Chapter XII.Mr. Priestley Becomes an UncleIt is to be recorded that when Mr. Priestley’s tour arrived in London, the member of it known variously as Miss Howard, Mrs. Spettigue, Miss Merrriman and Laura, did not slip away from it. She was hard put to it to explain to herself exactly why she did not, for opportunity after opportunity continued to present itself with sickening plausibility. Perhaps the reason she gave Cynthia later is as good as any: she simply hadn’t the heart. Anyhow, the consequence was that, some half-hour afterwards, Laura found herself walking delicately over the threshold of Mr. Priestley’s bachelor rooms, still in the rôle of a damsel in distress without a rag to her back or a penny in her purse; though now she had a roof to her head, Mr. Priestley’s.The lender of the roof led her into his study and rang for his man. Twenty seconds later that functionary stood before him, pale, genteel, with a face as like a boiled egg as ever. Nothing had ever been known to disturb this Being, not even when Mr. Priestley, ten years younger and just beginning to open wondering eyes to the sinfulness of this world, had ostentatiously taken to locking up his cigars when not himself requiring the box; so far from being disturbed, all the Being had done was to take, unobtrusively and in a gentlemanly way, an impression of the cigar-cabinet key, walk along to the nearest locksmith’s and then proceed as before. If, therefore, anybody could have been so futile as to expect him to show signs of surprise at Mr. Priestley’s fracture of a life-long habit in spending an unexpected and unheralded night, and at that an unpacked-for night, away from home, returning the next afternoon with a personable young woman in tow, then that person deserved all the contempt which Barker would scorn to bestow on him. After all, Barker set a certain value on his contempt.“You rang, sir?” said Barker, taking in Mr. Priestley’s somewhat unkempt appearance, his torn trouser-leg and the personable young woman at a single glance, and not batting an eyelid.“Yes, some tea, please, Barker,” said Mr. Priestley briskly.“Very good, sir.” Barker began to progress towards the door. Barker never did anything quite so vulgar as exactly to walk, nor did he precisely glide, chassis or slither; he just progressed. The sound of Mr. Priestley attacking his quite admirable fire stopped him. He retrogressed.“Permit me, sir,” said Barker, neatly twitching the poker out of Mr. Priestley’s grasp. He dropped on one knee on the hearthrug as if about to breathe a prayer up the chimney, and lightly tapped three pieces of blazing coal. The fire was as perfect as a fire in this world can be, and Barker was not going to demean himself by pretending that he thought it anything else. But he was prepared lightly to tap three pieces of coal out of sheer courtesy.Mr. Priestley also knew the fire was a perfectly admirable fire, though he was quite prepared to demean himself by pretending to think otherwise. He had, in fact, gripped the poker as a means of ensuring Barker’s presence in the room for another two minutes, by the end of which period Mr. Priestley devoutly hoped he would have jumped his next two fences. They were fences at which he shied a good deal.He took a running leap at the first one. “By the way, Barker,” he said, with the chattiness of sheer nerves, “this is Miss Merriman—MissLauraMerriman, Barker—a cousin of mine, who is going to stay with me here for a little while.”“Very good, sir,” Barker acquiesced woodenly in this momentous news.“She—she will assist me in a secretarial capacity,” continued Mr. Priestley unnecessarily. “She is a trained typist, and—and she will assist me in a secretarial capacity.”“Very good, sir,” repeated Barker stolidly from the hearthrug. Not a sign appeared on his boiled-egglike countenance of the joyful interest he was feeling in his master’s unexpected depravity and his wonder why the old josser should think it necessary to fill him up with all this bunkum about cousins and secretarial capacities. Barker had no doubt that this tidy bit of goods was here to assist Mr. Priestley all right, but not in a secretarial capacity.The tidy bit of goods, seated in an arm-chair, demurely contemplated her shoes, unconscious of these uncharitable reflections.“That’s all right then,” said Mr. Priestley, with relief at this first fence safely negotiated. “So get the spare room ready, please.”“Yes, sir.” Barker rose and dusted the knees of his trousers with mild reproach. “And the young lady’s luggage?” he asked maliciously.“Her—her luggage?” stammered Mr. Priestley, who had not expected this query. “Oh, it’s—yes, it’s been mislaid. Most—er—annoying. You quite lost sight of it on the journey, didn’t you, Laura?”“Oh, quite,” Laura agreed, heroically suppressing a giggle.“Should you like me to go and make inquiries about it, sir?” asked Barker, still more maliciously.“No, no,” said Mr. Priestley testily. “We—we have already attended to that. Of course we have.”“Very good, sir,” replied Barker with a perfectly blank face. He turned to go. Of course the bit of goods had no luggage, he’d known that all along; but he had felt that Mr. Priestley deserved the question. Fancy trying to takehimin with silly tales about cousins and secretarial capacities! Barker felt almost hurt.