It is all very well to be urged to suspect, for, within reason, nothing is easier. The world, in the process of our education, deals out so many hard knocks that speedily we begin to look with dubious eyes on every stranger—sometimes, alas! even upon our friends. We suspect the motives of Smith, who recommends a first-rate cigar: does he get a commission? We suspect Brown, who asks us to drop in any evening: has he a marriageable daughter? Jones lauds the latest novel: is he the anonymous author? Robinson advises the purchase of Consolidated Stumers: is he trying to make us "hold the baby"? Suspicion is epidemic. What the world wants is a host of missionary spirits to say, "For goodness' sake do drop suspicion for a while and believe in your fellow man! Smith really does imagine himself a judge of tobacco; Brown, as a matter of fact, thinks you quite a pleasant chap, and his daughter is engaged; Jones never wrote a line in his life, save on a check; and Robinson for once has inside information. Give suspicion a rest!" Ah! if only the other fellow would!
Lionel had been told to suspect, and at first found the task no harder than you or I should find it. But apart from the strong inducement to forego suspicion—viz., the physical and mental attractions of Miss Arkwright—every day made it more difficult to sustain the suspicious attitude. The early surprises—the "out of bounds" rule, the dumb servants, the seclusion of his hostess and the like—gave him plenty to wonder at, rich food for a seeker of garbage. But usage made the odd seem ordinary, and Miss Arkwright always had an explanation. The servants had already been accounted for; the prohibition of the village might be a whim (though of course he was not satisfied with this), her own seclusion he guessed, from a hint here and there, was due to a disappointment in early youth. But it was really custom that staled the infinite variety of the first surprises; he had to accept the routine of The Quiet House, and could not be expected to whip up a daily supply of suspicions. One can imagine, perhaps, a Jew in a medieval baron's dungeon waking peacefully and asking his jailer, "What is it to-day, Cedric? A tooth out, the strappado, or the rack? Just a tooth? Good."
The analogy is anything but exact, for Lionel did not get a succession of thrills. The daily wonder as towhyshe forbade him the village;whyshe did not receive any local god, parson, squire, or doctor;whyshe did this or that, dwindled imperceptibly. He did not consciously relax: he had to adjust himself to the new conditions; but the effort at adjustment grew less laborious, and soon was in some danger of ceasing altogether.
Not that he abandoned his vigilance. Beatrice had enjoined him with unnecessary and vain repetition to watch her sister. He gladly obeyed. The English language is susceptible of many interpretations, and who could dogmatize on the precise value to be attached to the word "watch!"? Lionel "watched" all the time, but his watching at the end of a fortnight was very different from the early vigils. He learned nothing from watching, save that Winifred Arkwright was a delightful creature, with hair of such and such a color and softness—eyes of such and such a sweetness, and so forth. Things, you observe, of no importance from Lukos' point of view, though a chronicler is bound to state them, however briefly.
They became good friends. There was no hint of boredom on either side, no suggestion that the visit was being prolonged a little queerly. Lionel, you may be sure, did not offer to go: he was obeying Beatrice (who had not written again, though he sent a daily bulletin to London), and was in no hurry to study fresh characters. It was no ill reward of virtue to find a replica of Beatrice to keep his devotion alive. A brutal phrase,—too brutal. His devotion was there, hidden below the surface, but necessarily quiescent as long as Lukos lived. That might be for years; therefore, why not sun himself in Beatrice's rays by proxy? A statue can partly compensate for the loss of an adored: even a photograph is better than nothing. But a real woman,—a living replica ... Lionel thought himself in luck. He mentioned this in one of his letters, hoping to show how strong and faithful he was. He did not mention it to Winifred. Even a lay figure has feelings.
A lay figure ... was she merely that? The question came to him more than once during that peaceful fortnight. He faced it without a blush, and up to the present had always been able to give an affirmative answer. His memory of Beatrice and the unnecessary warning in her letter enabled him to watch, admire and lightly dally with the rose-weaved chains. He laughed at the warning: he was a man, of course, and no stronger than his fellows; but fancy being in danger of falling in love with Miss Arkwright! In love—real, genuine love ... absurd! Why, he was not in love with Beatrice. Was he? N ... no.... He was a free man—hurrah!
At the end of ten days he could utter the mental hurrah with a braver note: Beatrice was a darling, whom he hoped to see again soon. But in love? No. In love with Miss Arkwright, then? (In his mind he now called her Winifred.) No. Of course not. Absurd. Was she not a lay figure?.... Stay!—that was hardly the choicest of expressions, hardly respectful or considerate. She was a delightful lady whom it was his painful duty to watch. But one must not speak of her as a lay figure: that is crude, elementary ... containing a grain of truth, one admits, but likely to be misinterpreted by the vulgar herd. "A peerless proxy" would be more in keeping.
And the proxy, what of her? How had she fared during her unusual fortnight? Patently, anything but ill. Under the sun of Lionel's sympathetic kindliness her virgin coldness melted. They talked together on every subject—men and women, books, art, music. Their views often clashed, but interest is sustained by conflict; complete agreement makes conversation a superfluity. Their conversation rarely descended to small talk, though more than once it became almost a quarrel.
A quarrel of friends, be it understood,—a quarrel that left no bitterness behind, but made the next meeting more stored with interest, explanation, withdrawal, even partial conversion. Their chief debatable country was the stage; and at last Lionel had the happiness of winning the admission that the stage had possibly improved of recent years. A great admission for her! He paid his debt handsomely by a promise to read a book (five hundred and thirty-seven pages, eight volumes) on Christian Science. She gave him the book next day. Alas! it now reposes in the present historian's drawer, the leaves still innocent of the paper-knife.
So a pretty comradeship sprang up between a cloistered lady and an ineligible worldling. The latter had never a penny, had not so long ago vowed himself to the service of another, declared upon his honor that his heart was no one's, lived for the moment on a false-won hospitality. What would be the end of such a revolting character? A queer sort of hero, in very truth; but the world is an asylum of lunatics seeking happiness by a host of roads. You who condemn the road of Lionel are asked to remember the stony paths he had trodden without complaint. Let him settle any difficulties of conscience for himself, and be not too hasty in your judgments. Let him at least have his fortnight of so-called happiness. If it be not in accordance with your ideas of the summum bonum, remember that it is not his. A fortnight in an oasis need not be grudged when the desert lies behind and before. If he has not learned wisdom you may be sure that he will ere long. Rub your hands, gentlemen, and look forward to a rare feast of disillusion and disenchantment! Possibly there may be an exposure, disgrace, even a prison if we are lucky and have patience. And if you can spare a little pickle for the rod, be good enough to pass it up!
