"Oh ... about nine o'clock ... thank you ... good night."
"Good night, monsieur," said the maid demurely as she tripped to the door, and then a lamentable accident occurred. It was due to the eccentricities of modern fashion. For several years Lionel had carried his handkerchief secreted in his cuff. As Mizzi stepped daintily past, the handkerchief, which had been working loose, fell to the ground. He and she stooped together for its recovery, and their heads approached nearer than was discreet. Her fingers reached the handkerchief first, and she restored it as they were rising. This was pardonable, but she ought not to have looked him in the face. Her eyes telegraphed "I like you," and his, something more. Without judicious reflection Lionel clasped her. "You are a perfect darling!" he whispered, "and I simply must kiss you—it is what you were made for."
"Oh, monsieur!" gasped Mizzi, "it is a scandal!"
"Yes," agreed Lionel, "I suppose it is. But it would be a graver scandal not to kiss such a bouquet of charms. There, my attractive morsel—another ... a butterfly salutation on your charming eyes, and ... good night."
Mizzi, with a stifled laugh, kissed him lightly in return, freed herself and escaped. Lionel, his sleepiness a thing of the past, sat down on the bed.
"Dash it!" he thought, wagging his head, "I oughtn't to have done that ... but it was exceedingly pleasant ... exceedingly pleasant ... yet I ought not to have yielded to temptation, for I was under the vague impression that I was in love with the maid's mistress. If so, I was disloyal, a creature of no account. Let us see whether there is not something to be said for the defense....
"Suppose I do love her—the mistress, I mean—I must not kiss her, because she is married. Doubtless it would be a fine thing to be loyal to the husband, the lady and the ideal—in short, neither kiss her nor any one else. In a word, become a sort of grass-bachelor.... A hard matter, for I am not cast in the ascetic mold, and Mizzi's lips are devilish tempting.... Suppose, now, the husband died (and I regret that I can not regard this contingency with disgust) and there were at least a sporting chance of my stepping into his shoes—oh! of course not at once, but later—later—why, then I could face permanent loyalty and temporary asceticism with a light heart.... But to go through the world refusing all sweets because my favorite sweet has been appropriated, surely that were foolish.
"Again, am I in love with her? Can one fall in love so suddenly, outside the realm of fiction? Is there not a great truth in the popular ballad that treats of 'a tiny seed of love'? Surely love is a seed, planted by chance or design—for example, by a match-making mama? The seed needs opportunity for gradual growth—the sun of frequent intercourse—the rain of timely separation—the fertilizer of presents of flowers and bonbons—before it can grow to a splendid harvest.... This harvest of mine can not be love; it must be passion. If so, it must be crushed.... She is too perfect to sully even in thought."
His brow grew gloomy, and he paced the room with feverish steps.
"No!" he said presently, "I feel pretty sure it is not passion pure and simple—or impure and complex if you like. Critics may sneer, but I can not help thinking it may soon be love, if it is not that already. Wherefore, I had better fly to do her errands as soon as possible.... But I can not accept the ascetic ideal ... yet. Hypothetical Mizzis may cross my path, and if they do I feel sure I shall kiss them, but the moment I see a possible chance of winningher, why, then I shall be very good.
"... 'Myes ... not very lofty ... but I want to be honest, and feel pretty sure that is what I shall do.... No doubt I shall not be happy, but...?"
With a dissatisfied growl he began to undress, and soon he was in bed. To quiet his uneasy conscience before he fell asleep he muttered, "And of course I shall do anything she tells me."
The unheroic but truthful pleasure-seeker then gave an unromantic snore.
A knock on his door roused Lionel at half past eight, and he sprang up clear-eyed and joyous to meet the sun. The events of the previous day sped pleasantly through his brain; and now that the morning was upon him and the London sparrows twittering optimism, he could not dwell seriously on the indignation of his hostess. "Oh, it is bound to be all right!" he said to himself, stropping a razor that he found on the dressing-table and whistling a merry tune. The cold tub strung him to a higher mood, and as he plied the towel he broke into song. "Horchen Sie doch!" said Mizzi approvingly to the cat, as she prepared breakfast and heard the melodious strain: "Er ist ein braver Kerl, der sich nicht erzürnt. Er ist ein lustiger Geist, wirklich. Die anderen habe ich zum Besten." No doubt she was right.
Lionel breakfasted alone. Mizzi said that her mistress begged to be excused for an hour; after that she would be ready. The maid lingered a moment more than was necessary after bringing in the coffee, and seemed markedly assiduous for his comfort. But Lionel did not detain her in conversation; he had no intention of elaborating theaffaireof the previous night. What amusement fell to his share he was ready to accept with a youthful zest, but he was old enough not to pursue happiness too zealously nor to magnify trifles. A kiss was well enough, provided it embarrassed neither the recipient nor himself. He was never a man to raise false hopes or win success by lies or a pretended love. His philosophy embraced the theory that girls, or some of them at least, liked being petted, and he was not averse from the kindly office. Only, there must be a clear, if unspoken, understanding that he was not to be takenau sérieux. This philosophy, of course, did not apply to Beatrice Blair: she was altogether outside routine. He was a butterfly, if you like, but at any rate honest.
So when Mizzi hoped that monsieur had slept well, he said gravely, "Perfectly,ma p'tite," and asked for the morning's newspaper. She brought it, with a pout of resentment, and as she handed it to him discovered a fly on his collar. This she was allowed to remove with the most absolute decorum; but when the operation was finished and she smiled persuasively, he stroked her hair paternally and said, "You must not be foolish, my child." Mizzi retired with a heightened color, and he sat down with satisfaction to the cricket reports and deviled kidneys. To tell the truth, in spite of his arguments he felt slightly ashamed of the momentary swerve from loyalty.
His hostess appeared in due course, looking exceedingly pretty and self-possessed. She was dressed smartly in blue, a color that contrasted favorably with her hair and eyes. Lionel thrilled with gladness at the sight of her, for in brief moments of doubt he had thought that perhaps his imagination had played tricks: the night and artificial lights might possibly have lent her a fascination that would pass with the dawn. Could there indeed be so delightful a creature in London? These doubts, it must be insisted, had been exceedingly brief; still, they had had existence, and the joy of seeing them dissolve like frost in sunlight made life more desirable than ever.
There was no embarrassment at the meeting. Both were highly civilized, educated, up-to-date; with a kindred instinct of what to admit or ignore, a knowledge of the times when silence or speech was best. The lady made no reference to theimpasseof the night before, and Lionel was too full of the present to dwell churlishly on the past. Instead, they talked cheerfully of trivialities for a time, and then Miss Blair announced her intention of going out to do some shopping. "I will not ask you to come with me," she observed smiling, "for I can guess how bored you would be. But I shall be with you again for lunch. For the present, au revoir."
Lionel, who would cheerfully have carried a score of parcels or hat-boxes for the pleasure of her company, had no choice but to acquiesce. There was no pressing reason for returning to his lodgings—indeed, there was every reason for staying away until he could earn some money. True, there was no immediate prospect of acquiring any; but at least he was in the middle of an interesting experience, and he had promised to help in a burglary. So with a fine disregard of circumstances he chose the most comfortable armchair and the lightest novel he could find, and put the cigarette-box within easy reach. Thus he passed an unprofitable but pleasant morning.
