with Mr. Masterson. The doyen sat down; the buzz of conversation recommenced.
Masterson, note-book in hand, stood at the doorway when the meal was over, taking names. As Miss Rodgers and her sister came near, he looked up inquiringly, but the girlstared at him in a distant manner, and went past, ignoring the half-completed question which he put to her; Masterson gazed after them with the abashed look of one who has discovered that he does not fully understand women, and to the next offer replied, rather brusquely, that the list was now complete. He proceeded to the ball-room and gave up the afternoon to rehearsal, interspersed with gusty arguments with the leading lady. Outside, the rain came down in a quiet, orderly manner, as though it were doing exactly what was required, and the concierge went about assuring visitors that the fault was not his.
Young Miss Rodgers, wearing defiance as a cloak to nervousness, knocked at the door of the ball-room and asked to see Mr. Masterson. The amateur door-keeper replied that the gentleman was busy. Miss Rodgers, with a smile that would have persuaded even a professional, induced the door-keeper to go and make further inquiries, and immediately that he had started on this errand, not only slipped inside the room, but at once slipped up on the polished floor. Now, she was a sure-footed girl, not accustomed to tumble, and it was fortunate, in view of her record, that no onehappened to witness the incident. She had resumed an upright position when the doorkeeper returned.
“You go across to the drawing-room,” he whispered importantly, “and in about ten minutes he’ll see you! Quarter of an hour at the outside.”
The entire strength of the company was on the stage, and as she walked up and down the carpeted room, snatches of the dialogue came to her ears. The leading lady, and Masterson were about to go through once again the scene which had startled the girl on entering the ball-room; the lady suggested improvements. “When I rush into your arms,” she said, “how would it be for you to catch me like this—” here evidently followed an illustration—“and I’ll lean my hand on your shoulder like this”—another illustration—“and then we can start the duet.” Masterman’s voice said he was ready to try this plan. “That’s better,” remarked the lady presently, “but I think we may as well do it again. Give me the word, somebody.”
The girl peered through the cracks of the set scenery on the stage, and, her hand at her throat, watched and listened.
“That’s about right. Now for the duet. Play the symphony, please, Miss Jenner.” After this, “Thank you. Just once more.”
Masterson’s voice, a strong baritone, started:
“As I look into eyes that gaze up into mine,I know that your dear heart is beating for me.I know you’re as true as the stars that do shine,As the sun and the moon and the earth and the sea.Yet I ask for one word—”
“As I look into eyes that gaze up into mine,I know that your dear heart is beating for me.I know you’re as true as the stars that do shine,As the sun and the moon and the earth and the sea.Yet I ask for one word—”
Miss Rodgers, fearful of being discovered and unable to endure contemplation of the scene any longer, crept away to the other end of the drawing-room, where, regarding herself in the mirror, she found an extremely cross-looking face with a line or two on the forehead. As the lady’s reply rang out, the girl took up an illustrated journal from the table and endeavoured to divert her thoughts by concentrating on fashion, only to find that she could not be quite sure whether she was inspecting a page of drawings or a page of letterpress.
“For I love thee, I love thee, ’tis all I can say.”
“For I love thee, I love thee, ’tis all I can say.”
The chorus, standing around with a strange want of delicacy during this affectionate argument, now threw off all restraint, andacknowledged the interest they had taken in the proceedings by singing confidentially to each other:
“She loves him, she loves him, ’tis all he can say,He loves her, he loves for a year and a day.Pray see how affection has come their direction,Oh, thrice happy twain to be wedded in May.”
“She loves him, she loves him, ’tis all he can say,He loves her, he loves for a year and a day.Pray see how affection has come their direction,Oh, thrice happy twain to be wedded in May.”
“Hullo!” cried Masterson, astonished, coming off, “you here?”
The question seemed to be one of those not requiring a reply, and Miss Rodgers ignored it.
“I wanted to know whether there was a chance of being able to help,” she said.
“Rather!” he declared readily. “We’ll soon see about that. I’ll go and arrange.”
He went at a good rate; returned with leaden footsteps.
“I’m sorry!” she said, receiving his message.