As for the other characters in this rural comedy—or melodrama if you prefer it—their lives have been equally uneventful during the last fortnight. Tony Wild and Mr. "Bangs" are still occupying rooms at The Happy Heart, chafing at the lack of events. They have allowed it to be understood that they are on a holiday, seeking peace. They have thoroughly explored the neighborhood, and failed to find a hint of interest in any of the Shereling inhabitants. Even the tap-room yokels have not produced a stimulating curiosity, and higher society is lacking in the village. The squire is away, and medical and legal needs, it appears, are supplied from Dallingham. There is Mr. "Beckett," it is true; but he plays golf, spending the rest of his time in his bedroom, repulsing all overtures of friendship. There is the vicarage, of course, and Mrs. Peters has been prevailed upon to invite them to dinner, for the vicar is a friendly soul, anxious to make the most of the social crumbs dropped rarely in his path. Tony and Robert have dined there, and been round two or three times to smoke a pipe and inspect the roses; but Mrs. Peters does not diffuse an atmosphere of comfort, and the vicar himself is an exhausted fountain after an hour. A kindly, cheerful little man; but sixty minutes' prattle is as much as Tony can bear. Robert might find a longer period congenial, but he is perpetually ill-at-ease under his cognomen of Bangs, fearful of betraying himself, inclined to blush without apparent cause. Indeed, if it were not for Tony, Robert might have given up the pursuit already. Not that he means to go back home as yet: liberty is still precious; and adventures, or at least unfettered repose, may be sought at Brighton or Eastbourne before he returns to nonentity. But is it worth while waiting at Shereling, where the mysterious Billy is never seen, where the remembrance of the strange lady is daily growing fainter? It looks very much as if that bright spark of romance has been extinguished: how can he hope to blow it into flame once more? Tony, the incomparable Tony, the man of many schemes, has nothing to suggest: he only says "Patience," and Robert is growing restive.
But why does Tony depart so far from his usual attitude as to say "Patience"? As a rule, an adventure or an experience can hold him but for a day or two,—a week is almost unthinkable. And now, at the end of a fortnight, he still says "Patience"—unruffled, imperturbable, productive of threadbare platitudes as to the building of Rome, apparently hopeful. The simple reason is that Tony has not seen his card-dropping divinity again, and he hates being balked.
In a word, the pair of them had waited, watched and spied for fourteen days without result. There had been night vigils as well as by day, but nothing had been learned. After dusk set in they had sometimes watched for hours, Tony hiding in a ditch near the front gate, Robert at the back. The gossip of Miss Arkwright's nocturnal motoring had reached their ears, and they had built something on this. But never a motor had they seen approach The Quiet House. One dreadful night they watched till dawn broke clear and stark, but two colds in the head were all that came to birth. Their watchings were a failure.
Miss Arkwright and "Billy" might never have existed. The servants were useless. Only Forbes and the gardener issued from The Quiet House, after their day's work was over: both were dumb. Incorruptible, too, for when the ingenious Tony produced a pencil and paper, meeting the gardener on the road as if by chance, holding half-a-crown for a lure, the man made signs that he could not use a pencil. Forbes was of stouter stuff. Tony waylaid him one evening at half past nine. Thoroughly disheartened by this time, regretting that he had offered the gardener so small a sum (for he had afterward imagined that the man might have been playing a part), Tony unmasked his batteries. "Look here, my man," he said bluntly, "you are a servant at The Quiet House. I want some information and am willing to pay for it. If you'll just write down answers to a few questions I'll give you a five-pound note." Forbes' eyes glistened, and he took the pencil. Tony's heart leaped as he saw him diligently scribing. He snatched the paper and read, "I am sorry, sir, but I can not write." Tony swore, as Forbes passed meekly on. He was not used to being beaten by a servant.
To-day they were at the vicarage for tea, and tea alone. The hospitable vicar had suggested dinner—lunch as apis-aller. But his wife said, "No," and he was obliged to submit. The previous dinner had caused domestic friction, and Mrs. Peters did not mean to run any further risks. She was a lady who had the not wholly unworthy wish to make a fair show in the flesh: they entertained seldom, but when they did entertain she was resolved to do things well. Soup, chicken (boiled or roast), cold lamb (palpably uncut and not an economical remnant to bring the blush), at least three sweets, and certainly cheese-straws,—these were the least a self-respecting woman could offer to the vicarage guests. The vicar, being a sensible man, would have been quite pleased to "present" (like Mr. Frohman) a simple meal. Soup, a joint with the usual supporters of potatoes and boiled celery—his own failing—a bramble tart, and a bit of Stilton,—these were the cates he deemed worthy of kings. But the housekeeping pride of his lady forbade so inelegant a repast. "I like my guests to see that I know how thingsoughtto be done andaredone, Charles," she said in a final tone: "I willnothave people saying that the vicarage ..." and the rest. The vicar had given way with a sigh, reserving himself for the battle he knew must follow.
It had come at once. Mrs. Peters, profuse to lavishness over the more solid items, betrayed a feminine false economy over the wine. There ought to be wine, of course. Though she was a teetotaler herself, still she knew that her guests should be offered the juice of the grape. But on the desirability of spending large sums for liquid that would vanish in a twinkling she held strong views. "You need notdream, Charles, of wasting money on expensive brands. I saw some invalid port at the grocer's this morning...." But here her husband showed himself unusually pig-headed. He grew rigid at the words "invalid port." "No, Clara," he said resolutely; "I won't have that at any price—even the grocer's. I believe in good things, or none at all. I'd sooner drink water than poor wine. We can't afford good port, but wecanafford good whisky or cider. Those it shall be." He was deaf to reason, though his wife begged him, with tears in her eyes, not to be so inconsiderate.
Cider it had been, and Mrs. Peters had felt ashamed. The sight of three men quaffing deeply of the plebeian beverage gave no comfort: they were doing it to spare her feelings, of course, and she resented the unspoken charity. Besides, she did not greatly care about her guests. Mr. Wild seemed singularly purposeless for a young man, and there was a half-veiled mockery in his speech that grated. Mr. Bangs was clearly of inferior breeding and did not seem at ease. He talked little and nervously, starting at the mention of his name. "He can not have a past," thought Mrs. Peters grudgingly, "but he is certainly not used to the society of gentle-people. I do wish Charles would not ..." The dinner was not a success, though the vicar enjoyed the post-prandial smoke and small-talk.
So (leaving our muttons to return to them) they were at tea to-day. Or rather, they had finished tea and were taking idly on the lawn. The vicar was lying comfortably in a basket-chair, trying to color a meerschaum. Mrs. Peters was busy with embroidery. Tony and Robert in deck-chairs were smoking too, contributing their quota to the conversation. To complete the picture, Brown, the odd-job man, was delving holes destined to receive the posts of a pergola. Mrs. Peters' eye wandered from her work and dwelt frigidly on him.
"By the way, Charles," she said, "did you ever speak to Brown about that young woman?"
"What young woman?" asked the vicar lazily. Mrs. Peters recounted the incident.
"No, my dear," said the vicar. "You could not tell me her name: all you had to go on was a voice, and I could hardly catechize him on that. Besides, it may be a worthy attachment."
"Very possibly," agreed his wife, though her tone was skeptical. "I have no objections to that. But while he is at work ..."
"Awful word!" said Tony, for the sake of saying something. "I wonder what work is like—real continuous work, I mean."
"We can offer you plenty," said the vicar cheerfully. "The lawn wants cutting. You could trim the hedge, too, and——"
"No thanks," said Tony with a shudder. "Any other time I'd be glad, but just now I'm too busy."
"Of course, Mr. Wild, my husband was joking. But don't you think that an idle life...? Would not work—literary work, for example—be a good thing for a young man?"
"I'm too old to begin," said Tony wearily. "Now, a hearty young spark like my friend Bangs——"
The spark flickered into a feeble flame of protest and died away.
"You're wrong, Mr. Wild," said the vicar, taking his pipe out. "Work is the best thing. You'd realize it if you tried it. Of course, now you're on a holiday——"
"AmI?" said Tony. "I'm a kind of bear-leader to Bangs. I'm simply full-up with work, looking after him—arranging schemes for his comfort—keeping him out of mischief. Aren't I, Bangs?"