Miss Blair returned soon after one o'clock, and they had lunch together. In the afternoon they went for a drive in a hired motor to Thames Ditton. They stopped there for tea and got back to Bloomsbury about seven. Lionel was put down at the flat and Miss Blair went on to the theater, from which she returned late at night. Supper followed, and then they smoked and chatted for half an hour before going to bed. Lionel had expected to hear more of the conspiracy and projected felony, but nothing was said. Wherefore he kept silence, awaited events, and went to sleep, wondering whether a farce or tragedy was being played.
This uneventful life went on for several days, during which he had plenty of time to study his hostess. He learned nothing more than he knew already. A brilliant and charming personality, grave or humorous as occasion demanded, apparently sincere in her conviction of a great conspiracy, devoted to her absent husband, resolute to strike when opportunity offered—such was Beatrice Blair. When he was in her company he could not doubt her; alone, he could not help wondering what this Arabian Night might mean. The utter fantasy of it all bewildered him, but even if false he could not conceive her motive. In the end he usually came back to the conclusion that the apparently absurd was true, and always that at all costs he would see it through to the end.
Her attitude to him was that of a gay comrade. There were no more "gratitude" kisses—no hint of danger. She had referred only once again to his act of stopping the runaway horse and her wish to do something to show her thankfulness. This he had laughed at; now that the opportunity had come he was loath to use it; but in a subsequent conversation she had learned that he had written several plays, all unacted, perhaps even unread. One lay at that moment in the office of Ashford Billing, a prominent manager; she knew him, and promised to spur him to read Lionel's play himself. Lionel thanked her, but did not build any castles on so flimsy a foundation. He had been knocking at managers' doors too many years to have any illusions.
So day followed day without anything to break the pleasant monotony. Lionel and Beatrice were rapidly cementing a friendship that was more than a friendship to him. Only the remembrance of Lukos kept him from showing something more of his real feelings—the remembrance of Lukos and the aloof friendliness of Beatrice herself. There was but one fly in the amber of that perfect week, and that was the attitude of Mizzi.
Since the morning after his arrival Mizzi had waited on him with an air of courteous disapproval. She had been as polite as ever, as demure and piquant as could be wished, but she had been less communicative, lesssympathiquewith the stranger. Even in the presence of her mistress there was a suggestion of frigidity that was galling to a sensitive man. Lionel grudgingly admitted that perhaps he had been a little to blame, but, illogically enough, he resented the atmosphere of respectful condemnation. More than once he had tried to dissipate the unhappy misunderstanding, to restore things to a more friendly—but not too friendly—footing. In this he had not been successful. To his cheerful and carefully composed commonplaces Mizzi made the briefest of answers, and on one occasion there had been a distinct toss of the head and an unmistakable sniff. "Women are so unreasonable," he said to himself complainingly, after a sustained effort that fell flat; then with a pang of compunction, "Some women, I mean. I do wish Mizzi would be sensible.... It is very trying."
Matters came to a head after he had been Miss Blair's guest for nearly a week. It was a Saturday, and his hostess went to the theater directly after lunch to get ready for the matinée. Lionel, provided with one of her cards, was to follow her and see the play, for as yet he had not watched her on the stage. The experience proved delightful, for the play was good and her acting excellent. After it was over he went back to the flat alone, for she meant to rest in her dressing-room until the evening performance.
Mizzi opened the door to Lionel, and when he asked her to bring tea she said, "Immediately, m'sieur," in the most correct of tones. Disapproval still hung heavily about her, mixed, as it seemed, with something of compassion. Her attitude was almost that of a perfect mother to a well-meaning but erring child. "Hang it!" thought Lionel, as he waited in the sitting-room, "she has no business to behave like this. I have a good mind ... a jolly good mind to..." He fell into a reverie and gloomily whistled the opening bars of Chopin'sMarche Funèbre.
Presently the maid brought in tea. She set the tray on a little table, placed a cake-stand within easy reach, paused to make sure she had forgotten nothing, and then asked, "Is there anything more, m'sieur?"
Lionel, who had come to a resolution while waiting, roused himself.
"Yes," he said decisively, "there is. Will you be kind enough Mizzi, to tell me why you surround me with the wet-blanket of your wrath? It is very depressing to a sunny nature."
Mizzi looked at him with a frank pity in her eyes. "It is because I am sorry," she replied.
"That is no explanation," said Lionel briskly, glad to perceive a thaw, however slight. "Why are you sorry?"
"Because you are a fool," observed Mizzi with a gentle pensiveness.
Lionel started; he had not expected this. To be called a fool by a friend of one's own age and sex is an every-day matter that causes no uneasiness. To be called a fool by a withered graybeard need not leave a sting, for there is the comfortable reflection that the graybeard may be repeating a mere formula, and that he, too, enjoyed being a fool in his day. To be called a fool by a youthful enemy is only to be expected, and the epithet betrays a palpable lack of judgment in the user, an epithet that returns like a boomerang upon himself. But to be called a fool by a pretty woman is a distinct ordeal. Lionel was shaken.
He contrived to compass a laugh. It was not an infectious cachinnation, but still it was a laugh. "Will you tell me why I am a fool?" he asked in a moment.
"Certainly," said Mizzi, still in the same gentle tone. "It is because you are the slave of my mistress."
"Excuse me," said Lionel politely, "but I have no wish to discuss her. You may go."
At this the maid lost some of her admirable self-control. "Bah!" she cried, "you are the same as the rest! Show a man a pretty face and a pair of dazzling eyes, and he is blinded! You think her perfect——"
"I know she is," he interrupted, "though why I should trouble to say so to a servant——"
The thrust was cruel, but he felt she had deserved it.
"A servant!" she repeated, sparkling with anger. "A servant! Yes, it is true—but an honest true woman that knows not how to tell lies like her mistress——"
"That is enough," said Lionel, taking her with a gentle firmness by the arm. "My tea, I fear, must be getting cold."
As soon as he touched her the virago subsided. She made not the least resistance as he led her to the door. But as he was opening it she looked up with appealing eyes. "Ah, monsieur!" she whispered piteously; but he was in no mood to be melted. He shut the door upon her, and did not see the rainbow of smiles that played over her face the moment she was in safety.
"She is jealous," mused Lionel, pouring out a cup of tea; "I did not think she would have been so silly."
He wagged his head sadly over the frailty of human nature, and then an unpleasant thought struck him—the accusation of her mistress. "Lies" had been the charge—an ugly word—and on the face of things somewhat plausible. Again he reviewed the arguments for the defense—the lack of all apparent motive for deceit, his uselessness from a blackmailer's standpoint, and the rest,—and the strength of them gave him fresh courage. The strongest argument of all, the remembrance of Beatrice herself, almost clenched the matter.Almost, for he was cautious, and had some knowledge of the world. Still, he was young and hopeful, and the obvious jealousy of Mizzi was an additional reason for discounting her assertions. "Lies or not," he concluded, "it is too amusing to let slip. Besides, she is such a dear...."
The object of his devoted suspicion returned soon after eleven that night, a little tired, but full of kindliness and mirth. "Oh!" she cried, as she entered the room, "I hope you haven't waited supper for me. If so, you must be ravenous——"
"Of course I waited," said Lionel. "Shall I ring?"
"But why hasn't Mizzi set supper?" asked Beatrice, pausing in the act of taking off her hat.
