Bugg nodded his comprehension. "That's all right, sir," he observed reassuringly. "I'll bring the young laidy back saife an' 'earty. You leave it ter me."
"Thank you, Bugg," said Tony. "I shall now be able to go round Brooklands with a light heart."
He strolled back to the library, where he found Isabel kneeling upon the broad window-seat looking into a book which she had taken down from a neighbouring shelf. She made a charming picture with her copper-coloured hair gleaming in the sunlight.
"Good-bye, Isabel," he said. "I wish I could see you again before to-morrow, but I am afraid there isn't much chance. I can't very well ask you to dinner because of Cousin Henry. He would rush away and tell all my relations and half the House of Commons."
A gleam of dismay flashed into Isabel's eyes.
"The House of Commons!" she repeated. "Is your cousin a statesman then, a—a—diplomat?"
"He is under that curious impression," said Tony.
Isabel laid her hand quickly upon his sleeve. "You mustn't let him know I am here. Promise me, won't you? Promise you won't even say that you have met me."
There was a frightened urgency in her demand that rilled Tony with a fresh surprise.
"Of course I promise," he said. "I have no intention of telling any one I have met you, and as for telling about you to Henry—well, I should as soon think of playing music to a bullock." He glanced up at the clock. "I must be off," he added. "I will bring the car round to-morrow and we will have a nice long run in the country. In the meanwhile try and remember that you've got absolutely nothing to be frightened about. You are as safe with us as if you were a thousand pound note in the Bank of England."
He gave her fingers an encouraging squeeze, and then leaving her looking after him with grateful eyes, he walked across the hall to the front door, where Jennings was standing beside the big Peugot.
"Jennings," said Tony, getting into the driving-seat, "I have arranged for you to take Miss Francis shopping this afternoon in the Rolls-Royce. Bugg and Mrs. Spalding will be coming with you."
"Very good, sir," responded Jennings joylessly.
"You will take Miss Francis to my bank first: after that she will give you her own instructions." He paused. "It's just possible you may meet with a little interference from a couple of foreign gentlemen. In that event I shall be obliged if you will assist Bugg in knocking them down."
Jennings' brow darkened. "If any one comes messin' around with my car," he observed bitterly, "I'll take a spanner to 'em quick. I don't hold with this here fist fighting: it's foolishness to my mind."
"Just as you please, Jennings," said Tony. "As the challenged party you will be fully entitled to choose your own weapons."
He slipped in his second speed, and gliding off down the drive emerged on to the Heath. The main road was thickly strewn with nursemaids, and elderly gentlemen, who had apparently selected it as a suitable spot from which to admire the famous view, but avoiding them with some skill, Tony reached the top of Haverstock Hill, and turned up to the right in the direction of the Spaldings' house.
His ring at the bell was answered by Mrs. Spalding herself—a respectable-looking woman of about forty. She welcomed Tony with a slightly flustered air of friendly deference.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Spalding," he said.
"Good-morning, Sir Antony," she replied. "Won't you step inside, sir?"
Tony shook his head. "I mustn't wait now. I have got to be at the Club in twenty minutes. I only came round to thank you for your kindness to Miss Francis. She tells me you have looked after her like a mother."
Mrs. Spalding seemed pleased, if a trifle embarrassed.
"I am very glad to have been of any service, Sir Antony. Not but what it's been a pleasure to do anything I could for Miss Francis. A very nice young lady, sir—and a real one, too, if I'm any judge of such matters."
"I think you're a first-class judge," said Tony, "and I am glad you like her, because I want her to stay on with you for a bit. The fact of the matter is—" he came a step nearer and his voice assumed a pleasantly confidential tone—"Miss Francis is an orphan, and she has been compelled to leave her guardian because he drinks and treats her badly. Besides he's a foreigner, and you know what most of them are like."
"Not a German, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Spalding feelingly.
"No, it's not quite as bad as that," said Tony. "Still he is a brute, and I have made up my mind to keep her out of his hands until her aunt comes back from America. If you will help us, I think we ought to be able to manage it all right."
The combined chivalry and candour of Tony's attitude in the affair evidently appealed to Mrs. Spalding's finer nature.
"I think you are acting very right, sir," she replied warmly. "A young lady like that didn't ought to be left in charge of a foreigner—let alone one who's given to the drink. If I can be of any assistance you can count on me, Sir Antony."
"Good!" said Tony. "Well, in the first place, if you can manage it, I want you to go shopping with her this afternoon in the car. She has to buy some clothes and things, and it isn't safe for her to be about in the West End alone. If she came across her guardian he would be quite likely to try and get her back by force."
"They're a desperate lot, some of them foreigners, when they're baulked," observed Mrs. Spalding seriously.
Tony nodded. "That's why I have arranged to send Bugg with you. There is not really much chance of your meeting with any interference, but just in case you did—well, you could leave him to discuss the matter, and come along home." He paused. "You won't let Miss Francis think I have been talking about her private affairs—will you?"
Mrs. Spalding made a dignified protest. "I shouldn't dream of no such thing, Sir Antony. I quite understand as you've been speaking to me in confidence."
Tony held out his hand, which, after a moment's respectful hesitation, the worthy woman accepted.
"Well, I am very much obliged to you, Mrs. Spalding," he said. "You have helped me out of a great difficulty." He stepped up into the driving-seat and took hold of the wheel. "The car will be coming round about half-past two," he added, "and I expect Miss Francis will be in it."
Mrs. Spalding curtseyed, and responding with a polite bow over the side, Tony released his brake and glided off down the hill.
He did not drive direct to the Club, for on reaching Oxford Street he made a short detour through Hanover Square, and pulled up outside Murdock and Mason, the long established and highly respectable firm of jewellers. He was evidently known there, for so sooner had he entered the shop than the senior partner, Mr. Charles Mason, a portly, benevolent old gentleman with a white beard, stepped forward to greet him.
"Good-morning, Sir Antony," he observed, smiling pleasantly through his gold-rimmed spectacles; "we haven't had the pleasure of seeing you for quite a long time. I trust you are keeping well?"
"I am very well indeed, thank you, Mr. Mason," said Tony. "In fact I am not at all sure I am not better than I deserve to be." He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out Isabel's brooch. "I have come to ask you if you will do me a kindness."
Mr. Mason beamed more affably than ever. "Anything in my power, at any time, Sir Antony."
"Well, I should like you to tell me how much this is worth. I don't want to sell it: I just want to find out its value."
Mr. Mason took the brooch, and adjusting his spectacles bent over it with professional deliberation. It was not long before he looked up again with a mingled expression of interest and surprise.
"I don't know whether you are aware of the fact, Sir Antony," he remarked, "but you have a very exceptional piece of old jewellery here. The stone is one of the finest emeralds I have ever seen, and as for the setting—" he again peered curiously at the delicate gold tracery—"well, I don't want to express an opinion too hastily, but I am inclined to put it down as ancient Moorish work of a remarkably beautiful kind." He paused. "I trust that you wouldn't consider it a liberty, Sir Antony, if I inquire whether you could tell me anything of its history."