Robert smiled in a deprecating way. "You—you exaggerate a little. But—but——"
Mrs. Peters disliked the cynical frivolity Tony imparted to the conversation. "Would you mind telling us the nature of some of these arduous duties?" she asked coldly.
"Oh, there's a gay lot," said Tony, reflecting. "I've had to order lunch, for example: Bangs has no ideas. Then I organize walks ... and deal the hands at piquet in the evenings ... and ... by jove, yes! I promised to help him telephone to-day, if you wouldn't mind?"
"Not a bit," said the vicar, the sole possessor of a telephone in Shereling. He rose and stretched himself. "Come along now."
But Robert remained in his chair, looking decidedly uneasy. "No, no!" he said with a frightened manner. "It is nothing. It will keep for a day or two. There is really no necessity...." He began to stammer and blush, aware of the eye of Mrs. Peters.
"You promised!" said Tony reproachfully. Then turning to the lady he said, "Come, Mrs. Peters! You can't say that I lack energy now! Here am I, thirsting to get work, and old Bangs keeps me back. And only yesterday he said that nothing on earth should prevent him from at last—at long last——"
"All right," interrupted Robert, in terror of what Tony would say next. "Come along! Come along! Where is the telephone, Mr. Peters?"
"In the dining-room," replied the vicar, wondering. "I'll show you the way."
They went into the house, leaving Mrs. Peters on the lawn, deeply stirred. "That manhasa past," she determined. "He looked simply terrified. I wonder if I ought to ask Charles.... I wonder if it would be right to.... And they are strangers ... one never knows...." She thought sternly for a moment and then got up, resolution in her countenance. "It's a duty," she murmured—"a positive duty. And Charles is so weak."
The martyr to duty was going to listen at the door.
If the telephone had been in the vicar's study Mrs. Peters might have watched in vain; for to acquire accurate information through a keyhole needs practise or unusually keen ears. But the vicar wanted perfect quiet to prepare his sermons, and it was agreed that the instrument should be placed in the dining-room. This suited Mrs. Peters admirably, for there was a dumb-waiter between that room and the pantry. Standing on the other side of the hatch (which she raised with caution a couple of inches) she could hear all that passed, secure in the reflection that a screen concealed the hatch and butler's tray. This is what she heard as soon as the vicar had left the room.
"Mr. Wild, Itoldyou that I would rather not——"
"Duty, Bangs, duty! Remember that! You've allowed your unhappy wife to mourn——"
"No, no! I thought it better not to write just yet, in case——"
"Pure funk, and nothing else. No, Bangs; yououghtto let her know—you ought to have let her know before this. Besides, there's no danger: she can't spot where you are."
("Then there is a mystery!" reflected Mrs. Peters, warm with the satisfaction of a justified eavesdropping. "He has left his wife!")
"N—no ... but ..."
"Seriously, Bangs, you must telephone. Every day you delay brings a possible pursuit closer. Come now! Shall I ring up?"
"No, no! Wait half a minute while I think of something to say. How shall I begin? Shall I——"
"Oh, the usual sort of greeting from a husband to a wife: 'Good morning, little bunch of fluff!' Or, 'Cheeroh, beloved armful!' Any pet name—look here, you'd better let me——"
A confused sound hinted to Mrs. Peters that a struggle for the receiver was in progress. It ended speedily in a victory for Mr. Bangs. His voice quavered a number—"Bloomsbury, 843B." Mrs. Peters made a mental note.
"Hello ... hello ... are you 843B? Yes?... Who's that?Hello!Who's that? Oh, it's you, Jane ... tell your mistress—hello! You silly girl, itisme." ("She's had a fright, Mr. Wild. I ought to have broken the news more gently.") "What? Do speak up ... yes ... yes ... you've sat down on the porcelain bowl on the hall table? Confound!... what for? Whatfor, you clumsy ... oh! I frightened you ... oh ... oh ... I see.... Well, go on.... Yes ... no, perhaps it wasn't altogether your fault ... yes.... All right ... all right, that's quite enough. I know you're sorry ... yes.... Tell your mistress I want to speak to her.... She's in the kitchen? Well, go and fetch her. Don't hang the receiver up. Yes ... yes....
"She's gone to fetch her, Mr. Wild!"
"The plot thickens, Bangs, I say, shall I take the receiver and telephone? Rather a lark, you know, your wife expecting you and hearing me instead."
"No, no!"
"I won't address her in terms of affection, if that's all you're afraid of. Besides, I should rather like to hear what she says to her peccant husband."
"Not for anything, Mr. Wild.... Hush! here she is.... Is that you, Alicia?Wheeee! Wheee!... I'm exceedingly sorry, my dear ... no, I wasn't laughing—something wrong with the wire.... Well, how are you?... That's good ... I do hope you haven't been worrying.... What?... Oh ... oh ... ah...." ("She says I'm not worth worrying about!" "Cover it UP, you fool! She'll hear you!") ... "Eh?... no ... nobody else here, my love ... quite alone—quite alone ... the wire...." ("What's that? Magnetic storm?") ... "Magnetic storm, Alicia! Plug's not firmly in, perhaps.... Well, you're all right, then? Anything else?... Oh,me! Oh, I'm in capital form.... What?... Yes, that's all.... What?... Oh, I thought I'd better ring up to let you know how I was getting on.... Yes ... yes ... I shall come back presently.... No ... no ...absolutelyno.... I can't possibly tell you my present address ... but you needn't worry. I'mquiteall right ... eh?... No ... I'm not unfeeling—this is just my holiday. I shall be back in a few weeks. I send you my love. Good-by."
"That do, Mr. Wild?"
"You might send a kiss, eh? Usual thing ... try again—I bet she's not left the wire."
"Hello ... hello! You there, Alicia?...Wheeee!... I just rang up—wheee—to send you a kiss.... Good-by."
"So we've set her mind at rest, Bangs. You lost your funk pretty soon!"
"Well, Mr. Wild, somehow ... it's not quite the same thing talking to Alicia from a distance ... I felt quite brave!"
"Perfect hero!... Now we've settled that, let's go and find the dragon in the garden."
They found the vicar, but not the dragon, who was lashing her tail in the pantry, impotent, speechless, aflame with anger. To hear herself called a dragon, and by a pair of unprincipled adventurers! One of them, it appeared, was a man who had run away from his wife; the other, an idle fribble who might be anything. "Thank Heaven I have no daughter in the house!" thought Mrs. Peters in a paroxysm of resentful propriety. "Who could feel safe with such men about? And this comes of Charles picking up chance acquaintances in a common tavern! Oh, I must go and tell him—expose them at once! The impudent hypocrites!"
On the threshold she paused. Was it because, despite her justification, she did not feel anxious to mention the vigil in the pantry? Or was it due to a wifely consideration for a husband's weakness? She chose to believe the latter. "Charles will not have the moral courage to expel them from the vicarage!" she reflected. "He is pitifully craven in such matters. I must manage it myself.... I had better wait and watch.... They may have any designs.... Perhaps I had better wait, and then ..." A smile, terrific in severity and menace, writhed her lips. Some signal act of vengeance was evidently maturing. "Yes! I will wait!"
On the lawn she found Tony. Compelling herself to speak without undue hostility, she learned that the vicar had carried Robert off to inspect the greenhouse. Mrs. Peters, on the plea of a message, followed. She could not trust herself with Robert or his accomplice. "Is it he who has led Mr. Bangs astray, or the other way about?" she wondered viciously. "They both seem to bemostundesirable; but Mr. Bangs is older and ought to know better. Besides, he has a wife." Had she known of Tony's matrimonial vicissitudes she would have fainted.