“If you had only offered earlier,” he remarked apologetically. “You see, I’m not in charge of the affair, or else I’d manage it like a shot. And I thought you said—”
“It occurred to me,” explained Miss Rodgers, her voice faltering slightly, “that I’d like to try. But it doesn’t really matter in the least.”
* * * * *
Her sister was in a convalescent state, ready to talk of subjects other than Henry, and when the girl burst into the room which they jointly occupied, and throwing herself on the red couch, gave way to tears, comfort was close at hand. The sister wisely refrained at first from putting questions, allowed the girl to have her cry out, and only said soothingly, “It’s all right, dearie. Don’t worry more than you can help.” When composure returned, the solace of the confessional was utilised and the married sister listened, interjecting now and again, “Yes, I understand,” and “I quite see what you mean.”
“You don’t mind, I hope, if I point out,” she remarked, when the last word had been said, “that mother and I have always been persuading you to take up music or singing or some accomplishment of the kind.”
“I know,” admitted the girl penitently.
“And you have always said there were plenty of girls who could do these things, and that you were not going to bother about them. Now you see how important it is that you should keep them level with others. You must make hay whilst the sun shines,” quoted the married sister.
“I shall have to make a start.”
“And when we get back to London, you are going to set to work at once and learn some of these useful accomplishments?”
“I promise,” declared Miss Rodgers resolutely. “And I think, too, I should like to take up cooking. One never knows when it may come in handy.”
* * * * *
The performance went well, and nothing could have exceeded the graciousness of young Miss Rodgers towards the leading lady; few of the later compliments exceeded hers. Indeed, when, on the following day, the frost returned succeeded by a pleasant sprinkling of snow, she offered to take the leading lady out on the rink and charge herself with the responsibility of teaching the art of skating.
“No, dear,” replied the other. “Thank you very much, but no. As a matter of fact, although I try my best not to look it, I’m too old. Look after Mr. Masterson, instead. He admires you, and you mustn’t lose any chance of persuading him to continue to do so, indoors or out. I know what men are!”
Weparted from Mr. Peter A. Chasemore at Bologna owing to a slight difference of opinion. Carolyn Stokes and myself had the notion that we should find Venice damp and possibly cold; Mr. Chasemore declared that to go home without seeing a gondola would give him a pain compared with which rheumatism might be considered a sensation of acute delight. There is no use denying the fact that we two women missed Mr. Chasemore a good deal. Confusion took place on the journey, for which I blamed Carolyn Stokes, and she blamed me. When with the assistance of luck we did reach the Belvedere our tempers were not improved by the fact that a young man and an elderly lady occupied, for the moment, the attention of the hotel people.
“Norman,” she said to him, as theproprietor eventually came to us, “you can consider yourself free for the remainder of the day.” He bowed. “Give me that; I will take charge of it.” Both Carolyn Stokes and myself noticed the name on the label as the leather case was being transferred.
I suppose the fact that there are no such titles where we come from caused the encounter to make an impression upon us; we watched her as she went up in the elevator, and noticed the special consideration paid by attendants. At home we reckon everybody to be equal, with a few exceptions, but here it was evident that to be called Lady Mirrible counted for something, and we naturally fell in with the local view. When you are in Rome you should do as the Romans do; the remark applies equally well to Florence. The young man gave way to us at the desk of the concierge, and Carolyn Stokes offered him a large smile.
“Have you come far?” she asked.
“Fairly good distance.”
“Are you going soon?”
“That doesn’t quite depend upon me,” he replied.
I mentioned when we were in our room thata considerable amount of information had not been extracted, and Carolyn Stokes said no doubt I should prove more successful in the game. I replied that this seemed highly probable, and we did not speak to each other again until the gong sounded in the corridor announcing that the meal was almost ready. Downstairs in the reading-room we encountered a nasty jar in the discovery that none of the rest of the people had dressed specially for dinner. This was one of the small difficulties caused by the absence of a man capable of making inquiries beforehand.
“I beg your pardon,” he remarked. He had taken theHeraldfrom the table just as my hand went out; he replaced it and selected a London journal. I was determined to let Carolyn Stokes see that I could manage the situation better than she had done.
“You are not an American?” I asked.
“I am only English.”
“We have met several very pleasant folk from your country in the course of our travels.”
“How extremely fortunate.”