"It belonged to my cousin's great-grandmother," said Tony placidly. "That's all I know about it at present."
"Indeed," said Mr. Mason, "indeed! It would be of great interest to discover where it was obtained from. A stone of this quality, to say nothing of its exceptionally rare setting, is almost bound to have attracted attention. I should not be surprised to find it had figured in the collection of some very eminent personage."
"What do you suppose it's worth?" asked Tony.
Mr. Mason hesitated for a moment. "Apart from any historical interest it may possess," he replied slowly, "I should put its value at something between five and seven thousand pounds."
"Really!" said Tony. "I had no idea my cousin's great-grandmother was so extravagant." He picked up the brooch. "I wonder if you could find me a nice strong case for it, Mr. Mason. Somebody might run into me at Brooklands this afternoon, and it would be a pity to get it chipped."
The old jeweller accepted the treasure with almost reverent care, and calling up one of his assistants entrusted it to the latter's charge. In a minute or so the man returned with a neatly fastened and carefully sealed little package, which Tony thrust into his pocket.
"Well, good-bye, Mr. Mason," he said, "and thank you so much. If I find out anything more about my cousin's great-grandmother I will let you know."
Bowing and beaming, Mr. Mason led the way to the door. "I should be most interested—most interested, Sir Antony. Such a remarkable piece of work must certainly possess a history. I shouldn't be surprised if it had belonged to any one—any one—from Royalty downwards."
Half-past twelve was just striking when Tony came out of the shop. The distance is not far from Bond Street to Covent Garden, but as intimate students of London are aware the route on occasions is apt to be a trifle congested. It was therefore about ten minutes after the appointed time when Tony pulled up outside the Cosmopolitan and jumping down from the car made his way straight through the hall to Donaldson's private sanctum, where the ceremony of settling up was invariably conducted.
The first person who met his eyes on entering the room was the Marquis da Freitas. Despite his rôle as payer-out that distinguished statesman appeared to be in the best of spirits, and was chatting away to a small knot of members that included "Doggy" Donaldson and Dick Fisher the referee. In a corner of the room, tastefully arrayed in a check suit and lemon-coloured gloves, lounged the slightly crestfallen figure of Mr. "Lightning" Lopez.
"I am so sorry to have kept you all waiting," said Tony. "I haven't even the excuse of having to come up from Richmond—like the Marquis."
Da Freitas, who was in the act of lighting a cigar, waved aside the apology with a characteristic gesture. "A few minutes' grace are always permissible, Sir Antony, except where a lady is concerned. As for my own punctuality—" he shrugged his shoulders and showed his white teeth in an amiable smile—"Well, I was staying at Claridge's last night, so I had even less distance to come than you."
"I am so sorry to have kept you waiting," said Tony. "I haven't even the excuse of having to come up from Richmond--like the Marquis." Da Freitas, who was in the act of lighting a cigar, waved aside the apology. "A few minutes' grace are always permissible, Sir Antony, except where a lady is concerned.""I am so sorry to have kept you waiting," said Tony. "I haven't even the excuse of having to come up from Richmond—like the Marquis." Da Freitas, who was in the act of lighting a cigar, waved aside the apology. "A few minutes' grace are always permissible, Sir Antony, except where a lady is concerned."
There was a short pause. "Well, as we are all here," broke in the genial rumble of "Doggy" Donaldson, "what d'ye say to gettin' to work? No good spinning out these little affairs—is it?"
This sentiment seeming to meet with general approval, the company seated themselves round the big table in the centre. The proceedings did not take long, for after Donaldson had written out a cheque for the stakes and purse, and handed fifty pounds, which represented the loser's end, to Lopez, there remained nothing else to do except to settle up private wagers. Tony, who was occupying the pleasant position of receiver-general, stuffed away the spoils into his pocket, and then following the time-honoured custom of the Club on such occasions, sent out for a magnum of champagne.
"I am sorry the King isn't with us," he observed to Da Freitas. "I should like to drink his health and wish him better luck next time."
"We all should!" exclaimed "Doggy" filling up his glass. "Gentlemen, here's to our distinguished fellow-member, King Pedro of Livadia, and may he soon get his own back on those dirty skunks who gave him the chuck."
A general chorus of "Hear, hear," "Bravo," greeted this elegant little ovation, for if Pedro himself had failed to inspire any particular affection in the Club, its members shared to the full that fine reverence for the Royal Principle which is invariably found amongst sportsmen, actors, licensed victuallers, and elderly ladies in boarding-houses.
The Marquis da Freitas acknowledged the toast with that easy and polished urbanity which distinguished all his actions.
"I can assure you, gentlemen," he observed, "that amongst the many agreeable experiences that have lightened His Majesty's temporary exile there is none that he will look back on with more pleasure than his association with the Cosmopolitan Club. It is His Majesty's earnest hope, and may I add mine also, that in the happy and I trust not far distant days when our at present afflicted country has succeeded in ridding herself of traitors and oppressors we shall have the opportunity of returning some portion of that hospitality which has been so generously lavished on us in England. I can only add that there will never be any visitors to Livadia more welcome to us than our friends of the Cosmopolitan Club."
A heartfelt outburst of applause greeted these sentiments—the idea of being the personal guests of a reigning sovereign distinctly appealing to the members present.
"I hope he means it," whispered "Doggy" Donaldson in Tony's ear. "I'd like to see a bit of bull fightin', and they tell me the Livadian gals—" He smacked his lips thoughtfully as though in anticipation of what might be accomplished under the ægis of a royal patron.
Having created this favourable impression the Marquis da Freitas looked at his watch and announced that he must be going. Tony, who had promised to lunch at Brooklands before the trial, also rose to take his departure, and together they passed out of the room and down the corridor.
As they reached the hall, the swing door that led out into the street was suddenly pushed open and a man in a frock coat and top hat strode into the Club. He was a remarkable-looking gentleman—not unlike an elderly and fashionably dressed edition of Don Quixote. A dyed imperial and carefully corseted figure gave him at first sight the appearance of being younger than he really was, but his age could not have been far short of sixty.
The most striking thing about him, however, was his obvious agitation. His face was worried and haggard, and his hands were switching nervously like those of a man suffering from some uncontrollable mental excitement.
He came straight across the hall towards the porter's box, and then catching sight of Da Freitas turned towards him with an involuntary interjection of relief.
"Oh, youarehere," he exclaimed. "Thank God I——"
He paused abruptly as he suddenly perceived Tony in the background, and at the same instant the Marquis stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"My dear fellow," he said in that smooth, masterful voice of his, "how good of you to look me up! Come along in here and have a chat."
On the right of the hall was a small room specially reserved for the entertainment of visitors, and before the stranger could have uttered another syllable—even if he had wished to, the Marquis had drawn him across the threshold and closed the door behind them.