The odd-job man had just finished his digging, and Tony strolled over to exchange a word: he never despaired of finding interest in the most unpromising material. Chats with para-orators, enthusiastic Salvationists, members of the Junior Turf Club, constellations of the stage, even housemaids taking in the milk,—all might be, and often were, instruments in the warfare against boredom. All were fish for his net. But it must be confessed that his catch had hitherto been of little value. He had bought a few centimes' worth, paying for it with numerous rouleaus, and he was beginning dimly to wonder if it was not rather an extravagant method of exchange.
"Done?" he asked laconically, and Henry Brown smiled with content.
"That's a good job jobbed," he replied. "Shifting earth is healthy, sir, but it takes doing."
"D'you like it?" said Tony; "I mean, d'you find it interesting and all that, or do you pant after the higher life? More wages and less work, and so forth, I mean?"
The odd-job man shrugged his shoulders.
"It's my job, sir," he said philosophically. "I can't say it's amazing interesting, but it's my job, and it's got to be done."
"Got to be done," repeated Tony, musing. "I suppose it has ... by some one. Thank goodness it's not to be done by me. Tell me, Brown, what do you really think of work? Does it bore you or what? Do you think it's a good thing, so to speak? You needn't mind speaking out—the vicar can't hear, and I'm a man of the world and all that. Tell me, does work bore you to tears?"
The other smiled.
"Work's kept many a man straight, sir," he said. "I should be sorry to be without."
"You reallymeanthat?" asked Tony in surprise.
"I do, sir. Don't you think the same?"
Tony did not answer, but reflected for at least a minute. Then he took off his coat and turned up his shirt-sleeves with a whimsical smile. "I haven't worked for years," he said: "kept myself fit with developers and other horrors. Lend me your spade, will you? I want a new thrill."
Brown laughed, but obeyed. Tony began to dig, steadily and resolutely, at a spot where another post was to be planted. He did not attack the task too vehemently, as many an amateur would have done, for he had brains. But he dug faithfully, and at the end of ten minutes he was more than hot. He did not give in, however, but dug on till the task was accomplished. Then he threw down the spade, wiped his forehead and stretched himself. Brown watched him curiously.
"Had enough, sir?"
"For the present, yes," said Tony. "One mustn't suck pleasure to the dregs. But I'll admit it's not a bad sort of notion on the whole, this work. In small doses it might even be admirable—a kind ofapéritif, you know. But, regarded as a habit ... that would need further consideration. Where can I find a tap?"
"Behind that fence, sir...."
Tony went to cleanse his hands, leaving the odd-job man chuckling. "Rum customer," he murmured: "a very rum customer, indeed. Oh, very rum! Everything's rum, when you come to think of it—more than rum.... Things seem to get rummer every day...."
Tony thought the same as he stood drying his hands upon the grass and a handkerchief behind the fence. The tap was screened from the lawn by the aforesaid fence, from the road by the privet-hedge. And as he dried and mused, steps, the light tapping of small feet, could be heard approaching on the other side of the hedge. From a subconscious strategy—caused by a deep-set mysterious instinct—he waited till the steps had gone past. Then he peeped through the hedge and nearly whooped. For, retreating, he observed the neat figure of his damsel of the visiting-card. Joy was excusable, for he had not seen her again since their encounter.
His first impulse was to whistle. This he checked on the score of vulgarity and bethought him what course would be best. Should he break through a weak spot in the hedge, leaving comrade Bangs to his own devices, or should he make formal but hasty adieux and pursue in the hope of overtaking? The latter was clearly the more correct procedure, but Tony's heart yearned regretfully over the girl in the road. She looked such a perfect pet! Luckily he was not called on to make an immediate decision, for she stopped a few yards farther on and gazed around. Tony concealed himself in such a way that he might still keep an eye upon her. What was she waiting for? He was not left long in doubt, for she gave a low but melodious whistle. The whistle was answered in the same key. "Brown, by all that's wonderful!" muttered Tony. "The lucky dog! No wonder he doesn't find work dull."
If he expected a love-passage he was disappointed. The girl, as soon as her whistle was returned, flung a piece of paper over the hedge and walked quickly away. Tony gave the odd-job man time to pick up the billet and presently strolled round, still drying his hands.
"Clean, sir?" asked the odd-job man stolidly. After all, the privet was thick and Tony might not have seen.
"Yes, thanks.... I say, Brown, I've been thinking over what you said about work just now. It seems to me that there's quite a lot to be said for it."
"Yes, sir?"
"I should like to know more ... to hear a little more about the practical side of the question before making up my mind as to its intrinsic worth. I wonder if you'd care to smoke a pipe and try the cider of The Happy Heart with me to-night?"
"Thank you, sir," replied Brown, betraying no surprise, "but I'm afraid I'm too busy."
"To-morrow, then...."
"Busy to-morrow, sir, too."
"Sunday an off day?"
"To be frank, sir, I have a young lady...."
"Ah!" said Tony, hoping to hear something. "I won't press you then. I wish you luck."
"Thank you, sir."
There was a brief silence that Tony felt oppressive. He was the first to break it.
"Been engaged long, Brown?"
"No, sir. Not very long."
Another silence. The impenetrability of these yokels is not exhilarating. Tony felt chilled, disappointed. He tried again.
"I suppose it's almost as engrossing as work, Brown?"
"Yes, sir; almost."
He said it without a smile, as if he was quite serious. But Tony suspected him of being guileful. Clearly it was useless to prolong the conversation. He sighed.
"Well, I must look for my friend. Good-by, Brown. Do come and talk to me about work sometime, when the lady is otherwise engaged."
"Thank you, sir."
Tony moved off to find Robert. He was discovered in the kitchen-garden, pretending to admire vegetable-marrows. Mrs. Peters was hovering grimly in the rear, a silent watchful figure. The vicar was dilating on the excellence of marrow jam. After saying good-by, Tony and Robert went off to the inn. The vicar turned to his wife with a smile.
"Quite a pleasant afternoon, my dear. I like Mr. Bangs. Mr. Wild, too, is amusing, though cynical. But we mustn't judge too harshly—perhaps he has had a disappointment and his cynicism is half-assumed. Undoubtedly humorous and clever. Some of his shots hit the mark."
"You think so?" said Mrs. Peters icily. "I dislike them both. Mr. Bangs, to say the least, is anything butquiet; Mr. Wild, I am sure, is a man who has had a gentleman's education and lapsed. Superficially clever, perhaps, but vulgar. You made a mistake in taking them up."
"No, no, my dear! Be a little more charitable——"
"Agreatmistake, Charles. But you always think you know best. What I insist on is principle. Nothing can compensate for the lack of that. Principle above cleverness——"
The vicar laughed good-naturedly.
"Why! what a dragon of virtue——"
He got no farther. Mrs. Peters suddenly assumed so dreadful an aspect that he shrank aghast and began to fumble for excuses.
At the end of three more days Lionel was feeling a little ill-used. There was still no word from Beatrice, and the watching brief he held began to look like a permanency. A sinecure, you remark disparagingly, or (with an envious inflection) a soft job. Lionel had a roof above him, luxurious food, money in his pocket and a pretty hostess: he would be a churl who grumbled, a witless being who did not know when he was well off.