"I don't know," said Lionel carelessly. "It is true we had a slight difference, but surely——"
She caught up his words. "A difference! with my maid!"
Lionel cursed his stupidity in silence. The unlucky words had slipped from his mouth unheeding. He stood dumb.
"What was the difference about?" asked Beatrice frigidly. "Did you try to kiss her?"
At this stroke of feminine intuition Lionel felt himself to be in deep waters. He was no lover of lies, and to this peerless creature a lie would be doubly treacherous. On the other hand, something was due to Mizzi: not only had he tried to kiss her—the feat had been successfully accomplished.
"Do you think," he asked reproachfully, "that the moment your back was turned I could transfer my worship to another?"
"I think it quite possible," said the lady with a twinkle he did not see.
"Then, madam," returned Lionel in his best wounded manner, "let me tell you what happened. I rang for tea. Your maid served it with a certain coldness of manner. I asked the reason, and she accused me of folly in being devoted to you. She even hinted that your words were not wholly to be relied on. I at once led her from the room."
"Without a kiss?"
"I held her at arm's length," said Lionel proudly.
Beatrice said "H'm" in a meditative manner, and then, more briskly, "Please ring the bell."
Lionel obeyed, and waited in some distress. Suppose Mizzi were to excuse herself by relating the incident in which he had been a partner! Would he be cast into darkness on the instant? What a Nemesis for how trivial a misdemeanor! He heard the bell ring again, as the impatient Beatrice pressed the electric button, and sweat broke out upon his forehead. A crisis was imminent. Still a third time the relentless tinkle sounded, and he was without plan, excuse, or counterplot. He woke from his anguish to hear the lady speak.
"She must have gone out, I suppose ... but we must make sure ... perhaps ... will you come?"
He followed her, grateful for the respite, and at a loss for the meaning. They went into the hall, and thence to the kitchen. No one was there. In silence they knocked on the bedroom door, but received no answer. Beatrice opened the door and peered within. She switched on the electric light and they advanced. In the center of the floor stood a portmanteau, strapped and labeled. Lionel lifted the label and read the inscription aloud. It was to a warehouse in Camden Town.
"She has gone!" said the lady in a whisper of tragedy. "She has gone!"
"And a good riddance, too!" returned Lionel with a vast cheerfulness. "But she might at least have laid supper first."
"You do not understand," said Beatrice tensely. "This is no ordinary desertion. It means, I fear, that she has joined my enemies."
Lionel's good breeding was not proof against the suddenness of this. He sat down abruptly on a convenient chair and laughed.
"No, no!" he cried. "That will not do, madam. That is—forgive me—too crude, unworthy of your talents. Reflect! Your servant runs off in a petulant fit, and lo! you exclaim that she has been suborned by the Ottoman Empire! That is sheer melodrama."
Beatrice gave a smile that was grave and reproachful.
"You forget," she said gently, "that I am an actress."
The sweetness of the reproof, the ironical self-criticism, convinced him of her sincerity more than any rhetoric could have done. "I beg your pardon," he said humbly, taking her hand; "tell me more."
"She has deserted me," said Beatrice quietly. "With her I made my one great mistake—natural, but irreparable. I thought her true, and one day, when I was in need of a woman's sympathy and help, I told her all ... all, even to the hiding-place of the treaty. It is too late for regrets or fears. Now we must act."
Mr. Henry Brown was a man of forty, an age that is supposed to be the prime of life, though most of us would prefer to be ten years younger. At forty one has shed most illusions, but at least there is the consolation of having arrived at a workable philosophy. For some of us this philosophy may mean simple acquiescence; for others an attitude of pleased contemplation, like a yokel smoking his pipe, leaning on the gate of a summer evening. Those of us who are married and without the philosophy of our own are fortunate in having one—if not several—provided by a wife. And her philosophy, grounded on practical common sense rather than a study of the metaphysicians, is of much more value to the world than abstract thought. She is, in short, better adapted for keeping us up to the mark.
Henry Brown was unlucky enough to be a bachelor. This was through no fault of his own, for as a young man he had dreamed his dreams of a snug little home, a cheerful wife, and chubby children, who were always to remain at an age not exceeding nine. His dreams, with their usual perversity, had not been realized, though on more than one occasion he had made efforts to find his ideal. There had been, for instance, the daughter of a chimney-sweep, a virtuous and charming creature. There had been a policeman's niece, whose boast it was that she could "slip the bracelets"—her own expression—on a refractory subject as quickly as a professional thief-taker. There had been the relict of a fish-and-chips salesman, and quite a number of others, equally alluring and disappointing. In his early youth he had dallied with them all, but he had never got beyond the dallying stage.
The reason had been always the same. It was not that he had failed to find the ideal: not at all! The quarry of the moment had always seemed the most peerless of her sex—with a mental reservation giving the policeman's niece the pride of place. It was simply because he could not afford to marry. Girls would "walk out" with him with pleasure. They would give him every encouragement until ... until the fatal truth became known. It was not that his immediate supply of cash was pitiable: it was because he had no "prospects." He had no trade, being merely the driver of a cab. Now it is possible for a cab-driver to marry and bring up a family, but it was a perverse fate that all the girls to whom he paid attention looked somewhat higher in life. And Henry Brown was unable to satisfy their aspirations. He was deep in the groove of cab-driving by the time he was twenty-three, and could conceive no other calling at which he might succeed.
Of course he might have tried to win a wife with less social ambition, but he made only one effort in this direction. At twenty-five he fluttered after a lady who seemed a promising helpmeet. She was a milliner's assistant, and swore to wait till Henry Brown had saved enough to start a home. She waited six weeks, and then, in a fit of romance or madness, married a scavenger.
This, in a commercial sense, had been the making of Henry Brown. Soured by his experiences, he had resolved to hold aloof from Woman and devote himself to Thrift. Some men might have taken to drink; but a strain of Scottish or Jewish blood, coupled with a human desire to show the world he could do something, compelled Mr. Brown to save. For something like thirteen years he lived carefully and put money by. Then came a chance legacy of five hundred pounds. With this and his savings he determined to hazard all, cease to be a wage-slave, and start in business as a cab-proprietor on his own account.
He had the luck to start just as taxicabs came in, so he had no old stock left on his hands. He bought two taxis at first and learned the business thoroughly, driving one himself for three months to save money and get experience. Gradually he extended his operations, and by the end of four years he had twenty taxicabs under his command. He still lived carefully, though in comfort, and when he arrived at his fortieth year he rubbed his hands. "Well," he said to himself one day, "I've done it. I might begin to think about choosing a wife now." It was significant that he said "choose": in his youth he would have said "seek" or possibly "sue for."
Mr. Brown went about the business with a methodical earnestness, buying in the first instance a new lounge suit and an appropriate tie. He also discarded pipes as being vulgar, and took to threepenny cigars instead. Thus habited, if the expression may be allowed, he would take his walks abroad after office hours or on a Sunday afternoon, wondering where and how he should meet his future wife.
Business, which naturally had tended to harden him, had left, nevertheless, a good deal of shyness untouched. His uneventful bachelor life, too, had done nothing to eradicate this; and it is a painful fact that he had spoken almost to no woman, save his housekeeper or customers, for a dozen years. This may read oddly, but it is not so odd as it looks. A man with little money, his way to make, and a sense of disappointment, is not anxious at first to extend his circle of friends. When he has made some progress, then it will be time enough, or so he thinks. But it is not always time enough, as Henry Brown found to his cost. His few friends were bachelors like himself, and when he began seriously to think of marrying he was puzzled how to set about it. He despised the idea of using a matrimonial agency, and he felt himself too old and respectable to pick up chance acquaintances in the street. But Cupid, who disdains no servitor, however aged, gave him his chance at last, and a better chance than he had any right to expect.