“What startles us amongst you is your class distinctions. You should, I think, make an endeavour to break down the barriers.”
“Something ought certainly to be done,” he agreed. And went off with his newspaper.
Carolyn Stokes mentioned—not for the first time—that she was old enough to be my mother, and went on to argue that whereas it was quite permissible for a woman of her age to speak at an hotel to a stranger, the case was entirely different where a girl of twenty was concerned. All the same when she found him seated at the next table in the dining-room she allowed me to take the chair which enabled me to speak across to him without twisting my neck. From what I heard him say to the waiter I gained that her ladyship was taking the meal in her own room.
Carolyn Stokes has many estimable qualities, but I have more than once had to point out to her that she does not exercise a sufficient amount of restraint over her conversational powers. Also she pitches her voice somewhat high, rather as though she, being at Liverpool, were addressing a public meeting in New York. I am myself a good and fluent talker, but my chances are small if I enter into competition with Carolyn. It was difficult, however, to overlook the fact that he preferred listening to me, and when we both spoke atonce it was I who secured his attention. I asked him what there was to be seen in Florence of an evening when the picture galleries were closed, and he said we could not do better than stroll down the Lung ’Arno, see the Vecchio bridge, returning by way of the Piazza Vittore Emmanuele.
“We should scarcely dare to go out alone,” I remarked.
He crumbled his bread for a moment.
“I think,” he said, “it will be possible for me to place myself at your disposal.”
“That is perfectly sweet of you,” cried Carolyn Stokes. We arranged to meet at nine o’clock in the entrance hall.
Taking our coffee in the drawing-room Carolyn and myself came to the conclusion that there was more in the wisdom of Providence than some people care to admit. If Mr. Chasemore had decided to come on with us to Florence the likelihood was that we should have had no opportunity of making this very fortunate and delightful acquaintance; there would have been less to record in our diaries under the heading of that day. Carolyn’s impression was that the son of a titled lady was a viscount, but she could not becertain; she had on some far-distant occasion studied the matter thoroughly, but most of the information then acquired seemed to have been erased from her mind. Anyway the chance was too good to lose, and Carolyn Stokes said the great thing was to exhibit not too much eagerness, but to allow friendship to ripen, so to speak, in the course of the next twenty-four hours. Carolyn has a distinct streak of sentimentality in her character, and she spoke of the influence of blue Italian skies and the moon shining on the water, and Dante and Beatrice, and the new hat I had purchased in the Via Condotti at Rome. We went upstairs to put on some wraps.
In the passage her ladyship’s head was out of her door, and she was calling in an imperative kind of way.
“Norman, Norman! Where on earth has he got to again? Never here somehow when he’s wanted.” One of the hotel maids came along and she gave her a message. “The lad really,” she said, taking her head in, “is perfectly useless.”
Carolyn Stokes was occupying a few minutes later a central position at the mirror in our room when she suddenly gave a shriek; Iassumed it was only the presence of a moth in the room. As she did not shriek again I considered the hideous danger was past and done with, and I requested her to permit me to share the mirror for a moment.
“Child,” she announced in a subdued sort of voice and still gazing into the glass, “I have seen it all in a flash. You are under the impression that he is some sort of a nobleman. He is nothing of the kind. He is merely a footman or a courier, paid a moderate amount per week to attend on this Lady Somebody. That’s what he is,” she said, striking the dressing table, “and I am more thankful than I can express that I have discovered it in time.”
“The question can be easily decided,” I mentioned. “We have only to glance in the book kept at the desk below.”
“I did that, but they have not yet registered.”
“Then a question must be put to the people of the hotel.”
“That I also did,” replied Carolyn Stokes, “and their acquaintance with the American language made them assume that I required a postcard with a view of the cathedral.They have no right,” she went on vehemently, “in these foreign hotels to allow a footman to dine with the other guests. I know it is done, but no one will persuade me that it is right or fair to respectable visitors. It ought to be stopped.”
I sat on the rocking chair and took some violent exercise for a few minutes in order to collect my thoughts. It seemed we were in a somewhat difficult corner. To stay in our room only meant that he would come and knock at the door; the wisest plan appeared to be to effect an escape. Carolyn Stokes, for once, agreed with me.