For several seconds Tony remained where he was, contemplating the spot where they had disappeared. Then, with that pleasant, unhurried smile of his, he pulled out his case, and slowly and thoughtfully lighted himself a cigarette.
"One might almost imagine," he observed, "that Da Freitas didn't want to take me into his confidence."
There was a knock outside.
"Come in," said Tony, who was arranging his tie in front of the glass.
The door opened, and Guy Oliver walked into the bedroom. He was in evening dress, which if possible made him look more sedate than ever.
"Hullo, Guy!" said Tony; "I am afraid I am a little late. Is Cousin Henry fuming on the mat?"
Guy shook his head. "He hasn't turned up yet: it's only just gone half-past." He seated himself on the end of the bed. "How did you get on at Brooklands?" he asked.
Tony stepped back from the glass and contemplated his tie with some satisfaction.
"I had quite a cheerful day," he replied. "I managed to squeeze eighty-six out of her, and finished up by breaking the back-axle."
Guy nodded grimly. "You will break your neck some day," he observed, "and then I suppose you will be satisfied."
"I doubt it," said Tony; "not if our present theology is anything approaching accurate." He picked up a dinner-jacket from the bed and began slowly to put it on. "Besides," he added thoughtfully, "I shouldn't like to die just yet. I think I see a chance of doing a little good in the world."
Guy looked at him suspiciously. "Who was that girl you had to breakfast with you?" he asked.
"Really, Guy!" said Tony, "you get more cynical every day." He crossed to the washstand, and taking a carnation out of its glass proceeded to arrange it in his button-hole.
"But who is she?" persisted Guy.
"She is my adopted cousin. Her name is Isabel—Isabel Francis. I adopted her after breakfast this morning."
There was a short pause. Then in a faintly ironical voice Guy observed: "Since she appears to be a relation of mine also, perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me where and when you met her."
"Not in the least," said Tony imperturbably. "We met each other in Long Acre last night at about a quarter to eleven."
"Where?" exclaimed Guy.
"Long Acre," repeated Tony. "It's a popular thoroughfare running out of Leicester Square." He watched his cousin's face for a moment with some enjoyment, and then added: "If you would try to look less like the recording angel I might tell you all about it."
"Go on," said Guy.
Tony paused to light a cigarette, and then seated himself on the bed. "It was like this," he began. "Bugg and I were coming down Long Acre after the fight, when we saw Isabel being—being—what's the word—'accosted' by a couple of gentlemen who looked like dressed-up organ-grinders. As an Englishman and a baronet I thought it was my duty to interfere.
"You would," said Guy with conviction.
"Leaving Bugg to knock down the two gentlemen," proceeded Tony tranquilly, "I took Isabel to supper at Verrier's. We had a very good supper. There was——"
"Never mind about the supper," interrupted Guy. "How did she come to be having breakfast with you this morning?"
"What a dreadfully direct mind you have," complained Tony. "There is no pleasure in telling you a story." He paused. "The fact was," he added, "that Isabel had nowhere to sleep, so I brought her back to Mrs. Spalding's."
"You what?" demanded Guy.
"I brought her back to Mrs. Spalding's. I couldn't very well bring her here: I knew it would shock you. That's the worst of having a thoughtful nature like mine."
"I say, is all this true?" asked Guy.
"Of course it is," said Tony. "Perfectly true. I couldn't invent anything half so interesting."
"You mean to say that you picked up a girl in Long Acre, and that you've actually brought her back and—and established her at the Spaldings'!"
"My dear Guy!" said Tony. "Please don't talk like that. It reminds me of one of Hall Caine's heroes." He stopped to flick the ash off his cigarette. "You've seen Isabel. You surely don't think she is an abandoned adventuress, do you?"
"No," said Guy. "I never suggested it: at least I never meant to. She seemed quite a nice girl in her way, but—but—well, who is she, and what on earth is she doing wandering about London without any friends?"
"I don't know," said Tony. "I think she has run away from somewhere and doesn't want to go back. The only thing I am certain about is that she had a very extravagant great-grandmother."
Guy got up from the bed. "Well," he said, "I have seen you do some fairly insane things in my time, but this is about the limit. Why the girl may be anything or anybody."
"I know," interrupted Tony. "It's the uncertainty that makes it so exciting."
"But think of the position you're putting yourself in! Suppose she has run away from school and her parents were to trace her here, why there would be a scandal that would ruin the family!"
"Well, what do you think I ought to do?" asked Tony. "Turn her out again into the cold hard world?"
Guy shrugged his shoulders. "You must do what you like," he said. "I'm not going to accept any responsibility. I have given you my opinion, and if you don't choose——"
He was interrupted by a knock at the door, followed almost immediately by the appearance of Spalding, who was carrying a note upon a small silver tray. He crossed the room and proffered the letter to Tony.
"Mr. Conway has just arrived, Sir Antony," he remarked. "He is in the drawing-room."
"What's this?" asked Tony, picking up the note.
"I believe it is a communication from Bugg, Sir Antony. Mrs. Spalding brought it round."
Tony turned to his cousin. "You might go down and kiss Henry, will you, Guy?" he said. "I will be with you in a second."
Guy left the room, and tearing open the envelope, Tony took out the letter inside. It was written in a sprawling, illiterate hand, and beautifully innocent of either stops or capitals.
sir i and the young lady come home safe but i spotted one of them forin blokes hanging round the corner of the street so i says to meself I'd better stop here till i heres from you becos i think he may be after the young lady and Mrs S. says its all rite and i can sleep in the kitchin and hoping i done rite your obedient servent tiger bugg the young lady didnt spot the bloke.
Tony read this interesting missive through with extreme care and then looked up at the expressionless face of Spalding.
"For various reasons," he said, "it would be very convenient if Bugg could sleep at your house for the next day or so. I suppose you would have no objection if your wife approved?"
"None at all, Sir Antony," replied Spalding. "I make it a point never to object to anything of which Mrs. Spalding approves."
Tony regarded him thoughtfully. "I should imagine you were a most considerate husband, Spalding," he said.
"Yes, sir," said Spalding. "My wife sees to that, sir."
Folding up the note and putting it in his pocket, Tony made his way downstairs to the drawing-room, where he found Guy in conversation with a heavily-built, pink-faced, stolid-looking man of about forty years of age. This was Henry Conway, a first cousin of both Tony and Guy, and an intensely serious and painstaking member of the House of Commons. He had married Lady Laura Crampton, the plain but public-spirited daughter of the Earl of Kent—an alliance which had been of considerable assistance to them both in their disinterested efforts in behalf of the general welfare.
"Hullo, Henry," said Tony, coming forward with a well-assumed air of pleasure. "I am so sorry to be late. How's Laura?"
Henry shook hands.
"Laura is fairly well, thank you, Tony," he replied. "I think she's a little overtaxed her strength in working up this new league for closing the public-houses to women, but no doubt she will soon be herself again. Her recuperative powers are wonderful, quite wonderful."