An attractive young woman, apparently foreign but speaking good English, called one day to order a taxi. Mr. Brown, who booked the order himself, was distinctly struck by her appearance. He was not so absurd as to fall in love at first sight—an unusual proceeding,pacethe penny-a-liners,—for the cautious routine of years is a fetter not lightly to be broken. But being, so to speak, on the alert for a possible mate, he now took more than a business interest in his customers. He noticed, therefore, that this young woman was certainly pretty, neat and decided, and he put her down as a lady's maid in a "superior" house. He made no advances on this, their first meeting, but he could not help wishing that she would come again soon. "She has a Way with her," mused the cab-proprietor after she had gone, "and I must say I like her; and her dress was nice, though plain. Well, a plain dress doesn't run a husband into debt." He was painfully ignorant.
She came again a fortnight later on a similar errand, and this time Mr. Brown dared to unbend from his official attitude and remark that it was fine weather. The young woman agreed with a charming smile, and Mr. Brown caught himself thinking quite seriously about her more than once during the day. He wondered if he might ask her the next time she came to go for a walk one day. Would it be proper—the Thing? Would she be pleased to look on him as a mature Don Juan, laying snares for her pretty feet? Would it be "rushing it" too much, and would she build extravagant hopes thereon? For Henry Brown was careful and, remembering his early love, did not intend to commit himself until he knew a little more about her. He was most certainly not in love, but he was thinking about it. And when a man of his age and in his position thinks about it, any nice presentable girl who comes his way may safely speculate on a formal proposal, provided sufficient opportunities offer themselves or ... are offered. This may not be romance according to the rules of fiction, but it is life.
However, for three weeks there were no opportunities, and the pretty damsel did not bring her sunshine into the cab-office. This did not plunge Mr. Brown into the depths of despair or anything so foolish. He went about his business as usual, a little distrait it may be, hoping occasionally that he would meet her again, and in idle moments revolving schemes to achieve this end. The difficulty was that he did not know where she lived, for on both occasions the taxi had been ordered to be at a hotel, and had driven once to another hotel and once to a theater. (He had casually questioned his drivers on the subject.) Hence he had nothing to go on, and had to wait on the chances of fortune.
But a third meeting came at last, for he had the luck to meet her in a tea-shop. She happened to sit down at the same table, and with a desperate diffidence Mr. Brown recalled himself to her. The young woman was very obliging and perfectly at her ease. Oh, but yes! She remembered him perfectly—his cabs were so much nicer than other people's—and after a becoming hesitation she allowed him to pay for an ice.
From that time he was in the toils. In the course of their conversation he ventured to ask where she lived. She did not take any notice of the question, and he was too shy to press her. But on parting, a casual whisper thrilled his receptive ear: "I always promenade on a Sunday. If you really wish, I shall meet you at the steps of the National Gallery at half past two. You are discreet,nicht wahr?" Mr. Brown, who translated the concluding phrase as a term of endearment or at least friendliness, began to feel that life was well worth living. He met her on Sunday, and they had a decorous but wholly satisfying promenade in the park. Tea followed, and he escorted her part of the way home. From that date the Sunday walk became an institution, and even an occasional visit to the theater of an evening was allowed.
It would be tedious to follow the affair in detail. Suffice it to say that at the end of three months Henry Brown found himself sincerely in love. He had not made a formal offer as yet, fearing that the lady's heart was not sufficientlyintrigué. He was immensely satisfied with the change in his life and new comradeship, which he hoped would develop into something warmer. But, afraid of being too precipitate, he contented himself with making her presents of flowers, chocolates, or an occasional piece of jewelry of the Mizpah type. He trusted that his personality, generous handling of the case, and time ("Giving her rope enough to hang herself" was his well-meant but unfortunate metaphor) would dispose her to favor his suit. The lady appeared perfectly content with the situation; she accepted his gifts with careless thanks and a charming smile, enjoyed the promenades, but was sedulous to keep him away from a definite statement or even a plain-spoken hint of his feelings. Was she a designing creature who wished to get as much as she could from him before saying "No"? Or did a nobler emotion possess her? Was she judiciously probing his character and sounding the depths of her own feelings?
However this may have been, there is no doubt that both were content with the present. And on a night in June, some three weeks before the events of the last chapter, Henry Brown might have been seen seated opposite his friend in a cheap Soho restaurant. They had just finished supper, and both were smoking. To be honest, Mr. Brown did not altogether approve of the cigarette, but he had never dared to object. "Besides," he thought tolerantly, "these foreigners.... But what I wonder is, when they marry do they take to a pipe? If so, good lord!..." His distress vanished as he looked again upon her: she was too pretty to disapprove of. "A bit of Orl right," he reflected; "if only I dared ask her and she said 'Yes.'"
The time for separation came at last, and Mr. Brown sighed as he helped her put on her coat. On the steps of the restaurant they paused, for it was raining. "You must have a cab," he said decisively; and then, hesitating, "I wish you would let me see you home for once."
She glanced up.
"For this once, just a little way."
Her partial acquiescence surprised him, for hitherto he had never been permitted to escort her home in a cab. As a hansom drove up in answer to the whistle, he wondered if it might be taken as a sign. With bounding pulses he thought, "Shall I risk it and ask her?" And then, with a return of sanity, "No; better wait and not spoil it." He handed her in carefully, stepped in beside her, and asked what address he should give. "Oh, Trafalgar Square," she replied carelessly, "and then St. Paul's if necessary."
He obeyed, wondering what she could mean.
The cab had scarcely started before she turned to him and said demurely, "You must think this strange—immodest, almost. But I have a reason. First of all, I wish to thank you for your many kindnesses."
She paused, and he was understood to murmur, "Not at all. An honor." She continued:
"But there is a question I must ask, and I beg a truthful answer. Why have you so befriended a poor and humble girl like myself?"
At this question Henry Brown performed avolte-face. A moment before he had resolved to wait. But being in love, encouraged by an excellent supper and some Chianti, and fired by the graciousness of his divinity, he threw caution to the winds. Though in the privacy of his office he had more than once rehearsed the scene and prepared effective orations, beginning "Miss," "Honored Ma'amselle," and "My dear Miss," he merely said, "Well, it's this way, you see: I love you."
The age of "This is so sudden" has passed away; hence it was not unconventional for the girl to affect no surprise at the announcement. She was conventional enough to turn her head for a moment and appear to be thinking deeply. She also obeyed the rules by observing presently, "But that is foolish." Mr. Brown, his devotion crystallizing into a sensible effort to win her, forgot his shyness and enlarged on the pleasing theme.
"I beg to differ," he said steadily, though his heart was beating fast and the roof of his mouth was curiously parched. "I don't consider it foolish at all. I have loved you for a goodish time, and I want you to be my wife. I am not a boy, miss, as you know. I'm a serious man of forty, for it's no use trying to hide my age or my seriousness. I have enough to keep us both in comfort, and—and I really love you very much."
She was looking at him with an expression that was kind and not at all embarrassed.