But nevertheless he grumbled. He wanted to be up and doing. Dalliance was delightful, no doubt, and he could thoroughly enjoy so pleasant a pastime. But he required a soupçon of the serious to edge his palate for frivolity, and not a single olive had been sent him from headquarters. Beatrice might have written, surely: not necessarily a letter, but a note, a telegram, even a picture post-card was not too much to have expected. After all, he was a human being trying to do her a good turn. She might, if she liked, consider him in the light of a dog; but even a dog demands an occasional pat.
Yes, Beatrice had been a little inconsiderate. When they met again he would subtly convey that she had not been quite so perfect in her handling of the case as she might have been. Not blame—oh, no! that would be too severe. But a touch of respectful and adoring frigidity—a hint of polite and ardent disappointment, that was the note to be struck. It would add to the subsequent reconciliation, or rather readjustment. Iced champagne, in short, followed by liquor brandy. Finally (perhaps ... who knows?) a mixture of the two, compounding that exhilarating beverage, king's peg.
But that could only be drunk post-mortem.... Poor, dear old Lukos.... Well, for the present he must sport the blue ribbon....
But a dog will have its pat: if the mistress will not give it, another may; and who can blame the devoted creature if it lingers piteously hard by a stranger? Again, why blame the stranger, moved doubtless by a kindly and an unselfish impulse? Why blame Miss Arkwright, in short, for growing daily more cordial, more appreciative, more anxious to oblige with the pat? Lionel was obeying the orders of Beatrice, to watch and do the bidding of his hostess; he could not be expected to damp her graciousness, check her enthusiasm: had he done so, he might have sealed the source of some important information. He must endure the pat, suffer it, permit, accept, not refuse; but ... welcome?
He was talking to her in the garden one afternoon. They had begun the conversation on some trivial theme, soon tossed aside for a subject of substance. It was not long before they were on the time-worn topic, the war of the sexes. Miss Arkwright, it appeared, was a suffragette—not militant, certainly, but convinced and ardent. She expressed surprise that Lionel did not take similar views. "For you," she said sweetly, "are a reasonable fair-minded man. And I should think," she added mischievously, "that you have many friends who might convert you."
"It isn't my brain that wants conversion," he replied meditatively. "Most of the arguments are on the women's side. Logic tells me they should have the vote; feeling—and by feeling I don't mean prejudice or bigotry, but something deeper—recoils from the idea of women in parliament. And it would mean that in the long-run. Let us keep them out of the dirty work."
"They might cleanse the stables."
"I'd rather not. We're cleansing them gradually, one hopes: at any rate, it's not a woman's job."
"Our view is thatalljobs should be women's."
"Impossible." He shook his head. "I'm one of the old-fashioned believers in the home as woman's sphere——"
"And the thousands of unmarried workers? You forget them."
"Hard, I grant you, but they're a minority. Most women have the home sphere. Mind, I don't believe in inequality as regards laws: they should be the same for both."
"Yes," she said with a bitterness that surprised him, "look at the inequalities of divorce, for instance."
"We'll discuss that presently. Look for a moment at the reverse of the medal. Hasn't woman got the pull in influence? Can't she sway men without the vote?"
"A pretty woman or a clever woman can. Not the others."
"Ye—es. Sex counts."
"So you leave us the weapon of the coquette? That's what it amounts to. Is that a desirable weapon? Besides, it's double-edged."
"Rather a crude way of putting it," he said a little uncomfortably. "Nature has given you a power you can use for good. Why not use it?"
"But is it so powerful?"
"On dit."
"What doyouthink?" She bent forward, leaning to him, smiling audaciously in his eyes. Lionel would have been more than human if he had not felt flattered. This delightful creature, whom at a first meeting he had thought prudish and narrow, had developed amazingly. Companionship for a fortnight with a gay man of spirit and address, who did not lack a generous nature, had brought the bud to blossom. Now as she smiled on him with inviting eyes he felt strongly tempted to complete her education with a kiss. He temporized.
"What does it matter what I think?"
"It may matter a good deal," she said with a meaning he could not fathom.
"Tell me."
She explained herself curiously. Instead of speaking she was silent for a moment, as if choosing a course. Then with a friendly abandon she rested her hands lightly on his shoulders and said, "No. You shall tell me." Then she waited for the inevitable kiss.
Man is a strange animal. (I apologize for this truism, but, really, Lionel himself must be my excuse.) A man may be a savage, a knave, a brute, but beneath every human bosom there lurk some seeds of nobility, however few and atrophied. Juvenile literature abounds withloci classici. The thief who breaks into the night nursery is subdued by the innocent prattle of Baby Tumkins; the drunken osler in the "Pig and Whistle" is sobered by the consumptive angel who lisps, "Daddy, dear daddy, do come home!" The blasphemous ravisher, mad in the hour of victory, is tamed by the sight of a locket ("Heavens! how came this here? Tell me, girl!") and drops his prey with an oath that is half a prayer. And so on ... one need not accumulate examples.
Lionel did not kiss Miss Arkwright. Though he had dwelt on the possibility, hoped for it, almost schemed and certainly desired; though he had decided that his grass-bachelorship permitted such a kiss as was now offered, he refused. Why? Partly, no doubt, because a kiss won by half-forceful methods is worth more than a tribute freely offered; partly because the offer tends to congeal the blood and curb the desire—the ideal has stooped and taken a few inches off her goddess statue; partly, too (the moralist will be glad to note), because he remembered Beatrice.
Seeds of nobility? One must suppose it. Perhaps a sense, dim-recognized, that the cheapening of ideals by frequent draughts at wayside fountains lessens the value and appreciation of the ultimate prize. Men find it hard to resist a drink. If they could look forward with assurance to the final realization of their hopes there would be fewer loveless marriages, fewer abandoned maidens, fewer degenerate men. But they feel that youth slips by—the ideal woman is hard to find, harder to win: why not sip the pleasant fountain that will slake them for a moment? So,vogue la galère! We will have one swig before we die—a good swig to drown regret: if we find it is not Veuve Clicquot but only muddy ale, at least we can get drunk on one as well as the other.
These profound reflections did not present themselves so lucidly to Lionel as to the temperate reader who never gets drunk—never so much as sips. He comprehended them vaguely, unconsciously almost, in the thought, "Oh, damn! she's not Beatrice—she's not Beatrice—I can't." A man of unsettled purpose, you perceive, who had mapped his course of pleasure and then forsaken it, vacillating, lukewarm, halting between two opinions. "The evil that I would, I do not!" he thought in humorous astonishment at himself; and then aloud, "I am at a loss for words."
He felt rather a fool, but was pleased to note that Miss Arkwright looked neither ill-at-ease nor disappointed. He searched her countenance for a hint of contempt, but found none. Dropping her hands with an unaffected laugh she said, "You are duller than I thought, Mr. Mortimer. Come! let us go and see if they have brought tea out yet." They turned, and suddenly her face flushed scarlet. She drew in her breath sharply. Forbes was coming across the lawn, followed by the ambassador.
She ran forward and shook hands, murmuring something Lionel did not hear. Then, as Forbes retired, she introduced the two men: "Mr. Mortimer—Mr. Beckett." Lionel surveyed the ambassador with curiosity, his late-lulled suspicions once more awake. What was he doing here? Mr. Beckett returned the scrutiny something in the manner of a jealous lover who would like an explanation of a stranger's presence. But he was a diplomatic gentleman, and it was with a slight laugh, merry and sincere, that he held out his hand.
"We have met before," he said in a friendly fashion, "but under less happy auspices. Mr. Mortimer, you saw me under a cloud. I was exceedingly rude. You who are a golfer will readily find excuses, I hope. I am very sorry."