"I know," said Tony. "I suppose the feeling that one is promoting the happiness of one's fellow-creatures acts as a sort of stimulus."
Henry nodded, and taking out his handkerchief blew his nose resonantly. "If it were not for that," he observed, "the strain of public life would at times be almost intolerable."
There was a short pause, broken by the opportune appearance of Spalding with the announcement that dinner was ready.
Throughout the meal the conversation remained fairly general. Henry was rich in that type of intelligence which enables its possessor to discourse copiously and decisively upon every possible topic without puzzling the listener by introducing subtle or original views. Politics in some shape or other were of course his principal theme, and in view of Guy's warning, Tony expected every moment that the menacing question of Balham North would obtrude itself above the horizon. Apparently, however, in Henry's opinion, the presence of Spalding acted as a barrier, and it was not until dinner was finished and they were sitting alone over their coffee and cigars that he began to approach the subject which was really the cause of his visit.
"I understand," he said turning to Tony, "that Guy has more or less acquainted you with the steps that I have been taking in your interest."
Tony nodded. "It's exceedingly kind of you, Henry," he said. "The only thing is I haven't quite made up my mind yet whether I have the necessary qualifications for a successful statesman."
Henry's eyebrows contracted. "I was under the impression," he said, "that we had already settled that part of the affair."
"You and Laura may have settled it," replied Tony. "In important matters of this sort I always prefer a little time for reflection."
Henry pushed back his chair from the table. "And may I inquire," he asked with an obvious attempt at irony, "what you would consider 'a little time'? It seems to me that six years ought to be a sufficient period in which to decide what one intends to do with one's self." He paused. "Unless, of course, you prefer to go on doing nothing."
"Nothing!" echoed Tony reprovingly. "My dear Henry! What a way in which to describe my multifarious activities."
With the stern self-control engendered by a public career Henry managed to keep his temper. "I am speaking of useful and serious work in the world," he replied. "You did your duty in the war certainly, but since then you seem to have devoted your life entirely to frivolous amusements."
"There is precious little frivolity about motor-racing," objected Tony. "You should have been with me to-day when the back-axle went."
"Thank you," said Henry stiffly. "I have something better to do with my time." He looked across at Guy. "I think you agree with me that the manner in which Tony is wasting his life is nothing short of deplorable."
"Certainly I do," said Guy. "I was telling him so at dinner last night."
Henry nodded. "The whole family are of the same opinion." He turned back to Tony. "It isn't as if you were a private individual and able to do what you please. A great position has its obligations as well as its privileges. The Conways have always played an important part in public life, and as head of the family it is your duty to see that this tradition is maintained."
Tony looked at him with a certain amount of admiration. "If I only had your gifts, Henry," he said, "I shouldn't hesitate a moment, but I don't believe I could ever learn to talk as you do."
Henry acknowledged the compliment with a pleased if slightly patronizing smile. "Oh, I don't know," he observed more graciously. "I believe you have considerable ability if you chose to exercise it. Of course one can't expect to become a finished speaker all in a moment, but it's wonderful what a little practice and experience will do. Besides you would have the benefit of my advice and assistance from the start."
"I am sure I should," said Tony, "and Laura's, too, I expect."
Henry nodded. "No one is more interested in your future than Laura is. It was her original idea that I should bring your name forward for Balham North. You can count on having her by your side through the whole campaign."
"It's my belief," interrupted Guy a little hastily, "that Tony would thoroughly enjoy an election. The element of fighting about it ought to suit him exactly."
"I wish it was some other place than Balham North though," observed Tony pensively. "I can't see myself saying 'Men of Balham!' with just the proper ring that the phrase ought to have."
Henry looked at him a shade mistrustfully. "I only hope," he replied, "that you intend to approach the matter in a serious spirit. I have gone out of my way to put your name forward, and it might do me a great deal of harm politically, if you choose to make a deliberate fiasco of it."
With a reassuring smile, Tony pushed the port towards him.
"Don't you worry, Henry," he said. "When I take a thing up I always carry it through decently and properly, don't I, Guy?"
"You carry it through, certainly," admitted the latter.
"Then I understand," said Henry refilling his glass, "that I can inform Headquarters you are prepared to contest the seat at the next election."
There was a short pause.
"I suppose so," said Tony. "If it will really give the family so much pleasure I haven't the heart to refuse. I am afraid it will mean a lot of extra work for Guy, though."
"You needn't mind about me," put in Guy unsympathetically.
"And how does one start?" asked Tony. "I have read somewhere about people nursing a constituency. Do we have to go down and nurse Balham?"
Henry shook his head. "There is no hurry," he said. "Sir George Wilmer has given us a private hint that he means to retire at the next election, but he is not going to make his intention public until Christmas. Properly used, this time will be invaluable to you."
Tony nodded thoughtfully. "Yes," he said. "I shall enjoy a last run round before becoming an M.P. One has got to be so devilish careful what one does then."
"I was referring rather," said Henry with some coldness, "to the opportunity it will afford you of preparing yourself for your new position. If you choose to work hard you might by that time have put yourself in the way of becoming a useful and desirable acquisition to the House."
"Why, of course," said Tony. "I never thought of looking at it like that." He paused. "What would you advise me to work at?"
"If I were you," said Henry, "I should take up some special subject—it doesn't much matter what it is—foreign affairs, temperance, agriculture—anything which is frequently before the House. Make yourself more or less of an authority on that, and then you will have a recognized position from the very start." He stopped to consult his watch. "I am afraid I shall have to be going," he added. "I have promised to look in and say a few words to the West Hampstead Anti-Vivisection League, who are holding their annual meeting to-night, and it's getting on for ten o'clock now." He got up and held out a large, white, soft hand, which Tony accepted with a certain physical reluctance that hands of that sort always inspired in him.
"I am pleased—very pleased," continued Henry, "that you are at last beginning to realize the responsibilities of your position. When the time comes you may rest assured that Laura and I will give you any assistance in our power. In the meantime, if you want any advice about what to read or study, you can't do better than to talk it over with Guy."
Tony nodded again. "I expect we shall have lots of interesting chats together," he said.
He rang the bell for Henry's car, and accompanying his cousin into the hall, helped him on with his coat. They stood talking in the doorway until a well-appointed Daimler brougham rolled up noiselessly to the porch, and then with another handshake and a final good-night Tony returned to the dining-room.
He sat down heavily in his lately vacated chair. "If you have any real love for me, Guy," he said, "you will pass me the brandy."
Guy handed across a delicately shaped old Venetian decanter, out of which Tony helped himself in generous fashion.
"If I had an inn," he observed, "I should pay Henry to sit in the bar parlour and talk about politics. I am sure he would drive the customers to drink."
In spite of himself Guy smiled. "I think you are very unfair and very ungrateful," he replied serenely. "Henry may be a little pompous at times, but after all he means well, and he has your best interests at heart."
Tony lit himself another cigar. "All my relations have," he said, "and the worst of it is, it's such a horribly infectious complaint. If I am not uncommonly careful I shall be catching it myself."