"Listen!" she said, more steadily than he. "I thank you very much. I guessed that you liked me, but—but I am not quite sure of you."
"Of me!" he repeated in amazement. "Why, I—I swear that I love you. What are you not sure of? My income? (Excuse me for mentioning it, miss.) You can look at my books if you like. My character? Any of the neighbors would speak for me——"
She waved her hand impatiently.
"It is not that. Only I am not sure that you love Romance."
He started.
"Romance! I dunno ..." he said blankly. "What are the symptoms? I know I love you right enough, but Romance...."
"Exactly. I do not know. I like you—oh! very much indeed. Sometimes I think I love you, but then a doubt creeps in. Suppose, I say, he has not a soul!"
"Oh, come!" remonstrated the other. "You ought to know better than that. Why, that's pretty near atheism! I go to church——"
"It is not that kind of soul," she explained. "I mean, a sense of adventure—of excitement—in a word, romance! To marry a man without romance would be insupportable; life would be too dull. If only I could be sure that you had romance, I might...."
"Try me," said the practical Henry. "I must say, miss, I don't exactly see what you mean. But I'd do anything to please you. Tell me how to set about this romance idea and I'll do my best."
"You mean that?" she asked, her eyes sparkling.
"Yes," he replied stoutly. "Anything in reason."
"Or unreason? The true romance knows no reason."
Mr. Brown, against his better judgment, but compelled by her attractions, said, "It's a bet!"
After this momentous decision there was a silence. The lady sank back in her seat and began to meditate with a pleased smile. Henry Brown, a whirl of conflicting emotions, looked gaily out into the street. It was depressing to the view, wet, dirty and forbidding; but to him it was the antechamber of Paradise. At last he was by way of realizing his ideal: his frequent failures and persistent struggles were presently to be crowned with fulfilment. In a burst of noble emotion he resolved to give the cabman a sovereign. He turned his head once more to look at his charmer and caught sight of a little white hand lying carelessly on the seat. It suggested a happy idea; and with a respectful tenderness he lifted it and pressed it warmly.
"Oh! you must not!"
"Beg pardon!" he said, though he was sensible enough not to drop the hand; "it was this romance idea that put it into my head. I hope you don't mind."
"But we are not promised!"
"On Trust, eh?" he said cheerfully. "Well, I suppose I must wait till I can say Paid For. You've been thinking of some scheme to try me, haven't you?"
"The scheme is ready," she replied gravely. "I was wondering whether you are strong enough to obey. It may mean danger...."
"Fourteen stone and in fair training," he said complacently.
"Ridicule...."
"I shan't be laughed at more than once."
"Perhaps ... prison."
"Crumbs!" observed Henry Brown, stiffening. "My dear—beg pardon—miss, I mean. You're not one of them anarchists?"
"No. I have done nothing wrong. Only, events might put you in a false position. You might be accused and be obliged to be silent. Would you flinch from prison in a good cause?"
For a disgraceful moment Henry Brown wished to say, "The cause be blowed," but happily his eyes met hers. Innocence, reinforced by pretty features, has an easy prey in besotted experience. She lowered her lashes in virginal confusion and appeal. "I'll do it!" said Henry Brown, setting his teeth. "That is, if you're on the square."
She clapped her hands.
"Oh, thank you! thank you! I promise that I am on the square. Really, I am a victim.... What I want you to do is to become, for a short time, a kind of detective."
"A detective!"
"An amateur. If you can leave the guidance of your business to another for a time."
Her hand touched his again, possibly by accident.
"N—yes," he said, determined. "Yes, I mean—yes."
"I shall tell you the story another time. For the present I shall say that it has to do with some papers. I may ask you to follow and watch a man. I may ask you to get back for me the documents. I may—I do not know. It may even be necessary for you to leave London for a brief space. For the present we can do nothing, but will you hold yourself in readiness to act at a word—a sign—a telegram from me?"
Things were developing more rapidly than Henry Brown liked, but he was a man of his word and—she was a delightful creature.
"I will."
"Thank you," she breathed, and this time plainly pressed his hand. He seized it and returned the pressure, feeling like a knight of the middle ages. (Or a middle-aged knight?) "And you are content to do this without reasons—explanations?"
"If you'll give me one excuse," he said craftily.
"Bitte?"
"I don't know what they call it in your language," said Henry, and hesitated. A shred of bashfulness still hung about him, but he was growing up fast—expanding like a flower beneath the sun. "May I explain?" he asked courageously.
"But certainly!"
So Henry kissed her.
"For that excuse," he whispered with a new-found eloquence, "I'd do more than you ask."
She laughed and imprinted a feather upon his cheek.
"So you have a soul after all!" she said happily. "I congratulate you and ... myself."
The last word was inaudible; indeed it was not meant for the new henchman of Romance.
"Alicia, my dear," said Robert Hedderwick to his wife, as he was smoking after dinner, "shall we talk about our annual holiday?"
His wife, a determined lady of forty-five—six years younger than he,—put down her knitting.
"By all means, Robert, if you wish. But I do not know what there is to discuss. It is not yet July and we never go away till August, so there is plenty of time."
"But why should we not go away in July this year?" he suggested, somewhat diffidently.
"Why should we?"
"Well ... it would be a change...."
"A most undesirable and unnecessary change," said his wife decisively, picking up her knitting again. "August is the hottest month, and August in London would be unbearable. Besides, change for the mere sake of change is childish. You might as well suggest our going somewhere else than Cromer."
"Well ... er ..." said Mr. Hedderwick nervously, "why shouldn't we? Cromer is a charming place—charming; but we have been there twelve years running. Don't you think——"
"Cromer suits my health. And yours," Alicia added after a moment's thought. "And mother would be disappointed if we didn't go. You don't seem to have thought of that."
Her husband opened his mouth to say "I have, my dear," but changed the words to "Oh ... ah ... yes ... of course." Then he got up, walked to the window in rather an aimless fashion, and stared out. Presently he began to whistle.
"Please do not whistle, Robert," said Alicia reprovingly. "You know I can not endure it."
"I beg your pardon," said Robert submissively. "I forgot."
"You want something to do," observed his wife, as one who gives an order. "You've done nothing but smoke since dinner. Why don't you go and dig in the garden?"
"I—I don't feel like gardening."
"Or read. Where is your book that——"
"I—I don't feel like reading."
"The truth is, you don't know what youdowant," said Alicia firmly. "You men are just like children when you haven't got a definite task. Until you retired from the business you were always perfectly happy. Now that your days are free you don't know what to do with yourself. Here! come and hold my wool for me!"
She laid her knitting down on the table and picked up a skein of white wool that lay near. Her husband, with a resigned expression, mutely held up his hands. The wool was placed over them, and then, after strict injunctions not to stir, or get tangled, or drop an end, or breathe too audibly, Mrs. Hedderwick began to wind it into a ball.