“I wish Mr. Chasemore were here,” she said.
We went along the corridor very quietly and crept down the staircase. From the last landing we could see him waiting near the desk of the concierge. There was no means of slipping past without being seen.
“I tell you what to do!” I whispered. “You must go and inform him that I have been taken suddenly ill.”
“A good idea,” she said, “but I would so much rather you went and told him that I was ill.”
He tapped with his walking-stickimpatiently on the floor, moved to examine letters in the rack. I pulled at Carolyn Stokes’s arm in order to persuade her to make a run for it; before I could arouse her dormant intelligence he had returned to his former position. He glanced at the clock and at his watch; Carolyn Stokes sat on the stairs.
“Meanwhile,” I grumbled, “we are missing valuable moments in a most interesting and historical city.”
“Think,” she said impressively, “think of the fate from which I have saved you.”
The call of “Norman!” came again, but apparently it did not reach his ears. I am a creature of impulse and, without thinking, I imitated the call. He whipped off his cap at once, laid down his walking-stick and started up, taking two steps at a time and coming near to us.
Carolyn Stokes and myself will never be able to decide which of us took the initiative, which gripped at the other and used some amount of force. We discovered ourselves in the nearest room, where an elderly gentleman was about to retire to rest; I had never thought the time would come when I should be thankful for not understanding a foreign language.The young man rushed by; we made our escape just as the aged person was about to throw a hair brush.
We tried to persuade ourselves, in walking along the side of the river, that all was well that ended well. Carolyn Stokes said the experience was one she wished never to undergo again, and for some reason reproached me. We walked as far as the Trinity Bridge, turned to the left, found ourselves in the Via del Moro, came later to the Piazza de St. Maria Novello, took what we thought would be a short cut for the hotel, and lost ourselves. Carolyn Stokes asked the way of two or three people in tones quite loud enough to enable them to understand, but success did not crown her efforts.
“Why, here you are!” cried an English voice. We turned, and for the moment we both forgot how anxious we had been not to meet him. “Now, how in the world did I manage to miss you? My fault, I’m sure.”
“It would be kind of you,” said Carolyn Stokes with reserve, “to put us in the right direction for our hotel.”
“But, of course, I’ll see you back there with the greatest pleasure. Unless you liketo allow me, even now, to show you round the town. As a matter of fact, the hotel is just round the corner. There’s the Garibaldi statue.”
“I am somewhat fatigued,” she said, “and I would prefer to return.”
“And you?” he said, turning to me.
“There has been a mistake made,” I answered resolutely. “We took you for somebody else. You must allow us to close the acquaintance here and now.”
“No idea I had a double,” he remarked. “This matter must be looked into or complications may ensue.”
“We jumped to the conclusion that you were the son of the lady you are travelling with.”
“I am,” he answered. Carolyn Stokes and I began to talk together; he appeared to do his best to understand us, but presently gave up the attempt and led the way to the hotel. There in the entrance hall he spoke again.
“So it was because I showed some attention to my dear mother that you thought I was a courier.”
We interrupted, and endeavoured once more to explain.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Had an idea this was going to be quite a pleasant friendship. Goodbye.”
I kept awake half that night making my plans. But in the morning fresh English visitors—more titles—had arrived, and some of them knew him, and they surrounded him, and the girls made a fuss of him, and there was no chance of my getting near. A letter came for me from Venice saying that the writer would be in Milan on Wednesday. “Yours with affectionate regards, P. A. C.”
I have now to rely upon my tact and my industry and my own bright, intelligent young mind to assist me in marrying Mr. Peter A. Chasemore.
Othertravellers were becoming jammed in the corridor of the train, their tempers taking the tone of acerbity easy to those about to start on a railway journey. A determined young woman came up the step, and supported the conductor in an appeal for order, addressing herself more particularly to the English passengers; quiet obtained, she took the first advantage of it by presenting her ticket. The conductor showed gratitude by escorting her at once to her place.
“You don’t mean to say—” stammered the occupant of seat Number Twenty. “It can’t be! I shall begin to think I’m losing my senses.”
“If you’re Mr. Chiswell,” she replied briskly, “there’s no reason to be afraid of that.”