"You have managed to resist it pretty successfully so far," observed Guy drily.
"I know," said Tony, "but that doesn't make me feel really safe. There is a sort of natural tendency to take one's self seriously in the Conway blood, and you can never be certain it won't suddenly come bursting out. I shouldn't be in the least surprised if I finished up by getting the Victorian Order, and the freedom of Manchester."
"I suppose you do really mean to stand?" said Guy after a short pause.
"I suppose so," replied Tony. "I think I would agree to do anything rather than argue with Henry."
He pushed back his chair and finishing off the brandy in his glass, rose to his feet.
"Going out?" asked Guy.
Tony nodded. "Just for a few minutes. It's a very important step in one's life to become a member of Parliament—especially for Balham North. I am going to have a little quiet meditation beneath the stars."
Guy looked at him disbelievingly. "Umph!" he observed, and taking out his favourite after-dinner smoke—a short, well-seasoned briar pipe, began methodically to fill it from his pouch.
Leaving him to this innocent luxury, Tony crossed the hall, and without troubling to pick up a hat sauntered leisurely out of the house and down the drive. It was a perfect night. Under a sky of inky blue, powdered with stars, the Heath lay dark and silent, as if dreaming regretfully of those far gone spacious times when the mounted highwaymen lurked amongst its bushes.
The only people who lurked there at present were much too occupied with each other to pay any attention to Tony. With his cigar glowing pleasantly in the darkness he strolled slowly across the grass in the direction of the water-works, which stood up in a clear-cut, black mass against the clearness of the night sky.
A few yards further brought him to the end of the quiet road in which the Spaldings' house was situated. It was overshadowed by trees, but in the light of a street lamp some little way down, he caught sight of a solitary, bare-headed figure leaning over one of the front gates. Even at that distance he could recognize the familiar features of "Tiger" Bugg.
As Tony came up, the future world's champion lifted the latch, and stepped out noiselessly on to the pavement to meet him.
"I guessed it was you, sir," he observed in a low voice. "You didn't 'appen to spot no one 'angin' abaht under them trees as you come along?"
Tony shook his head, and seated himself on the low wall with his back to the railings. "No, Bugg," he said. "The road seemed to me distinctly empty."
Under the lamp-light, "Tiger's" face assumed an expression of disappointment. "Ah!" he remarked, "I reckon they've spotted I'm layin' for 'em arter all." He paused. "You got my letter, sir?"
"Yes, thank you, Bugg," said Tony. "I want you to tell me all about it."
"I don't know as there's very much to tell, sir," responded Bugg modestly. "It was like this 'ere, sir. The young laidy done 'er shopping nice and comf'table, and there 'adn't bin no sign of any one 'anging arahnd or wantin' to maike trouble. We wos comin' back in the car and I was just thinkin' to meself as things was all right, w'en Jennings swung 'er a bit lively rahnd that bottom corner there,"—he jerked his thumb away down the road—"and all of a sudden I seed a 'ead dodgin' back be'ind one o' them big trees. 'E was quick, but 'e weren't quite quick enough for me. I knew 'is dirty faice the moment I set me eyes on it. It was the other Daigo—the one that copped a shove in the jaw last night and done a buck w'en the rozzers come."
"You don't think Miss Francis saw him?" interrupted Tony.
Bugg shook his head. "No one seen 'im except me, sir; and I didn't say nothin', not bein' wishful to frighten the young laidy. Besides, it come into me 'ead wot you'd said abaht leadin' 'em on like, so I jest sits w'ere I was till we reaches the 'ouse, an' then I gets out an' goes inside saime as if I 'adn't seen nothing. I 'ope I done right, sir?"
"Sherlock Holmes couldn't have done righter," observed Tony. "I wonder how the devil they've found out the house though."
Bugg scratched his ear. "Well, sir, I bin thinkin 'it over like, sir, and I reckon they must ha' followed me this mornin', w'en I come up from the Court."
Tony looked at him admiringly. "Bugg," he said, "you are growing positively brilliant. I have no doubt that's the correct explanation. They were probably hanging about outside Goodman's Rest and saw Miss Francis come back here in the car." He paused and took a thoughtful draw at his cigar. "I suppose they're waiting for a chance to get her alone again."
Bugg nodded. "That's abaht it, sir; and that's w'y I thought I'd best stop on 'ere. I see Mrs. Spalding knew something o' wot was up, so I gives 'er the orfice straight abaht 'avin' spotted the bloke be'ind the tree, and she suggests as I should write to you an' she'll taike the letter rahnd." He cleared his throat, and expectorated in the gutter. "And that's 'ow things are, sir, in a manner o' speaking."
Tony knocked the ash off his cigar and got up from his seat.
"I am vastly obliged to you, Bugg," he said. "You are an ideal secretary for a knight errant." He looked up at the house, the windows of which were in darkness. "Have they gone to bed?" he asked.
"I think the young laidy's turned in, sir," replied Bugg. "I reckon she was tired buyin' all them 'ats and things. Mrs. Spalding's abaht, if ye'd like to see 'er, sir."
He opened the gate for Tony, and they walked up the narrow cobbled path which led to the house. The front door was ajar, and just as they entered Mrs. Spalding appeared in the passage, with a can of hot water in her hand. She put it down on seeing Tony, and with her usual air of slightly flustered deference, opened the door of Isabel's sitting-room, and invited him to "step inside."
"I am not going to keep you up, Mrs. Spalding," he said cheerfully. "I only came round in answer to Bugg's letter. It struck me that you might possibly be feeling a little nervous, and I shouldn't like to think that you were being worried in any way about my affairs."
His consideration evidently touched Mrs. Spalding deeply.
"Oh, please to put your mind at ease about that, Sir Antony," she observed. "As long as Bugg's on the premises it doesn't frighten me if people choose to hang about outside the house."
"Of course," said Tony, pursuing his advantage, "if you would rather, I could probably arrange to get rooms for Miss Francis somewhere else. The only thing is her guardian would most certainly find out, and Heaven knows what might happen to her then!"
The good woman made a gesture of protest. "You mustn't think of it, Sir Antony," she declared. "I wouldn't never forgive myself if that sweet young lady was got back by them foreigners. I've taken a rare liking to her, Sir Antony, and it's an honour and a pleasure to be of any assistance. I was saying as much to Spalding to-night, an' he agreed with me every word."
Tony launched an inward blessing on Spalding's philosophic theories about matrimonial happiness.
"Well, if you both feel like that," he said, "I shall go on taking advantage of your kindness. It won't be for long, because Miss Francis' aunt is bound to be coming back soon. In the meanwhile,"—he turned to include Bugg, who, with his usual tact, had remained modestly on the doorstep, "we will soon put a stop to this spying business. I am not going to have dirty looking people popping in and out behind trees anywhere near my house. The rates are much too high to put up with that sort of thing." He stopped to take another puff at his cigar, which he had nearly allowed to go out. "I suppose Miss Francis has gone to bed?" he asked.