As the uncongenial task went on, Robert reflected disconsolately that his bid for freedom had not met with much success. He had had hopes that this year at least Alicia would have consented to go to some other place for their holiday. He was tired of Cromer and wanted a change. Also, he was not enthusiastic for another holiday spent under the wing of Alicia's mother, Mrs. Ainsley. She was too like her—he checked the heretical thought and substituted "too determined"—to make him anxious to renew her acquaintance more often than he was obliged. "Obliged...." The word buzzed unpleasantly in the brain. His prophetic instinct told him that he would be obliged to yield to Alicia's wishes. If he ventured to suggest once more that Eastbourne or Brighton might be preferable to Cromer, he knew too well what would happen. Alicia would say firmly, "No, Robert; you know We settled on Cromer, and it would be silly to change Our minds now." Supposing he dared greatly and put his foot down; supposing he said, "I willnotgo there: I will go to Brighton!" what would happen? He knew perfectly well that he would never have the courage to be so rebellious as all that; but he kept playing with the notion as one plays with temptation in daily life. If only he dared! He might say, "I willnot, Alicia!" and then bolt from the house. It would be rather fun, an adventure, to run away ... all by himself.By himself!what a holiday that would be! He laughed aloud at the thought.
"I see nothing amusing in the wool being tangled," said Alicia's voice reprovingly, and he jumped in alarm.
"I was not laughing at that, my dear," he said appeasingly. "I was thinking of something else."
Alicia sniffed, but maintained a fortunate silence. When she finished she said, "I am going out to take the sewing meeting for an hour or so. Will you be in?"
"Yes, my dear," said Robert cheerfully, and a few minutes later he heard the front door close.
Left to himself, he walked to the window and resumed his idle staring. Remembering that now he was a free agent he began to whistle again, a trifle mournfully, for he was meditating on life. This, for the average man, as a rule, begets melancholy—particularly if it is his own life he reflects on.
Robert Hedderwick had been chief cashier in a big store for more than fifteen years. He had earned two hundred and fifty pounds a year (with an occasional bonus) for some time, and on the whole he had enjoyed his work. At least it had always been interesting, and had given him that most necessary of all things—regular and definite occupation. And though at times he used to wish he was a partner or had more prospects, still he had been contented. Then at the age of fifty an uncle had died and left him a handsome competence. Alicia at once had made him forswear the office and set up as a gentleman of leisure. Not that he had been unwilling to obey. At first he had welcomed the relief from thraldom. It was a luxury to be able to lie in bed a little longer, if he wished, without feeling "I must get upnow, or I shall miss the eight-fifty." It was a luxury to sit at ease in his strip of garden on a fine morning and read the newspaper. It was not unpleasant to think that his former colleagues were saying, "Lucky chap, Hedderwick!" what time they were under the eyes of their master.
But these and similar luxuries palled after a time, and he began to grow, not exactly discontented, but restless and vaguely unhappy. He had no hobbies, save reading, and none but the ardent student wishes to read throughout the day. He felt himself a little old to begin photography, stamp-collecting or wood-carving; still, recognizing the need of some occupation, he tried to do a little gardening. The strip of land at the back of the house was small, being some thirty yards long by twenty broad. Two-thirds of this was grass, which he mowed conscientiously once a week: the rest was given up to flowers. As Robert knew nothing of flowers, he employed a man to do what was necessary in the way of digging and planting. When the serious business of horticulture was finished he would employ himself in cutting off dying blossoms, uprooting weeds and watering. But the sum total of his labor in the little plot did not amount to more than four or five hours a week.
His wife was an active—too active for the vicar's wife—supporter of Saint Frideswide's Church, and when her husband became one of the leisured classes she did her utmost to spur him to a like interest. He obeyed passively, became a sidesman, and in due course vicar's warden. He was not, to use the vicar's words, "a keen churchman," being on the whole an optimistic pragmatist rather than a devotee of dogma. But he was a good man, cheerful, kindly, with some harmless vanities. He liked, for example, to take the alms-bag round and lead the procession of collectors. He would complain of the trouble entailed by the organization of the annual treat or the parish tea, but secretly he appreciated the occupation and the importance thereof. These things helped to fill a portion of a vacant existence, but they were not enough. He felt that he was rusting.
This evening "melancholy marked him for her own." It had been a day more vacant of incident than usual, and he was almost bad-tempered. The thought of the recent defeat by Alicia rankled, and he turned over in his mind schemes by which he could outwit her and procure a holiday in Brighton. "It's all very well," he grumbled to himself, "but I don't see why I should continually knuckle under. I've been too easy-going. It's time things were put on a different footing. I wonder if ..."
He was still wondering when Alicia returned, and the solution of his difficulties was not yet. Alicia, who was in an aggressive good-humor, commented on his dulness. Robert replied in a tone that she characterized as "snappy"; she also made the inevitable suggestion that he had eaten something that disagreed with him.
"Good lord!" said Robert, goaded at last beyond caution and fear. "Who wouldn't be snappy, doing nothing half the day, and the other half doing what he doesn't like? Nothing ever happens here—it's like being a fly buzzing in a tumbler. He can't get out, though he can see all sorts of interesting things through the glass."
"You ought to be thankful for your many mercies," said his wife coldly: she knew the treatment for the case. "Instead of grumbling like a child, you had better go to bed. That is, if you have finished supper."
At that moment Mr. Hedderwick had one of the strongest temptations of a blameless life. He yearned for the courage to say, "Oh, damn the supper!" but broke into a perspiration at the mere thought. Instead, he had the grace to be astonished at his mood and weakly answered, "I think I shall, my dear." As he opened the door his helpmeet suggested he should not forget at his private devotions to ask for a contented spirit. Rebellion returned, and he banged the door.
He soon forgot his troubles in sleep; in fact, he did not even hear his wife come to bed. He slept dreamlessly, despite the suggestion that he had committed an error in diet, until a quarter past one. Then he awoke quite suddenly, with a dim idea that something was happening. He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and listened: no, there seemed to be nothing ... everything was still: only the regular breathing of his wife, fast asleep, was to be heard. "I must have been dreaming," he thought, preparing to lie down again. And then he heard a subdued, but distinct, noise down-stairs.
Robert experienced a chill that crept, via the spine and nape, to his brain. The short hairs on the back of his head felt as if they had begun to bristle. A ghostly cowardice flooded his being, penetrating to the uttermost recesses. "Good lord!" he thought, "it must be a burglar!" His first instinct was to lie down and draw the clothes over his head; his second, to jab his wife sharply in the ribs: company in the imminent peril was his prime necessity. Both these base impulses he controlled. Though elderly, he felt himself still a man; and despite the fact that he had no audience, no public opinion to make heroism easy, he realized that his part must be played alone at all costs.
As he came to this resolve his natural apprehension subsided: he felt calmer, more collected. Sitting up in bed, he listened with strained ears. For a moment there was silence; then came the quiet but distinct opening of a door below. His misgivings had a solid foundation; and with a dismal determination Robert cautiously got out of bed.
Why he did not wake his wife he hardly knew. Perhaps it was chivalry, perhaps a subconscious sense that she might spoil the fun. Yes, that was the odd phrase that formed in his mind once the temporary panic was subdued. With a wry smile—remembering his previous complaints of a vacant life and his thirst for adventures—Robert tiptoed cautiously to the dressing-table. Here he made a swift and partial toilet. He slipped on a pair of trousers, a coat and some boots—for in the midst of his apprehensions he had a foolish idea that the burglar might tread on his toes. Then without noise he opened the top right-hand corner drawer, where he kept his collars and handkerchiefs, and took out a small revolver. As he handled the stock he felt his new manhood glowing like champagne in every artery. Life! He had begun to live.