“A remark,” protested Mr. Chiswell, “so unkind that I can tell it comes from nobody but Miss Everitt.” She lifted her bag to the rack, and when she had succeeded in placing it there, he made a gesture of assistance. Glancing at herself in the mirror below the rack, she remarked that she looked a perfect bird frightener.
“I don’t agree with you,” he said.
“So far as I remember,” she said, “you seldom did.”
“We won’t exaggerate,” urged Mr. Chiswell. “For my part, I’m very glad that we’re to be fellow travellers, and I trust we shall have a pleasant journey. It’s clear enough to me, Miss Everitt, that fate has brought us together again.”
“Then I wish to goodness fate would mind its own business.”
The last passenger came into the saloon; the conductor’s forehead cleared of wrinkles, and he hung up his brown peaked cap with a sigh of relief. The train moved out from the Gare de Lyon in a casual way, as though it were going for a short stroll, and giving no indication that it intended to occupy the day by racing down the map of France. Folkon the low platform of the station waved handkerchiefs, blew kisses, cried.
“Is Freddy with you?” asked Miss Everitt.
“Need you ask! Is Emily with you?”
“Course she is.”
“Neither of ’em married?”
“Neither of them married,” agreed Miss Everitt. “Just as well perhaps. There are people who, so long as they remain single, can keep up a certain style and position; once they get spliced, first thing they do is to cut down expenses.”
“Exactly the view I took of it,” he cried eagerly. He leaned forward, and gave a glance around the saloon to make certain that no one listened. “Just the way I looked at the matter. Between ourselves, it was because of that I acted as I did.”
The attendant from the dining-car came to inquire whether the passengers wished to lunch in the first series, or in the second series; the two, after consultation, settled to take the meal together at the later hour. They found new grounds for agreement in the view that coffee and rolls at half-past seven in the morning, at a Paris hotel, formed but a mere imitation of a breakfast.
“I know perfectly well that what I’m going to tell you,” said Chiswell confidentially, “won’t go any further. I recollect how in the old days when we were—well, friends—you always knew when to keep your mouth shut. A great quality, that, in a girl, and I don’t want to flatter you when I say that one very seldom comes across it. What I’m about to tell you refers to—”
He jerked his head, and she nodded.
“They might meet,” she said.
“It wouldn’t matter,” he replied confidently. “They’re not on speaking terms now.”
“Fire away with what you were going to tell me.”
“As a Member of Parliament,” began Mr. Chiswell, “Freddy was not what the world might call a roaring success. Used to take a lot of trouble, and the Duke, his old father, was always getting at him, and asking when he was going to be asked to join the Cabinet. As a matter of fact, his speeches sounded all right when he said ’em off to me in Curzon Street, but apparently when he tried ’em in the House they didn’t go for nuts. I never went down there to hear him—got too muchrespect for myself to go near the place—but I always read the Parliamentary reports, and there, when he did get the chance of speaking, the papers mentioned his name amongst the ‘Also spokes,’ and that was about all. Whatever faults he may have had as a Member of Parliament, he was, and he is, a first-class chap to valet, and I don’t care”—Mr. Chiswell gave a resolute gesture—“I don’t care where the next comes from. I’ve only to say one word against a suit of clothes, and that suit of clothes is virtually handed over to me on the spot. I know to a penny what his income is, and I know to a penny what his expenses amount to. A peculiar chap, mind you, in some ways; never able, for instance, to bear the idea of being in debt. Most extraordinary, with people of his class.”
Chiswell dismissed this problem.
“Now you must understand—you know me well enough to realise it—that I’m not one of those who want to be always chopping and changing. If I’m in a nice comfortable easy-chair like this, I’m not the kind of chap to give it up, and go and sit out there in the corridor on a tip-up wooden seat. I’m the sort that—”
“Leave off bragging as soon as you’re tired,” suggested Miss Everitt, “and get on with your story.”
The young man, an elbow resting on the ledge of the window, and giving no attention to the scenery which flew past, with a straight road curling up like a length of white ribbon, applied himself to the task of describing the course of procedure adopted. The girl gave now and again a cough of criticism, here and there a slightly astonished lift of the eyebrows. Occasionally she sniffed at a bottle of Eau de Cologne with the air—obviously copied from some superior model—the air of having temporarily lost interest in the subject. Stated with a brevity that Chiswell, the day before him and personal exultation behind, could not be induced to show, the particulars might be fairly stated thus. Chiswell—
“Mind you,” he said firmly, “no one can call me a Paul Pryer. I look after myself; I don’t profess to look after others.”