Mrs. Spalding nodded. "It's what you might call tiring work—shopping is, Sir Antony, especially when a young lady's used to having most things done for her, as I can see Miss Francis is." She paused. "I was just taking her up some hot water when you came in," she added.
"Really," said Tony; "well, we mustn't keep it waiting about or it will be losing its character." He turned towards the door. "By the way," he added, "you might tell Miss Francis that if she would care for a motor drive to-morrow I should be delighted to take her. I daresay she will be coming round in the morning and we can fix up the time then."
Mrs. Spalding promised to deliver the message, and wishing her good-night, Tony sauntered off down the drive, with his hand on Bugg's shoulder. They came to a halt at the gate.
"It's an undignified position for the future champion of England to be acting as a watch-dog, Bugg," he said, "but having put our hands to the plough—" He broke off and remained for a moment or two thoughtfully contemplating the star-spangled stretch of firmament which was visible between the trees.
With an expression of patient interest, Bugg waited for him to continue.
"Let us summarize the situation, Bugg," he said gravely. "Then we shall know exactly where we are." He paused. "For some reason, which I don't understand any more than you do at present, those two gentlemen we had the pleasure of introducing ourselves to in Long Acre appear to be very anxious to meet Miss Francis alone. Well, she doesn't want to be met, and considering their faces I sympathize with her taste. That's all we know, and until we can find out something more there doesn't seem very much to be done. We must just keep Miss Francis properly watched and guarded, and see if we can pick up any information about our pals outside." He paused again. "I think it's just on the cards we might have a little quiet fun with them before long, Bugg," he added pensively.
Bugg gave an appreciative grin and nodded his head. "You can leave the watchin' and guardin' part to me, sir. They won't get no talk with the young laidy—not while she's in this 'ouse."
"I believe you, Bugg," said Tony, "and to-morrow morning, when she comes to Goodman's Rest, you might walk across the Heath with her." He opened the gate and stepped out on to the pavement. "Good-night," he added. "I shall go back to bed now. To be really successful as a knight errant one requires plenty of sleep."
"Yes, sir," said Bugg. "Good-night, sir."
It was exactly a quarter to eleven by the big oak clock in the hall when Tony re-entered his house. He shut the front door behind him, and walking across looked into the dining-room and study to see if Guy were still up. Both rooms were empty, and he was just on the point of going upstairs when the silence of the house was suddenly broken by the sharp, aggressive ringing of a bell.
It came from the telephone which hung beside the mantelpiece on the further side of the hall.
Tony retraced his steps and took down the receiver.
"Hullo!" he said.
"Hullo!" came back a silvery answer. "Is that you, Tony?"
"It is. Who's speaking?"
"It's me."
"Really!" said Tony. "Which me? I know several with beautiful voices."
A little ripple of laughter floated down the wire. "Don't be funny, Tony. It's Molly—Molly Monk. I want to see you."
"The longing is a mutual one," observed Tony. "I was just going to bed, but it's a morbid custom. Suppose I come along in the car instead and take you out to supper?"
"I'd love it," answered Molly regretfully, "but I'm afraid it can't be done. I have promised to go on and sing at one of Billy Higginson's evenings. He is the only composer in London who can write a tune." She paused. "What about to-morrow?"
"To-morrow," said Tony, "is also a day."
"Well, I am going out to lunch, but I do want to see you if you could manage it. Couldn't you run over in the car and look me up some time in the morning? I'll give you a small bottle of champagne if you will."
"I don't want any bribing," said Tony with dignity. "Is it good champagne?"
"Very good," said Molly. "It's what I keep for dramatic critics."
"I think I might be able to come then. What is it you want to see me about?"
"Oh, I'll tell you to-morrow," came back the answer. "I really mustn't stop now because Daisy Grey's waiting for me in her car. Thanks so much. It's awfully dear of you, Tony. Good-night."
"Good-night," said Tony, and replacing the receiver upon its hook, he resumed his interrupted progress to bed.
It was just after half-past ten the next morning, when Guy, while busily engaged in drawing up a lease in his office, was interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Come in," he called out, and in answer to his summons, Tony, wearing a grey plush hat and motoring gloves, sauntered into the room. He looked round with an air of leisurely interest.
"Good-morning, Guy," he said. "I like interrupting you at this time. I always feel I am throwing you out for the entire day."
Guy laid down his pen.
"It's a harmless delusion," he observed, "and if it gets you out of bed——"
"Oh, that didn't get me out of bed. It was an appointment I have to keep." He walked across to the fireplace and helped himself to a cigarette from a box on the mantlepiece. "Are you feeling in a sympathetic mood this morning, Guy?"
The latter shook his head. "Not particularly. Why?"
Tony struck a match. "Well, it's like this. I have invited our cousin Isabel to come round and see me, and now I find myself unexpectedly compelled to go out. What's more I don't know how long it will be before I get back." He paused and looked at Guy with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Do you think I can trust you to be kind and gentle with her?"
Guy adjusted his pince-nez and looked across at Tony with some sternness.
"I have already told you, Tony," he said, "that I disapprove very strongly of this impossible escapade of yours. You don't know what trouble it may lead you into. For a man who wants to get into Parliament any kind of scandal is absolutely fatal."
"But I don't want to go into Parliament," objected Tony. "I am doing it to oblige Henry, and for the good of the nation. As for this—what was the beautiful word you used, Guy—'escapade'—you surely wouldn't have me back out from motives of funk?"
Guy shrugged his shoulders. "You can please yourself about it," he said, "but it's no good asking me to help you. As I've told you before, I decline to mix myself up with it in any way."
"But you can't," persisted Tony; "at least not without being horribly rude. I have introduced you to Isabel and she thinks you're charming. She will be sure to ask for you when she hears I am out." He paused. "You wouldn't be a brute to her would you, Guy? You wouldn't throw her out of the house or anything like that?"
Guy's lips tightened. "I should certainly let her see that I disapproved very strongly of the whole episode," he said. "Still you needn't worry about that, because I have not the least intention of meeting her."
He picked up his pen and began to resume his work.
"Yours is a very hard nature, Guy," said Tony sadly. "I think it's the result of never having known a woman's love."
To this Guy did not condescend to answer, and after looking at him for a moment with a grieved expression, Tony sauntered downstairs to the front door.
Outside stood the Hispano-Suiza—a long, slim, venomous-looking white car—with Jennings in attendance. Tony stepped in and took possession of the wheel.
"I shall probably be back in about an hour, Jennings," he said, "and very likely I shall be going out again afterwards. I don't know which car I shall want, so you had better have them all ready."
Jennings touched his cap with the expression of a resigned lemon ice, and pressing the electric starter Tony glided off down the drive.
He reached Basil Mansions just on the stroke of eleven. Leaving the car in the courtyard he walked across to Molly's flat, where the door was answered by the beautiful French maid, who looked purer than ever in the healthy morning sunshine.