“Oh, and Barker!”Barker turned back resignedly, but continuing to impersonate a boiled-egg. “Sir?”Mr. Priestley was fumbling inside his waistcoat, his face exceedingly red. After a little preliminary manœuvring he extended his left arm; the wrist was encircled by an unmistakable handcuff, from which another handcuff dangled wistfully.“A friend of mine,” said Mr. Priestley with considerable dignity, “fastened this foolish contrivance on my wrists. I have managed to get one free, but I cannot liberate the other. Will you please find some instrument to—er—to free me with?”Barker looked at his employer’s wrist, and then at his employer’s red but dignified face. His lips twitched. His face suddenly took on a poached aspect, and then a positively scrambled one.“Very good,” he began bravely, “s-s-s——” A hoarse cry suddenly escaped from him and he dived from the room. Further hoarse sounds were distinctly audible from the passage outside.Mr. Priestley looked at the closed door with considerable interest. “Do you know,” he said with mild wonder, “I believe Barker actuallylaughedthen. He must be human after all.”Mr. Priestley was right. Barker was human. Exceedingly human thoughts were coursing through Barker’s mind as he busied himself in preparing the tea. But what was surprising Barker so very much was to find that Mr. Priestley was human too.“The wicked old sinner!” commented Barker to the tea-caddy. “To think of ’im breaking out like a two-year-old after all this time! Ah, well,” reflected Barker philosophically, “they always do say the older you grow the friskier you get.”In the study the frisky one proceeded to elaborate his plan.“You must have clothes, of course,” he said. “Perhaps we had better go out to-morrow morning and get you some. Now how much money,” asked Mr. Priestley diffidently, “does a girl’s outfit cost? Including everything, I mean?”“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” said Laura warmly, touched afresh by this large-hearted generosity. “It’s out of the question.”“Not at all,” said Mr. Priestley firmly. “It’s essential. Please don’t be obstinate, Laura. You must have clothes. Would—do you think a hundred pounds would be enough to get you what you require? I know women’s clothes are exceedingly expensive,” added Mr. Priestley, somehow contriving to apologise to the object of his charity for this awkward quality of her own garments.Laura gasped.“I always keep a hundred pounds in cash on the premises, just for emergencies,” explained Mr. Priestley happily, “so you see there is no difficulty about that at all.” “For, of course,” added Mr. Priestley’s expression, “one might just as well spend the silly stuff as keep it lying about here for nothing; and just at the moment I think I’d rather spend it on girl’s clothes than anything else.” One gathered from Mr. Priestley’s expression that Laura would really be doing him a very great favour if she would allow Mr. Priestley to spend his own hundred pounds on a number of garments which could be of really very little practical use to himself.“It’s out of the question,” said Laura feebly. “I—I couldn’t hear of it.”“I insist,” retorted Mr. Priestley with his famous imitation of a strong if not silent man.The discussion raged.Mr. Priestley closed it with a snap. “Very well,” he said, “if you refuse to come with me, I shall go out and buy them alone.”A horrified vision arose before Laura’s eyes of the garments Mr. Priestley might be expected to purchase if left to himself. Sheer desperation presented her with the essentials of a scheme for escaping from the impasse. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll give in, though I don’t approve of it at all. But of course it’s perfectly sweet of you. I’ll let you pay for the clothes on one condition—that I go and buy them alone. You know,” she added persuasively, “you wouldn’t really like coming to lingerie shops with me, would you?”“Not at all,” beamed Mr. Priestley. “But I’ll tell you why I wished to come with you. Because I didn’t want to let you out of my sight! You are an independent girl, and I was afraid that if I let you go out alone you quite possibly would not return.”“Oh!” said Laura, having had this very intention.“I may have been wrong,” continued Mr. Priestley happily, “but I feared that, once you were out of my clutches, so to speak, you would begin to imagine all sorts of foolish things, such as that your presence here might possibly—er—embarrass me, as it were, and that I should not care to be saddled with the responsibility of looking after you. Nothing,” said Mr. Priestley very earnestly, “could in reality be further from the truth. I will, therefore, agree to your condition upon one of my own: that you give me your word of honour to return here whenever you go out, either to-day or to-morrow, take up your residence as I suggested, and look upon this place as your home until all this awkward affair is finally cleared up.” He smiled at her benevolently.