How did it happen that a harmless churchwarden and retired cashier possessed so lethal a weapon? Simply, it was due to a mixture of precaution and romanticism. He had always thought a burglarmightcome, and deep in his composition lay a vein of adventure. It was fine to have a pistol—a loaded pistol—even though never used. It gave a sense of power and desperation. He sometimes fondled it and dreamed of defending himself against a marauder or a mob. But such demonstrations took place only when his wife was out.
Robert took the pistol in an unshaking hand and conveyed himself quietly from the room. He was not in the least frightened now; indeed he was beginning to enjoy this new sense of being master of the situation. Quietly he crept down-stairs, as close to the wall as possible to prevent creaking. At the foot of the stairs he stood still and listened.... There was no sound. But from the keyhole of the drawing-room came a little pencil of light. Behind the door was—what? Robert cocked the pistol, opened the door, and with a little gasp of triumph said, "Hands up!"
There were two people in the room as Mr. Hedderwick opened the door, a man and a lady. The latter, he noted with amazement, was in evening dress, a light cloak being thrown over it; the former wore the ordinary morning dress of a man about town, neat, though a little shiny, and on his head was a top hat. At Robert's command he turned with a violent start: the lady started, too, but in a moment recovered her composure and laughed. "Good morning," she said cheerfully: "I can't say this is an unexpected pleasure, for that would be only a half-truth. And now, what are you going to do?"
Robert, considerably taken aback at the character of his prisoners and his own reception, paused a moment before replying. He was breathing a little noisily from pure excitement, but still he was careful to keep the pistol at a threatening angle.
"Well," he said slowly, "in the first place I warn you that I shall shoot if you move——"
"Of course," she agreed brightly, "that would be the most sensible thing to do. But we have no intention of being so foolish. It seems that you hold the whip-hand, so—shall we sit down and discuss the situation?"
"By all means," said Robert, gaping. "You will find that armchair the most comfortable."
She seated herself, and her companion was about to follow suit. But he checked himself, picked up a gaily-colored rug from the sofa, and with a smile said, "There is no need for even a jailer to catch cold." He threw it lightly across to Robert, who caught it with a blush. He wished foolishly he had put on a collar. Then the man sat down and looked at the lady as if waiting for instructions. Robert followed his example, taking care to interpose the table between them in case of a surprise.
"And now," said the lady again, "what are you going to do? Send for a policeman?"
It was the obvious course, but Robert on a sudden felt that it would be impossible. When he had valiantly left his bed, seized his weapon and prepared to capture a burglar or two, he had in mind merely the vision of an ordinary hooligan. The reality upset him. He needed time to adjust his ideas.
"I suppose I must," he said apologetically. "I am exceedingly sorry, but really, you know——"
"Oh, we quite understand," returned Beatrice (for of course it was she and Lionel) with a frank camaraderie. "It must be a painful position for you as well as for us. But perhaps, before deciding, you would like to hear the reason of our visit?"
His eyes brightened; he grasped an idea.
"Excellent!" he said. "I have the satisfaction of having frustrated your design, and honestly I am not in love with the notion of giving you in charge. Besides ..." he hesitated as if ashamed, but decided on candor, "my life is a trifle dull, and if you can tell me a really interesting tale, well ..."
"Sir, you are a sportsman," observed Lionel; and Beatrice added persuasively, "A perfect dear!"
"Flattery is useless," he replied. "I don't want that. Tell me a good tale, and perhaps ..."
"I will tell you all," said Beatrice. "If we were captured I had meant to keep silence; but your generous offer compels a change of plan. You shall have a frank truthful——"
"I do not insist on truth," said Robert, stroking his nose, "but it must be interesting." He stopped, aghast at his own depravity. Then he laughed gently. "Morality is hard to achieve at this hour. But come! A good tale!"
Lionel smiled. He had faith in Beatrice as a story-teller, even if he was a little doubtful of her other qualities. He settled himself on the sofa, prepared not only to hear but criticize. As for Mr. Hedderwick, he was so eager that he laid down the revolver on the table and leaned forward on his elbows. To all appearance he might have been a boy listening to a true yarn of pirates and savages.
Beatrice, without effort or hesitation, began to speak. A second Scheherezade, she was fighting for her husband and her own freedom, and everything conspired to lend her aid. She had a thrilling story to tell at first hand; she had the dramatic instinct and an appreciative audience. Not only Mr. Hedderwick but Lionel, too, listened with rapt attention. The tale lived, as told by her, bearing the stamp of truth and humor in every syllable her lips uttered. And Lionel, keeping guard over himself with a loving suspicion, noticed that in no particulars did she depart from the original version. He cursed himself that any shred of doubt could still cling about him. Did any cling? Surely not, and yet.... Pish! it was not merely disloyal—it was ludicrous: the two stories were identical. Had the first been lies she must now have betrayed herself.
Not that she told her story in such detail as she had to Lionel: there was not time for that. Theprécisof her life and adventures lasted no more than half an hour: all that mattered was there, but the smaller details were absent. A touch here, and the kidnaping was painted in a dozen words; a line there, and she had swept them to Constantinople: a paragraph depicted Lukos with a master hand—a few vivid sentences described the flight. Then came the stage, her meeting with Lionel (five pages to the rescue, the taxi deleted altogether, and three lines to the dressing-room), and lastly, the treachery of Mizzi. She brought her story down to the moment of their capture, not forgetting to tell how they had effected their entrance by means of skeleton keys. "And that is all," she said at last, drawing a breath of relief.
"Not quite all," said Mr. Hedderwick with rounded eyes. "Lord! what a tale! what a life! Compared with this ..."—his eyes wandered discontentedly round the room, and he did not finish the sentence. "But go on—go on! Tell me why you hid the papers here."
"Partly by chance, partly design. I meant to hide them in a stranger's house, thinking they would be safest there. One evening as I walked this way I saw a machine in front of your door. It was a vacuum cleaner! That decided me. It meant that after they had finished there was no likelihood of your carpets being lifted for some time."
"My carpets!" gasped Robert. "What the——"
"Oh, dowait!" said Beatrice pettishly; and he collapsed, as was only fitting. "I came next day and the cleaner had gone. During the morning I made discreet inquiries as to your habits and mode of life. In the evening I hired a cab, drove to Kensington to put any possible trackers off the scent, changed into another cab and drove back here. At seven-thirty I called. You were out, and your wife said you would not be back for at least half an hour. I asked if I might wait, as my business was important. She hesitated, but consented, my sables being a guarantee that I had not come with any designs on your plate.
"However, to my disgust she insisted on remaining in the room and discussing trivialities. Of course, as long as she remained I was helpless, and my well-meant hints were disregarded. I was in despair; but presently the cook burst in with a woeful tale of a scorched petticoat, and the situation was saved. Your wife darted out to survey the damage, and the next moment my precious papers were hidden beneath the carpet.
"Mrs. Hedderwick returned within a very few minutes, full of apologies and (I fear) regrets that she had left the room. I did not prolong my visit. On the plea that I could not wait further, and promising to call again, I managed to escape. If you wish for proof, look under the carpet beneath your chair."
Mr. Hedderwick sprang up like an eager schoolboy. He seized the poker, inserted it under the carpet, and with a crackling wrench prized up a yard or two. With trembling fingers he tore it back still farther, and then his face fell. He stood up, a disappointed man. "There is nothing here," he said accusingly. "This is an anticlimax to a capital tale."