Miss Arkwright's eyes looked anxiously upon them. When had they met and where? How odd that he had never mentioned it once! She must hear the story of their meeting; and "rude"—what did he mean by that?
Lionel smiled and referred her to the ambassador. He, genuinely anxious to atone for a foolish contretemps, did not spare himself in the recital. Miss Arkwright laughed gaily over the tale.
"Men are so silly," she said merrily as he finished. "Fancy getting angry over a game of golf! And all by yourself, too! If there had been some one to vent your rage upon——"
"Alas, there was!" said Mr. Beckett, with a whimsical glance at Lionel, who, despite himself and his suspicions, felt drawn toward the enemy. It was a friendly party of three that walked toward the summer-house.
On the whole, tea was a successful meal. Miss Arkwright led the conversation—monopolized it, almost; hardly pausing for replies, agreement, or contradiction. She looked splendid, her color heightened with pleasure, excitement, or kindred emotions. Lionel, who had studied her attentively for no short period, had never seen her in such a mood. She was gay and charming, unusually ready with the froth of sparkling small-talk. Any one meeting her for the first time would have believed her a cleverflaneuse, a butterfly with brains and beauty, living solely for the moment. But Lionel, who knew her better and had some secret knowledge of her possibilities for intrigue and conspiracy, found himself questioning. Was she nervous? And if so, of what?
Mr. Beckett had little opportunity to display his social gifts. The abilities, doubtless great to secure his present office, perforce lay hidden. But the few sentences he uttered, by way of confirmation or its opposite, were enough to show him as a man of original thought, some wit, and in close touch with the affairs of nations. An old man, he bore his years lightly; though the mask of frivolity he assumed out of compliment to his environment was occasionally dropped in moments of repose. At such moments he appeared tired—not physically, but of mundane trivialities.
At last Winifred rose. "You know my routine," she said brightly to Lionel: "I must vanish speedily. No! don't move. Stay here and smoke. I shall escort Mr. Beckett——"
"You still, then——" began the ambassador, rising at the hint. She interrupted him bruskly.
"Still—still—still! Are we not always 'stilling'? I wonder that a man of your experience finds anything remarkable in that. Oh, do not interrupt!"—for he made a deprecating gesture, opening his mouth to speak—"I will hear no excuses for banality. 'The ringing grooves of change' is pure fallacy; change is absent; only the grooves remain. We are what we are. As it was in the beginning, is now, and—do I shock you?" she asked abruptly, turning to Lionel.
"Surprise; not shock," he smiled.
"Then you owe me a debt of gratitude. Surprise is one of nature's best gifts, but at our mature age she is parsimonious. Don't you agree, Mr. Beckett?"
He, too, smiled, but mournfully.
"I have more need to count my birthdays than you," he said. "If your surprises are few, how many can I hope for?"
"Nil desperandum!" she said cheerfully and less self-consciously, taking him, comrade-like, by the arm. "Come and find your motor: perhaps a surprise is waiting—some ragamuffin may have put a penknife through the tire!"
"I hope not!" he said more briskly. "As it has only just come from London this afternoon to take me back after my holiday, I don't want to be balked at the outset. Well, good-by, Mr. Mortimer."
"Good-by," said Lionel, shaking hands. "No chance of seeing you down here again presently, I suppose?"
"Who knows?" said Miss Arkwright vivaciously, taking the words from his lips. "A dashing adventurer like Mr. Beckett, whose only serious business is golf——"
She did not finish the sentence, but led him off, protesting that the slander was ill-deserved. Lionel watched them disappear, heavy with thought.
Miss Arkwright did not come back. He was glad of her absence, for he could only think, and think, and think again what it all meant, trying to find some key to the perpetual problem. There were Beatrice, Winifred and the ambassador forever whirling through his brain, suggesting, perplexing, questioning. Where was the clew? If only he could put his hand on some definite idea, some shred of coherence in the whole amazing scheme! Beatrice had warned him that her sister and "Mr. Beckett" were conspiring. Good: that was definite, and the ambassador's visit was proof of fellowship—in what? High politics? The life of Lukos? It seemed so unlikely in this pleasant English garden, but the facts were stubborn. Then he had not heard from Beatrice. He had thought she and Winifred might be identical.... Stay! he had discarded that.... Let us begin again from another point. Why had Winifred invited his amorous interest? She—but Beatrice had warned him—unnecessarily, had been his foolish thought—against the wiles of Winifred. Her seductive friendship had been simply a trap ... but, no! the remembrance of his recent delectable danger, the sincerity of her—love? the faith of her eyes—all denied a trap. Winifred could not be a conspirator; at worst she must be a half-hearted conspirator who had begun to sympathize with her enemies. But if that were so, she must soon be on the side of Beatrice, of whom she would speedily be jealous! His brain reeled.
The sum of his perplexed musings was that he must keep his eyes open,—a poor result for so much mental effort. That, however, was all he achieved by dinner-time, and he sucked small comfort therefrom. "I am not made for detective work," he reflected gloomily as he played with dinner. "I went into this adventure too light-heartedly. I thought it a game.... So it is, and deucedly exciting now, but I don't seem to have mastered the rules. A blind man in a total eclipse looking for something that isn't there,—that's Lionel Mortimer, Esquire. Old man, you'd better have a drink."
Sensations were crowding thick upon him. His uneventful fortnight was to bear a heavy interest within a few brief hours. In the library, after further futile pondering, he tried to distract his thoughts with books. It was a failure; he could not concentrate his attention on printed words for more than five minutes together. Always he came back to Beatrice and the ramifications reaching from Constantinople to London and thence to Shereling. With a grunt of dissatisfaction, he got up at last at eleven o'clock and knocked out his pipe upon the hearth. As he did this he heard a slight crunch as of a foot upon the gravel. He turned quickly toward the French window and saw that he had forgotten to draw down the blind. He saw something else as well. For a brief second Lionel had a glimpse—the barest glimpse—of a white face pressed against the pane,watching. The face vanished almost before the retina had time to record the impression, but he knew two things at once—it was a man's face, and a man he had never seen before.
Lionel did exactly what you and I would have done. He stood stock-still for a moment, his heart clop-clopping against his ribs as if intent on bursting its way through to the light, hammering a Morse message—"You are badly frightened, you are badly frightened, you are badly frightened." "Yes," said Lionel, after three seconds' pardonable collapse, "Iam; but I'll try to frighten the other chap!" And with laudable swiftness he ran to the window, threw it open and called, "Who's there?"
Of course there was no answer. With a thawing of the faculties he ran back, seized the poker and turned off the light. Then he stepped outside to look for the night-prowler, longing for some tangible flesh to beat into a pulp.
The night was starless. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves. Not a bird twittered a hint of ambush. Not a sound on gravel or swish of dew-laden grass brushed by a spy's foot promised vengeance. Aglow with eagerness now that action was possible and a clew at hand, he walked round the house, eyes and ears alert for the marauder. There was nothing to be seen. It was only too clear that the watcher by night had escaped the moment he was seen, and no good purpose could be served by a random pursuit in the dark. Lionel went back to the library, secured the windows and lighted a fresh pipe.
Of course he could not arouse the house. If, as seemed certain, this watcher were a Turkish spy, it would be absurd to enlist Miss Arkwright's aid. Better to say nothing, still watch—but even more narrowly—and ... go to bed.