“Oh!” said Laura blankly.Now Laura was not one of those feeble-minded creatures who go through life with the fatuous question constantly on their lips: What will people say? She did not care a rap what people said about her (which was perhaps as well); all that concerned her was what she was. But however free from conventional ties a young woman may consider herself, to take up her residence in a bachelor’s flat is not a step to be made without a certain amount of reflection; if one only owes the duty of essentials to oneself, one does owe a certain duty of external appearances to one’s friends and relations. On the other hand, those friends and relations, being themselves clean-minded people, would, if they ever came to hear of the escapade at all, certainly recognise Mr. Priestley for the innocent babe he was.Nevertheless half an hour ago, in spite of everything, Laura would have said very decidedly, “No,” and proceeded with her plan of escape. Now the whole situation was altered by Mr. Priestley’s utter generosity. To throw the gift he was trying to make back in his face would, in one sense, be the act of a complete rotter. After all, as she had had occasion to remind herself before, she had asked for everything and it was only poetic justice that she should get it. As things were, she owed Mr. Priestley all the reparation she could give him. But nevertheless, modern though she considered herself, there were limits even to such reparation, and was not to compromise herself hopelessly and for ever quite decidedly one of them? Oh, Lord, she didn’t knowwhatto do!“All right,” Laura heard her own voice saying, “I agree. I give you my solemn word.” She listened to it with astonishment. So far as she knew, she had not arrived at any decision at all; apparently she had been wrong. The words seemed to have come out of her mouth without any volition on her part at all. Laura was grateful to her mouth; at any rate it had solved this very awkward problem for her.Mr. Priestley replied fittingly.“And I know what I’ll do,” Laura went on, speaking this time of her own free will. “I’ll adopt you as an uncle. That’ll make everything all right, won’t it?” The British mind, it has been said, loves a compromise.Mr. Priestley looked slightly disappointed. He did not feel at all avuncular.Twenty minutes later Laura, having obtained leave of absence for half an hour, was in Piccadilly, a smile on her lips and laughter in her heart. Now that the die actually was cast, she was prepared to enjoy the situation to its fullest extent. And anyhow, Duffley really was deadly dull.She entered the Piccadilly Palace and made a bee-line for the telephone room. Their own house at Duffley was not on the telephone, and she gave the Nesbitt’s number. A quarter of an hour later she got it.“Yes?” said Cynthia’s voice very wearily. “What is it?”“Is that you, Cynthia darling? Lawks speaking.”“Oh!” Cynthia’s voice brightened considerably. “I thought it was another wretched reporter. They’ve been buzzing round here like flies all the afternoon, and the telephone’s been going continuously. Lawks, what have you been doing, my dear?”“Hush! Telephones have ears, you know, besides the ones at each end. I’ll tell you all about everything when I see you. My dear, I’ve had a perfectly hectic time. I—no, not now. Cynthia, will you take a message across for me to Dawks?”“Yes. What is it?”“I want her to pack a trunk for me. Tell her to put in my gray costume, my new black georgette, my …” A long list followed here, of intimate interest to both Laura and Cynthia, and none at all to the reader. “Oh, well, if you can’t remember all that, just tell her all my new spring things, my best evening frocks and my choicest undies. And I want you to tell George that——” Details followed of the car and the garage at Manstead.“But Lawks, what ever are you doing?”“Never mind, darling; of that anon. Oh, and tell Dawks to bring the trunk up here to-morrow morning, put it in the cloakroom, and meet me in the Piccadilly Palace lounge at twelve sharp.”“I’ll see to it,” said Cynthia, to whom an idea had just occurred. “Yes, very well. Lawks, how’s—you know, your little friend?”“Oh, sitting up and taking nourishment.”“Yes, but is he—”“Your thrrrree minutes is up,” said a harsh voice. “Do you want another thrrrree minutes?” And its owner promptly cut them off before either could answer her.Laura returned to Half Moon Street with feelings which she made no attempt to analyse.Mr. Priestley also did not stop to analyse his feelings when Laura returned to him. There was no need. His face one large beam, he welcomed her as if she had been away half a year instead of half an hour. It is to be feared that Mr. Priestley had not been quite as reassured as he should have been by Laura’s solemn word.Having taken off her hat and admired the delightfully cosy little room prepared for her, in which a fire was already burning, Laura returned to the study, and insisted upon being initiated into her secretarial duties that very minute, brushing aside Mr. Priestley’s earnest attempts to establish a conscience which would not allow him even to think of work on a Sunday, much less practise it. Mr. Priestley, who had not the faintest idea what to do with a secretary or how on earth to keep her employed for more than ten minutes in the day, had considerable difficulty in concealing the fact that a secretary who knew no Latin or Greek was just about as much use to him personally