Lionel did not move, but his face darkened. During the recital he had felt a warm glow of faith pervade his whole being, a glow that was not diminished by the contemplation of Beatrice. By the time she had finished he was a devout adherent, and now the shock of disillusion swung him back once more to the certainty of doubt. He did not speak, but his eyes sought hers in a question he could not put into words. The lady alone seemed unembarrassed. She gave a regretful sigh.
"There is no anticlimax," she said. "Rather it is the thickening of the plot. Of course they have been taken by Mizzi. Has she been there recently—yesterday?"
"Not that I know of," he returned blankly. "It's possible, I suppose ... anyhow, it's not a bad idea for ... for a story, but...."
"I see you disbelieve still," said Beatrice with a calm disdain. "I had no idea men could be so stupid. I suppose there is nothing for it but to wake Mrs. Hedderwick and ask her."
The churchwarden sat down suddenly, as if his knees had given way. "Wake Mrs. Hedderwick!" he repeated in a ghastly voice: "wake my wife! Oh, no! It is impossible—quite out of the question!"
"Not at all. She will know whether any one has called here, and in justice to my veracity you must ask her. I insist! Remember our freedom is at stake."
Mr. Hedderwick rose, pale but determined.
"I beg your pardon," he said politely. "Will you please go at once? I have not the least intention of prosecuting, and I swear that I believe your story. Only will youpleasego at once?"
Lionel chuckled, amused and grateful.
"This is hardly fair, sir," he said. "You forget that we want information as to where those papers may have gone. If your wife could tell us whether any one has called and what his or her appearance——"
"No, no!" quavered the unhappy Robert. "I can not consent! You must find out elsewhere. I can not have my wife roused! I—I would not have her here for a thousand pounds!"
"Indeed, Robert!" said a deep voice from the door. The churchwarden leaped round in a trice. He saw his wife, in the majesty of a dressing-gown, a poker in her right hand, standing in the doorway. His bowels turned to water. "Alicia!" he groaned.
"Yes," she said with a pleasurable severity. "What does this mean?" Her eye roved austerely and there was a dead silence. Robert was temporarily annihilated, Beatrice serenely impassive, Lionel amusedly dividing his attention between the two ladies. Presently Mrs. Hedderwick's brow cleared, as if a light had dawned upon her. She began to speak again in a voice that was almost cheerful. "I see!" she said: "it is a new idea, Robert. I suppose these are some of your friends, and this is a kind of breakfast party. I am very sorry that you did not give me earlier warning, or I would have had the dining-room ready. My husband," she said, turning confidentially to Beatrice, "is a man, and naturally does not realize that bacon can not be fried in a moment, and that eggs will not cook themselves. Toast, again, needs a little care; and coffee I always say is worthless unless one looks after it one's self."
"Alicia!" interposed the miserable Robert, "I do wish you'd be reasonable. For heaven's sake——"
"Kindly do not swear, Robert," said his wife, turning ferociously on him. "If I have made a mistake, I am sure it was but natural. If this is not a breakfast-party, pray what is it? A man of your age would not indulge insuppers"—she gave the word an emphasis that insinuated Cremorne—"so what can I think? I hear an unusual noise—I come down-stairs and find my husband hobnobbing with a strange gentleman and his ... friend ... whom Ihavemet, but——"
Lionel rose, but Beatrice was wiser and forestalled him.
"Your surprise and indignation are only natural, Mrs. Hedderwick," she said coolly, "but they will be abated when you learn that our untimely visit is in connection with a police affair."
Her instinct was right. Curiosity conquered the churchwarden's wife, where an appeal to pity or kindred emotions would have failed. She relaxed her frigid attitude and said, "Indeed?"
"Yes," pursued Beatrice. "I can not tell you all at present, but be assured that if it ever comes into court your evidence will be of value." Mrs. Hedderwick smoothed her dressing-gown and determined to appear in the witness-box in mauve. "Will you just tell us this: did any stranger call here this evening?"
"Yes," answered Mrs. Hedderwick, divided between resentment and a thirst for knowledge. "A lady, or at least a female, called and inquired for my husband."
"A lady!" ejaculated Mr. Hedderwick. "This promises well——"
His wife's eye compelled him again to his seat. "I think, Robert, if you evinced less interest in such a subject it would be more seemly. The female in question asked if she might wait, as she wished to beg a subscription for an anti-suffragist league. I am in sympathy with such an object and allowed her to remain. In the course of our conversation she referred to an article on dress in one of the women's papers. I happened to have the journal and offered to fetch it; she agreed, thinking that the plate of a new blouse might suit my style."
"So you left her alone!" broke in Lionel.
"For a bare two minutes. When I returned she was still there. We discussed the blouse for a while, and presently she said that she must go, but would return later."
"Plagiarist!" said Beatrice with a smile. "Did you happen to notice how she was dressed?"
"I never notice such things," said Mrs. Hedderwick with dignity. "Dress is not one of my foibles. But after she had gone I picked up a handkerchief which I suppose she had dropped. It was marked——"
"Wait!" said Mr. Hedderwick suddenly. "What is her name?" he asked, turning to Beatrice.
"Whose, Robert?" queried his wife.
"Oh, bother!" he said, irritation lending him courage. "Your maid's."
"Mizzi Schmidt."
"And the initials, Alicia?"
"M. S."
Mr. Hedderwick, his head full of romantic notions of chivalry, forgetting the urgent need of circumspection, rose. He advanced toward Beatrice, raised her hand, and, to the horror of his wife, kissed it solemnly. "I beg your pardon," he said; "there is no anticlimax. Now that you know Mizzi is the thief you will want to be off. Good-by and good luck."
They took him at his word and rose.
"Good-by," said Beatrice in the most ordinary voice. "Thank you so much for your help—and yours, too, Mrs. Hedderwick. So sorry we had to break into your house. Good-by. Now, Mr. Mortimer!"
"Good-by," said Lionel; "thanks most awfully. I felt you were a sportsman as soon as I saw you."
They were in the hall by this time, and the magnanimous churchwarden was already opening the door.
"Not at all," he said. "I've had a most interesting night. I wish you'd let me know the end of the tale some day."
"If it is a happy ending, you shall," said Beatrice. She halted a moment, motioned to Lionel to pass out before her, and then turned. "If you see us again, be careful never to recognize or speak to us; it might mean danger—not only to you, but us."
He smiled but said nothing. Beatrice and Lionel moved away in the light of the early dawn. Mr. Hedderwick closed the door gently and stood deep in thought for a moment. "What an adventure ... what a splendid woman ... what a jolly chap!" his thoughts ran. "How different their life from mine! Here am I, tied to the same holiday year after year ... afraid to call my soul my own ... why, why should I not have a holiday on my own account—a holiday ... by myself for once. Something new ... something out of the common...."
"Robert!" said a threatening voice from the drawing-room, and he leaped. "Come in! I have something to say to you!"
The tone told him what the "something" would be. His thoughts raced furiously during the next twenty seconds, but he had wit enough to answer, "Yes, Alicia! Wait till I have locked the door!" Then with a swift but silent movement he slipped on a greatcoat and hat and stealthily opened the door again. He peered out.... Yes, there was hope and an object, for he could see, some hundred and fifty yards away, the figures of Beatrice and her escort. With a gasp Mr. Hedderwick muttered, "I will!" He pulled the door to behind him and set out furtively, but with a resolute swiftness, in pursuit.