As he entered the flat, Molly appeared in the hall. She was wearing a loose garment of green silk, caught together at the waist by a gold girdle. As a breakfast robe it erred perhaps on the side of the fantastic, but it had the merit of showing off her red hair to the best possible advantage.
"You nice old thing, Tony," she said. "I know you hate getting up early, too."
"I don't mind if there is anything to get up for," said Tony. "It's the barrenness of the morning that puts me off as a rule."
Molly slipped her bare arm through his, and led him into the sitting-room.
"You shall open the champagne," she said. "That will give you an interest in life."
She brought him up to a little satin-wood table, on which stood a silver tray, with some glasses and a couple of small bottles of Heidsieek. Tony looked at the labels.
Tony looked at the labels. "And do you mean to say," he remarked a little reproachfully, "that you really waste this on dramatic critics?" "I give them the choice," said Molly gravely. "They can either have that, or hold my hand. So far, they have always chosen the champagne."Tony looked at the labels. "And do you mean to say," he remarked a little reproachfully, "that you really waste this on dramatic critics?" "I give them the choice," said Molly gravely. "They can either have that, or hold my hand. So far, they have always chosen the champagne."
"And do you mean to say," he remarked a little reproachfully, "that you really waste this on dramatic critics?"
"I give them the choice," said Molly gravely. "They can either have that, or hold my hand. So far they have always chosen the champagne." She crossed to the sofa and began arranging the cushions. "Yank out the cork, Tony," she added, "and then come and sit beside me. I want you to give me some of your very best advice."
Tony obeyed her instructions, and filling up the two glasses, carried the tray across to where Molly was reclining. He set it down on the floor within convenient reach, and then seated himself beside her on the sofa.
"What's the trouble?" he inquired sympathetically.
Molly lighted herself a cigarette, and thoughtfully puffed out a little cloud of blue smoke.
"It's Peter," she said. "Something has happened to him; something serious."
"I know it has," said Tony. "He had to pay me five hundred of the best yesterday morning."
Molly shook her head. "It's not that," she said. "I know he hates being beaten at anything; but it wouldn't upset him in the way I mean." She wriggled herself into a slightly more comfortable position. "I've got a notion it's something much bigger," she added.
"Really!" said Tony with interest. "What are the symptoms?"
"Well, he was coming to lunch here yesterday at a quarter to two, and he rang up about one to say he might be a little late. I thought his voice sounded a bit funny over the 'phone—you see I know Peter pretty well by now—and when he rolled up I saw there was something really serious the matter. The poor old dear was so worried and excited he could hardly eat his lunch."
"Sounds bad," admitted Tony. "Nothing but a desperate crisis can put Royalty off their food."
Molly nodded. "I know. I thought for a moment he might have fallen in love with somebody else, but it wasn't that either. Something's happened, and unless I'm three parts of an idiot it's got to do with Livadia."
"How exciting!" observed Tony. "It makes me feel like a secret service man in a novel." He paused. "Why do you think it's Livadia though? It might——"
"If it wasn't Livadia," interrupted Molly, "he'd have told me all about it."
"Why didn't you ask him?"
Molly shook her head. "It's no good. He has promised Da Freitas never to talk about Livadian affairs to anybody, and he's just sufficiently stupid to keep his word even where I'm concerned. Of course I could get it out of him sooner or later, but you can't rush Peter, and it's a question of time. There's something going on, and I want to find out what it is as quick as possible." She sat up and looked at Tony. "That's where you come in," she added.
Tony looked at her in mild surprise. "I would love to help you if I could, Molly," he said, "but I'm afraid that any lingering charm I may have had for your Peter vanished with that five hundred quid he had to fork out yesterday."
"You can help me all right if you will," said Molly. She paused. "Do you remember telling me once about that friend of yours—what's his name?—the boy who is running a motor business in Portriga?"
The dawn of an understanding began to flicker across Tony's face.
"You mean Jimmy—Jimmy Dale." He paused. "If Jimmy can be of any use you have only got to say so. I am sure he will do anything I ask him short of murdering the President."
"It's nothing as difficult as that," said Molly. "I only want him to write me a letter." She bent forward and re-lit her cigarette from Tony's. "You see I want to know exactly what's happening out in Livadia. I am sure there's trouble on, or Peter wouldn't be so upset, and a man actually living in Portriga ought to be able to tell one something."
"Jimmy ought to," said Tony. "He is by way of being rather a pal of the President. He sold him a second-hand Rolls-Royce last year for a sort of state coach, and the old boy was so pleased with his bargain he quite took Jimmy up. They seemed to be as thick as thieves last time I had a letter—about three months ago." He paused to finish his champagne. "By the way," he added, "I don't believe I have ever answered it."
"You never do answer letters," said Molly.
"That's why I always telephone." She got up, and walking across to a small satin-wood bureau, took out a sheet of paper and an envelope. "Be a darling and answer it now," she went on. "Then you can ask what I want at the same time."
Tony rose in a leisurely manner from the sofa, and coming up to where she was standing, seated himself in the chair which she had placed in readiness. Then he picked up the pen and examined it with some disapproval.
"I shall ink my fingers," he said. "I always do unless I have a Waterman."
"Never mind," said Molly. "It's in a good cause, and I'll wash them for you afterwards."
Tony gazed thoughtfully at the paper, and then placing his cigarette on the inkstand in front of him bent over the desk and set about his task. Molly returned to the sofa, and for a few minutes except for the scratching of the nib, and an occasional sigh from the writer, a profound silence brooded over the boudoir.
At last, with an air of some relief, Tony threw down the pen, and turned round in his chair.
"How will this do?" he asked.
MY DEAR JAMES:
I have been meaning to answer your last letter for several months, but somehow or other I can never settle down to serious work in the early spring. I was very pleased to hear that you are still alive, and mixing in such good society. I have never met any presidents myself, but I always picture them as stout, elderly men with bowler hats and red sashes round their waists. If yours isn't like this, don't tell me. I hate to have my illusions shattered.
I wish anyway that you would come back to London. You were the only friend I ever had that I could be certain of beating at billiards, and you have no right to bury a talent like that in the wilds of Livadia.
If you will come soon you can do me a good turn. I am thinking of opening a garage in Piccadilly on entirely new lines, and I want someone to manage it for me. The idea would be that customers could put up their cars there, and when they came to fetch them they would find their tools and gasoline absolutely untouched. I am sure it would be a terrific success just on account of its novelty. We would call it "The Sign of the Eighth Commandment," and we should be able to charge fairly high prices, because people would be so dazed at finding they hadn't been robbed that they would never notice what we were asking. I am quite serious about this, Jimmy, so come along back at once before the Livadians further corrupt your natural dishonesty.