as the clothes she was going to buy with his money. Laura, who read each thought as it flitted through his mind, listened demurely to his halting sentences and continued to think what a perfect dear he was.With an air of great importance the perfect dear finally gave her some rough notes he had made ten years before (and never thought of since) upon certain obscure passages in Juvenal, to be put into shipshape form the next morning. Then, with the comfortable feeling of duty done and pleasure coming, he settled down in a chair by the fire for a companionable chat till dinner.That meal safely over (and an admirable affair it was; Barker had seen to that, though distinctly disappointed that no champagne was drunk with it to mark the occasion fittingly), they went back to the library, and there Mr. Priestley had a very bright idea indeed. This dear girl was likely to be on his hands for some time; why not make that period of real solid value to her, and at the same time increase her own value to himself? Why not, in short, teach her a little Latin? He pottered happily off to see if he could unearth the old Kennedy’s grammar of his schooldays.To Laura’s considerable regret, he succeeded.To Barker, lurking tactfully in his own fastness and picturing lurid scenes in progress in the study with all the strength of his somewhat one-sided imagination, the truth regarding the next two hours would have been a poignant disappointment; there is very little luridness in the conjugation ofmensa. Laura spent a dull evening.At half-past ten, feeling that she had had enough Latin to last her for several years, she announced her intention of going to bed, resisting all Mr. Priestley’s efforts to dissuade her.“I’m very tired,” she said, not without truth, holding out a slim hand. “Good-night, Uncle Matthew.”“Good-night, then Niece Laura,” beamed Mr. Priestley, taking the hand and forgetting apparently to release it again.Laura could hardly go to bed without her hand; she lingered. They smiled at each other.“Oh, well,” thought Laura, “why not? He deserves something, the funny old dear, and he does seem to enjoy it so.” She held up her cheek. “Good-night, dear, kind Uncle Matthew,” she said softly.“God bless my soul!” observed Mr. Priestley, discovering suddenly that there are advantages in being an uncle after all.“Besides, it isn’t the first time,” continued Laura’s thoughts as she went off to her bed and a pair of Mr. Priestley’s pyjamas; “and he certainly had that kissing look in his eye. Oh, well, I owe him that much, I suppose.” But not for one moment did she admit that the very simple reason why she had held up her face was that, for the first time in her life, she actually wanted to be kissed. A simple reason is so very dull, of course, when there is a complicated one to take its place.Mr. Priestley rang for his night-cap and settled himself in his chair again feeling exactly ten years younger than when he had last performed the same action forty-eight hours ago. If Laura let him kiss her good-night, she ought by all logic to let him kiss her good-morning. If he kissed her once each night and once each morning, and she stayed in his rooms say, two months—no, three months at least for safety, then he could look forward to … thirty multiplied by three multiplied by two…. His thoughts ran happily on; very happily.Mr. Priestley was a man of resilient disposition. Living as he had so far out of the everyday world, the things of the world passed him by without his very much noticing them. One day out in the world there might be a miners’ strike, but the next day Mr. Priestley had forgotten all about it; one day there would be a railway disaster most distressing at the moment of reading, the next there had never been a railway disaster at all; one night out in the big world Mr. Priestley might shoot a blackguard, the next his action had receded into a bad dream. Even the handcuff, last tangible link with that extraordinary affair, had been miraculously removed by Barker, to whom all things seemed possible. Mr. Priestley had reached the stage of having to pinch himself before he could realise that the thing had really happened. It is true that Laura remained, one last link and, presumably, a tangible one, especially when being bidden good-night. But Laura was a different affair altogether. Sipping his hot toddy, Mr. Priestley meditated not without awe how very different Laura was—different from everything and every one there had ever been before in the history of the world. Indubitably Laura was a different affair.When he went to bed thirty minutes later, to sleep like a log all night, Mr. Priestley was still pondering reverently upon the really quite astonishing difference of Laura.He had cause for further reflection the next morning, for that young woman, although greeting him with cheerful nieceishness at the breakfast-table, did not offer even a hand by way of token; indeed, she was at some pains to avoid her host’s distinctly pleading eye. During the meal Mr. Priestley found rueful employment in cutting down his arithmetical calculations by exactly one-half.For an hour afterwards in the study Laura wrestled nobly with the obscurities of Juvenal. The time did not pass unpleasantly. She