It was a quarter to twelve when he went up-stairs, still smoking. His bedroom lay at the end of a short passage. Anxious not to disturb any one at that unseasonable hour, he took off his slippers at the foot of the stairs and advanced in his "stocking-feet." Without the slightest noise he tiptoed along the corridor. Just before he reached his room another door was opened, very quietly indeed, upon his right. A line of light cut the blackness, and Lionel stood still involuntarily, without purpose, waiting, expectant of something, he knew not what. The door opened wide, and a girl in a pretty pink dressing-gown came out. It was not Winifred who threw up her hands at the sight of the waiting Lionel. It was Mizzi.
This time Lionel had himself well in hand: he was ready for anything. It was no occasion for tenderness or chivalry: brusk silent action was the cue. Seizing the stricken Mizzi by the arm with one hand, he clapped the other over her mouth to prevent a scream. Then half-pushing, half-dragging, he forced her along the few remaining yards that separated them from his bedroom. She struggled at first, but soon realized her helplessness and allowed him to have his way. When he had her safely inside, Lionel locked the door quietly and sat down in high feather on the bed. He felt he was beginning to earn his salary at last.
"Do sit down," he suggested politely. "We must have quite a long conversation before we part. I can recommend the armchair."
Mizzi shrugged her shoulders philosophically and obeyed. She was breathing a little quickly from the capture; but Lionel noticed that she was as charming as ever, and his heart harbored a rebellious thought. "Hard luck that I seem to be always trying to snare a pretty girl!" he mused. "Well, it must be no nonsense now, my friend. Saint Anthony, forward!" He studied Mizzi's face attentively for a minute, and then asked bluntly, "Now, will you kindly tell me what you have done with those papers?"
"What papers?" she asked with surpassing innocence. "I have no idea what you mean."
"Oh, don't be silly!" he said impatiently. "Why need we beat about the bush? You know well enough. Explain."
"I know this," she said viciously, "that you find me coming from my room, fall upon me like an Apache, drag me here at this unseemly hour and lock me in! And you ask me to explain! The explanation is due from you. Have you never heard ofles convenances—what you English call Mrs. Grundy?"
"She's snoring now," he smiled. "I shan't wake her."
Mizzi rose with dignity and marched to the door, nose in the air. "If you are a gentleman," she said scornfully, "you will release me at once."
"Afterward," he replied without moving. He sensed his triumph already.
"After what?"
"Your explanation."
She sat down again and looked keenly at him, as if trying to divine the strength of his determination. "I have nothing to explain," she said presently. "If I had, you could not compel me. If you attempt it I shall scream."
"Quite worth trying," he said urbanely. "Start now. I haven't the least objection."
Mizzi remained silent for several minutes, debating the point. Then she laughed frankly, as if admiring his coolness. "Ah! that's better!" he approved. "Now, perhaps, we shall get on."
"But no!" she said quickly, "I shall not scream, because I am quite capable of taking care of myself. But I will tell you nothing. What next, monsieur?"
Lionel got off the bed and began to fill a pipe in leisurely fashion. "You don't mind me smoking?" he asked formally. "It always helps me." He struck a match and lighted the tobacco, apparently preoccupied. "What next? you ask. This. Have you ever seen that Pinero play,The Gay Lord Quex?"
She shook her head, puzzled.
"Ah! that's a pity, for I am going to borrow a hint if you are difficile. If you refuse to confess I mean to keep you locked up here till the morning."
"And then?"
"Then I shall ring for my shaving-water. And where's your character?"
She bit her lips. "I mistook you for a gentleman."
"Ah! that was the fault of the top hat. I'm really a detective and can't afford the luxury of sentiment."
Mizzi nibbled a finger-nail, and watched him with sparkling eyes. It was clear that she was not at ease, that she had not expected to find him so ready with a plan, so determined in dishonor. Being a woman, it is probable that she did not altogether blame him. Lionel smiled, reading her, as he thought, like a book.
"Well, what is it to be?"
She made a disconsolate gesture.
"You are too strong," she said, and smiled in pitiful appeal. "Ah, monsieur! once you would not have——"
"That line is useless," said Lionel brutally. He was playing for high stakes and could not afford to waste a trick. "Once I flirted and had the pleasure of a kiss. Never again, my pretty schemer! So don't try it on!"
She looked bewildered.
"You misunderstand me cruelly. But as I am to be beaten, let us get to business. What do you wish to know?"
"Where are the papers?"
She did not attempt to parry now. "They are not in this house."
"That is a lie."
She shrugged again.
"Monsieur is not discriminating. I tell you the truth. I took the papers and have hidden them. They are not here. If you like, here are my keys"—she held them out—"you may search my boxes."
He looked steadily at her. There was no wavering in her tone, no weakness in the eyes or mouth. Belief was imperative.
"Very well," he said. "Where have you hidden them?"
"I will not tell you that."
"You know the penalty?"
"Yes, and I do not care. I tell you so much, but not that."
Her voice was so inflexible, so cold and so indifferent that he felt defeat at hand.
"Leave it for the present, then. Have you sold them?"
"No. They would not pay the price."
"And you are waiting till they increase their offer?"
"Perhaps."
"Perhaps!" he echoed. "But you mean to sell them?"
She smiled faintly.
"Perhaps. I may have stolen them for other motives than money. Enough that I stole them and will not tell you where they are."
He changed his line of attack.
"To-morrow I will have you arrested for theft."
"No," she demurred. "You have no proof—no witness. The papers willneverbe found unless I choose. Besides, you dare not have me arrested: you know this is not a police matter."
"True," he admitted, for her knowledge made it useless to bluff. He paused and thought, Mizzi smiling maliciously from the armchair. The pendulum of victory was swinging to her and she could afford to smile. "Look here!" said Lionel, remembering another weapon. "Will you sell me them? I'll give you your price."
"I willneversell them to you," she said, still with inflexible determination. "Do not suggest it again, please. It would be a waste of time."
Lionel was baffled, beaten at every point in the game, and he knew it. "Confound it!" he thought savagely, "I fancied I held the key of the situation in my hands, and I am no further on. I am deeper, in fact, for I know that Mizzi is here and I do not know why.... Ah!" he cried suddenly, determined to have one thing decided for good and all. "You have won to-night, I allow—I have no hold on you to make you confess—but there is one thing that you have done for me—one suspicion that your presence here has made almost a certainty—one resolution of a doubt that I can thank you for, however painfully—"
"And that is?" she asked with polite interest.
"This. I have come to the conclusion that the whole business is a game. I don't understand it in the least, but it's a game none the less, and I have been a dupe. I am sure now that Miss Blair and Miss Arkwright are the same person. What do you say to that?"
Mizzi did not so much as flicker an eyelash. She looked at him with a lazy amusement.
"Herr Gott!" she said with a scorn that seared his unbelief forever. "If you think that you will think anything. Miss Arkwright and Miss Blair the same!" and she went off into an uncontrollable peal.
Lionel would have dearly liked to shake her, but in the midst of his defeat he realized with a glow that she had won a Pyrrhic victory. "She won't tell me what I ask her," he thought deliriously, "but she has convinced me of Beatrice's innocence. That is something at all events!" and he, too, began to laugh so infectiously that Mizzi stared in amazement. They laughed like two good friends, and it was in an excellent humor that Lionel at last got up.
"Congratulations!" he said courteously. "You have beaten me, I confess. I can not give you in charge, unfortunately, and I do not see that any good purpose would be served by keeping you here all night. If I did, I would do so without hesitation. But I warn you that I shall ask Miss Arkwright to-morrow for an explanation of your presence."
"I hope she will give you one," said Mizzi, rising with twinkling eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Mortimer. I hardly expected you to be generous, but I felt sure you would be sensible."