Talking of Livadia, there is something I want you to do for me before you leave. I have a young and beautiful friend who takes a morbid interest in your local politics, and she is extremely anxious to know exactly what is happening out there at the present time. I told her that if there was any really promising villainy in the offing you would be sure to know all about it, so don't destroy the good impression of you I have taken the trouble to give her. Sit down and write me a nice, bright, chatty letter telling me who is going to be murdered next and when it's coming off, and then pack up your things, shake the dust of Portriga off your boots (if you still wear boots) and come home to
Your friend and partner,TONY.
"That's very nice," said Molly critically. "I had no idea you could write such a good letter."
"Nor had I," said Tony. "I am always surprising myself with my own talents."
There was a short pause.
"What's Jimmy like?" asked Molly.
Tony addressed the envelope and proceeded to fasten it up. "He is quite charming," he said. "He is chubby and round, and he talks in a little gentle whisper like a small child. He can drink fourteen whiskies without turning a hair, and I don't believe he has ever lost his temper in his life."
"He sounds a dear," said Molly. "I wonder you let him go."
"I couldn't help it," said Tony sadly. "He has some extraordinary objection to borrowing from his friends, and he owed so much to everyone else that he had to go away."
"I wonder if he will answer the letter," said Molly.
Tony got up with the envelope in his hand. "You can be sure of that. Jimmy always answers letters. We shall hear from him in less than a week and I'll come round and see you at once." He looked at his watch. "I am afraid I must be off now, Molly. I have a very important engagement with a bishop."
"Rot," returned Molly. "Bishops never get up till the middle of the day."
"This one does," said Tony. "He suffers from insomnia."
Molly laughed, and putting her hands on his shoulders, stood up on tip-toe and kissed him.
"Well, don't tell him about that," she said, "or he might be jealous."
It was exactly on the stroke of twelve as Tony's car swung in again through the gate of Goodman's Rest, and came to a standstill outside the front door.
Leaving it where it was, he walked into the hall and rang the bell, which was answered almost immediately by Spalding.
"Has Miss Francis arrived yet?" he asked.
Spalding inclined his head. "Yes, Sir Antony. She is in the garden." He paused. "Mr. Oliver is with her," he added.
Tony looked up in some surprise. "Mr. Oliver!" he repeated. "What's he doing?"
"I heard him say he would show her the ranunculi, sir," explained Spalding impassively.
Tony turned towards the study, the window of which opened out on to the lawn. The thought of Isabel at the solitary mercy of Guy filled him with sudden concern. The latter had evidently changed his mind about seeing her, and had doubtless taken her into the garden to express the disapproval he had so sternly enunciated that morning.
Reaching the French window, however, Tony came to a sudden halt. The sight that met his eyes was, under the circumstances, a distinctly arresting one. Half-way down the lawn was a small almond tree, its slender branches just then a delicate tracery of pink and white loveliness. Guy and Isabel were standing in front of this in an attitude which suggested anything but the conclusion of a strained and painful interview. Isabel was looking up at the blossoms with her lips parted in a smile of sheer delight. A few paces off, Guy was watching her with an expression of earnest admiration almost as striking as that which she was wasting upon the almond tree.
For perhaps a couple of seconds, Tony stood motionless taking in the unexpected tableau. Then with a faint chuckle he pulled out his case and thoughtfully lighted himself a cigarette.
As he did so, Guy stepped forward to the tree, and breaking off a little cluster of blossom rather clumsily offered it to Isabel. She took the gift with a graceful little gesture, like that of a princess accepting the natural homage of a subject, and smiling her thanks as Guy proceeded to fasten it in her dress.
It seemed to Tony that this was a very favourable moment for making his appearance. He opened the glass door, and walking down the steps, sauntered quietly towards them across the lawn.
They both heard him at the same instant, and turned quickly round. Isabel gave a little exclamation of pleased surprise, while Guy's face assumed a sudden expression of embarrassment that filled Tony with delight. He looked at them gravely for a moment, and then lifting up Isabel's hand lightly kissed the pink tip of one of her fingers.
"Good-morning, Cousin Isabel," he said. "I am sorry to be late. I hope Guy hasn't been unkind to you."
"Unkind!" repeated Isabel, opening her eyes. "Why he has been charming. He has been showing me the garden." She looked across at Guy with that frank, curiously attractive smile of hers. "I don't think we have quarrelled once, have we, Mr. Guy?"
"Certainly not," said Guy with what seemed unnecessary warmth.
"I am so glad," observed Tony contentedly. "It always distresses me when relations can't get on together." He let go Isabel's hand and looked at his watch. "How do you feel about a run in the car?" he inquired. "It's just ten minutes past twelve now, and we could get to Cookham comfortably for lunch by one o'clock."
"I should love it," said Isabel gaily. "I don't know in the least where Cookham is, but it sounds a splendid place to lunch at."
Tony looked at her with approval. "I am glad you like making bad puns, Isabel," he said. "It's a sure sign of a healthy and intelligent mind."
He led the way round to the front of the house, where they found the Hispano-Suiza still decorating the drive, with Jennings bending over the open bonnet. The chauffeur looked up and grudgingly touched his cap as they approached.
"Came down to see if you would be wanting either of the other cars," he observed.
"What do you think, Isabel?" inquired Tony. "Will this do, or would you rather have something more comfortable?"
She glanced with admiration over the tapering lines of the slim racing body. "Oh, let's have this one," she said. "I love to go fast."
Guy gave a slight shudder. "For goodness' sake don't say that to Tony. It's a direct encouragement to suicide."
Isabel laughed cheerfully. She seemed quite a different person from the highly strung, frightened girl whom Tony had rescued in Long Acre.
She buttoned her coat, and stepped lightly into the seat alongside of Tony, who had already taken his place at the wheel.
"As a matter of cold truth," he observed, "I am a very careful driver. If there's likely to be trouble I never run any unnecessary risks, do I, Jennings?"
"I can't say, sir," replied Jennings sourly. "I always shuts me eyes."
Isabel laughed again and settling herself comfortably back in the seat, waved her hand to Guy as the car slid off down the drive.
Tony always drove well, but like most good drivers he had his particular days. This was certainly one of them. During the earlier part of the journey, from Hampstead to Hammersmith, his progress verged upon the miraculous. The Hispano glided in and out of the traffic like some slim white premiere danseuse threading her way through the mazes of a ballet, the applause of an audience being supplied by the occasional compliments from startled bus-drivers which floated after them through the receding air.
Isabel seemed to enjoy it all immensely. She had evidently spoken the truth when she said she was not nervous "in that way," for the most hair-breadth escapes failed to disturb her serenity. She had the good sense not to talk much until they were clear of the worst part of the traffic, but after that she chatted away to Tony with practically no trace of the embarrassment and shyness that she had hitherto displayed. Whatever her mysterious troubles might be, she seemed for the time to have succeeded in throwing them off her mind.
There being no particular hurry, and thinking that Isabel would enjoy the drive, Tony did not take the direct road for Maidenhead. He crossed Hammersmith Bridge and turned off into Richmond Park, which just then was in all the fresh green beauty of its new spring costume.