—Chiswell happened, by chance, to come across a note addressed to his master which, so far as he could judge, had no reference to his master’s Parliamentary duties, or to anyscheme for improvement of the masses; he founded his opinion on the fact that it commenced “My dearest.” Chiswell, a man of the world, would have been prepared to exercise tolerance and to pass it by with a wink, but for the fact that the communication was dated from an exclusive ladies’ club; the fact that the writer adopted a pen name baffled him and aroused his curiosity. He left the letter on the table, and concealed inquisitiveness until he should be entrusted with letters for the post. Looking through the bundle handed to him at four o’clock he felt pained and grieved to find that his master had not trusted him fully and entirely; the envelopes were addressed either to Esquires or to ladies known to the world as seriously interested in the work of the party. He particularly asked whether there were any other communications to be placed in the pillar box for despatch, and his master, on the point of running off to the House, distinctly and formally answered:
“No, Chiswell. That’s the lot. Don’t forget to post them.”
“Quite sure, sir?”
The reply to this polite and deferentialquestion came in the form of a request, first that Chiswell should not be a fool, second that if he could not help being a fool, he would at any rate take steps to hide and to mask the circumstance. Chiswell was affected by these remarks as a duck is concerned by water running over its back; what did perturb him was the want of confidence shown between master and man after an acquaintance that had lasted for years. Chiswell, pondering on this, was placing the letters singly in the pillar box and giving to each a final examination when he discovered that one, addressed to—
“I know!” said Miss Everitt, much interested.
—Bore a special sign on the flap of the envelope. Mr. Chiswell, scarce hoping that he had struck the trail, retained this and kept it back for further consideration.
The custom of placing scarlet wax on the flap of an envelope and impressing the wax with a seal is probably an old-fashioned tradition dating from the days when gum could not be trusted. In the case of an envelope fastened in the ordinary way, Chiswell would have had to take the trouble ofplacing a kettle on the gas stove; in the present instance his work was rendered easy by the help of a penknife and, later, the use of a stick of wax and the seal. The matter appeared to be serious. A passing flirtation Chiswell might have permitted, although that he would have held undignified in a Member of the House of Commons, but within the few lines of the letter before him there seemed a plain hint of marriage. He was about to tear up the letter in the hope of thus giving a start to a misunderstanding when it suddenly occurred to him—
“An inspiration,” said Chiswell contentedly. “That’s what you may call it.”
—It suddenly occurred to him that the insertion of two words in the brief note, just two words in a space that seemed to have been left temptingly for them, would entirely alter the meaning: changing it from a hurried message of affection into a hasty intimation of dislike. “Do not” were the two words, and Chiswell took the pen and wrote them as quickly as he now, in the Cote d’Azur express, spoke them.
“You’re not blaming me,” urged Mr. Chiswell apprehensively.
“Go on,” she ordered.
Little else to go on about. The letter, resealed, went to its destination; the General Election came, and that meant a quick departure for the country. Freddy, greatly worried with one matter and another, seemed, so far as his valet could judge, to enter upon the contest in anything but a whole-hearted fashion; Chiswell managed to intercept and cancel a telegram sent to the same young party, urgently begging her to come and help. The meetings were noisy, and the candidate, who but a few years before made retorts which became classical, and delivered speeches the reports of which had to be decorated by reporters with “Loud laughter” and “Long and continued cheering,” gave no signs of alertness, falling back on dreary statistics which he himself could not understand, and his audiences declined to accept. Now that it was all over, they were on their way to Nice, where Chiswell hoped to meet no one but other defeated candidates and attendants who, it might be hoped, would, in their own interests, abstain from the vulgar chaff to which he and his master had been subjected in town.
“But what I want to point out to you, my dear—beg pardon—what I want to say is that I managed to stop him from entering upon marriage, and in doing so, I reckon I did a good turn for myself, and that I did a good turn for you.”
“She was very much worried and upset.”