He laughed good-humoredly and walked over to the door, she following with a demure air that was something of a trial to Saint Anthony. He fitted the key, turned it, and opened the door with a little bow. The bow was never perfectly finished, for framed in the doorway he beheld the figures of his hostess and Mrs. Wetherby. They had evidently been on the point of knocking, for Miss Arkwright's right hand was raised in the air: the projected knock had assumed the similitude of a blessing—or a curse.
Mizzi fell back in unaffected horror. Lionel, the sport of fortune, was past surprise. He only stood and waited.
"Mizzi!" said Miss Arkwright—one can not think of her as Winifred in such a deplorable situation: she radiated outraged respectability. "Mizzi!"
The unhappy innocent was almost incapable of speech. Before Miss Arkwright's cutting dissyllables and Miss Wetherby's damnatory mien she was crushed. Lionel felt really sorry for her. "It is not my fault, madame," she mumbled. "Believe me, it is not my fault! This gentleman trepanned me. I am innocent. Is it not so, Mr. Mortimer?"
"She speaks the truth," said Lionel calmly. "I kidnaped her and locked her in. I suppose that sounds unlikely, but it is a fact: I alone am to blame. Does one apologize for this sort of thing? If so, I am very sorry, but——"
Miss Arkwright silenced him with a gesture. Her looks were serpents, her attitude was a virgin horror of man. She pointed imperiously to the corridor. "Go!" she hissed (yes—yes: "hissed" is melodrama, but shedidhiss), and Mizzi scuttled whimpering into the darkness. For a moment there was silence, but when the luckless girl had disappeared she turned again to Lionel. "Now, sir, be good enough to give me your key."
"Mykey!" he repeated in amazement. "Why?"
"Because I mean to lock you in for the night," she said sternly. "Without that degrading precaution we can not feel safe."
Mrs. Wetherby said nothing, but nodded a grim approval.
"I recognize your claims as hostess," replied Lionel amicably, "but, really, this is carrying the thing too far. I am not the vulgar intriguer you suppose—I merely kidnaped that charming——"
"If you refuse," interrupted Winifred with basilisk eyes, "I shall ring for Forbes and have you turned out of the house at once. Do you understand?"
Lionel sighed.
"I ought to have known," he said, "that a woman judges by emotion, not reason. In the morning perhaps I shall be able to convince you of my innocence." He gave her the key, which she snatched with unnecessary vehemence. "Good night. Thank you for an uneventful evening."
She ignored the insolence, which he justified to himself by her unreasonable suspicions. Leaving him in a nonchalant attitude, she swept out like an offended princess, her satellite following in an eloquent silence. Lionel heard the key turn dismally in the lock, and then the sound of footsteps retreating down the passage. He laughed gently to himself.
"Good lord, what a muddle!" he said, "and what an evening! First, the face at the window (what a title for a melodrama!—Dash it! I've seen it already on the posters!); second, the appearance of Mizzi; third, discovered by Winifred. Climax after climax, and I was beginning to think myself bored.Bored... ye gods!... all I need at the present moment is bed: I've done enough thinking to scour my brain-pan for a year."
He undressed rapidly and got into bed. As he pulled the clothes about him he chuckled, remembering Winifred's face. Then he grew grave. "Sacked to-morrow, old boy!" he muttered. "Marching orders at breakfast and no mistake! But before I go I'll ask her straight out what little Mizzi is doing here." And then he turned over and was soon asleep.
But the horn of plenty still had some gifts to shower upon him: the god of mischances had not yet exhausted his store of thrills. About five minutes, as it seemed, after his retiring—it was really an hour and a half—Lionel was roused from a deep slumber by a knock. He sat up in bed, blinking heavily, wondering if his senses had deceived him, whether he was dreaming or awake. For a moment he sat listening, and then the knock was repeated, distinct beyond the possibility of mistake. "Confound it!" he muttered in an ill temper; "they might give me a night off now.... To-morrow I'll hang a placard on my door—'Conspiracies attended to from nineA. M.to elevenP. M.Kindly note hours of consultation.'—Hello!" he said aloud; "is anybody there?"
The door opened a few inches, but no one entered. Lionel was too bored to speculate whether it might be Mizzi, Winifred or some unknown Oriental with turban and simitar. He was prepared to accept anything, if only he might be allowed to go to sleep. "Hello!" he repeated; "who is that?"
"Me," said the voice of Miss Arkwright. "Are you asleep, Mr. Mortimer?"
"Yes," said Lionel, grinning in the darkness—"sound asleep."
A species of cluck was heard from outside the door, but whether the strange sound indicated amusement or wrath he could not determine. He was wide awake now, determined to exact vengeance for his cavalier treatment.
"Some one," continued the voice, "is prowling round the house. A thief, I suppose. He seems to have a ladder."
"Oh!" said Lionel, in the dispassionate tone of the village idiot. "Oh!"
Again there was silence, save for a repetition of the curious cluck. Presently Winifred said in a voice that trembled with indignation, "Is that all you have to say?"
"You might give him my kind regards, and ask him to leave this room untouched," said Lionel, beginning to enjoy himself. He could picture Winifred biting her lip. "Good night, and pleasant dreams."
"You are aman, and my guest," said the voice bitterly, "and you leave us at the mercy of a possible murderer——"
"Not a guest," he corrected, "but a prisoner. If you require a man, why not ask Forbes? You were ready enough to use him just now."
Again there was silence. When she spoke again it was in the meekest of tones—so meek, indeed, that he scarcely recognized it as Winifred's.
"Mr. Mortimer, I am very sorry. Please be generous. I threatened you with a weapon I did not possess. Forbes sleeps in the village."
Lionel could not repress a laugh. He had been bluffed, but bore no malice. Enough of vengeance had been exacted. He could accept the capitulation without loss of dignity, for Miss Arkwright—most properly—had been obliged to ask his help.
"A moment," he said, "and I shall be with you."
Jumping out of bed, he hastily put on his dressing-gown in the dark. Then he opened the door and joined Winifred in the corridor. She was in a dressing-gown, too, and looked charmingen déshabille, her glorious hair unbound. But no time was allowed for more than a glance of admiration. Taking him by the arm, she hurried him along, explaining how she had not gone to sleep, but had lain thinking. "My light was out, of course," she said; "and this marauder, whoever he is, must have thought all the household asleep. I watched him cross the lawn and presently bring back a ladder from the potting-shed. He reared it against the window of an empty room. I at once came to you. As soon as he has discovered his mistake he will probably try another."
"Then shall I go down-stairs and capture him as he descends?" suggested Lionel.
"Let us see first from the window," she said. "We must make sure."
They entered her bedroom together and walked softly toward the window. The blind was up.
There was no moon, but the faint promise of the dawn lent a dim light, by which objects, grotesquely shadowed, could be distinguished. When they reached the window Lionel saw the top of a ladder resting against the sill.
"You're right!" he whispered. "Now, I'm off outside!" He turned to go, but was detained by a pressure on his arm.
"No, no!" whispered Winifred. "I can not let you—there may be a gang—you might get hurt——"
"Nonsense!"
"I insist!"
"Then why——"
"You mustnotgo! Throw something instead——"
"Absurd! I——"
"I beg you!" she entreated, and her voice was so timid that once again Lionel's heart failed. "All right!" he said. "Give me something heavy. I'll fling up the window suddenly and surprise him!"
She pressed his arm gratefully and glided across the room. The next moment she was at his side, offering the water-jug.