had a translation given her, and in the intervals of wrestling was able to discover some quite interesting reading therein. Mr. Priestley, pretending to scan his morning paper by the fire, glanced at her contentedly from time to time. This was a good idea of his, secretarial employment; working away at Juvenal, the poor girl would quite imagine that she was performing her share of a two-sided bargain; it would never occur to her now to consider herself an object of charity, with the inevitable resentment that a high-spirited girl naturally would feel in such circumstances. Yes, a really brilliant idea. Mr. Priestley turned to hisDaily Courierfor the forty-seventh time.The Sunday CourierandThe Daily Courierwere as brothers having one father, Lord Lappinwick. WhatThe Sunday Couriersaid on SundayThe Daily Couriersaid on Monday, and whatThe Daily Couriersaid on SaturdayThe Sunday Courierrepeated with admiration on Sunday.The Daily Courierwas now busy repeating its brother’s observations of the day before, with added epithets and a few fresh facts. These latter did not amount to much, being merely the brilliant discoveries and deductions of Inspector Cottingham of the day before, and the story of them only confirmed Mr. Priestley’s own theory. They had furnished enough conversation to last throughout breakfast, but, speculation tending to move in an endless circle, were now exhausted. In the meantime Laura held her curiosity as best she could, till twelve o’clock.An hour before that time she looked up from her work.“Do you—do you think I might be spared now to go out and do that shopping?” she asked, with charming diffidence.“God bless my soul, yes!” exclaimed Mr. Priestley, full of remorse. “Do you know, I’d forgotten all about it. Go and get your hat on at once, my dear; you’ve got two hours before lunch.”Laura went.“Here’s the hundred pounds,” said Mr. Priestley when she returned, and stuffed a bundle of notes in her hand.Laura attempted to thank him, but was cut short. “Yes, yes,” he said, much embarrassed. “That’s all right. And—and you’ll be back for lunch.”Laura smiled at the indifferently concealed anxiety in his voice. “Yes, Uncle Matthew, I’ll be back; or soon after, at any rate. I’m not going to run away. I gave you my word, you know.”“So you did,” said Mr. Priestley. “So you did. Well, good-bye, my dear girl. Get yourself lots of pretty things.”“I will, I promise you. Oh, and I’ve had an idea. I’m going to buy a second-hand trunk and have all the things packed in that. Then it will look to Barker as if it was just my luggage turned up, you see. What do you think of that?”“Excellent!” said the guileless Mr. Priestley with much admiration. “Excellent! Well—er—good-bye, Niece Laura.”“Good-bye, Uncle Matthew,” demurely said Laura, who was not taking any hints to-day. She went.Mr. Priestley found plenty to think about for the next fifty minutes.Then, at ten minutes to twelve, he heard the front door-bell ring, and Barker’s footsteps down the passage a moment later. He wondered idly who had rung. It may be noted that Mr. Priestley did not start guiltily every time a bell rang, nor did he cringe-about the place in constant expectation of a heavy hand on his shoulder. It might have been a mouse he had shot instead of a man for all the guilty starts and cringing that Mr. Priestley performed.While Mr. Priestley was not starting guiltily, Barker was opening the door. Confronting him on the landing was a tall, slim woman, exquisitely dressed, who smiled at him. The smile was of such peculiar sweetness that Barker broke another life-time’s record and smiled back.“Is Mr. Priestley in?” asked the lady, amid the shattered fragments of Barker’s record.“Yes, madam.”“Is he alone? Alone in the flat, I mean?”“Yes, madam,” said Barker, concealing any surprise he might have felt under his usual egg-like expression.“Then I should like to see him, please.”“Yes, madam. Will you step this way? What name shall I say?”The visitor smiled at him again, this time in a particularly confidential way. “It doesn’t matter about the name. Just say ‘a lady.’”“Very good, madam. Will you come in here, please?”Still somewhat upset by the smile, Barker did a thing he would never have dreamed of doing in normal circumstances and showed the caller straight into Mr. Priestley’ s study. There, regretfully, he left her.“Good-morning, Mr. Priestley,” said the lady, advancing at once with outstretched hand and apparently quite at home. “You don’t know me, but I think you know Pat Doyle, who is a friend of ours. I am Mrs. Nesbitt.”“Mrs. Nesbitt!” repeated Mr. Priestley in amazement. He became aware of the outstretched hand in a gray glove and shook it absently. It was a very nice hand, and deserved more attention. “Mrs. Nesbitt! Well, good gracious me.”“I want to speak to you very privately, Mr. Priestley,” Cynthia smiled again, and at once Mr. Priestley felt he had known her all his life. “Laura isn’t here, is she, by any chance?”“Miss Merriman?” Mr. Priestley smiled back delightedly. “Oh, do you know her too? Excellent! No, she isn’t here just now. She went out nearly an hour ago, to—er—in fact, she went out. But she’ll be back for lunch, I hope.”“Miss Merriman?” said Cynthia, puzzled. “I meant Laura Howard.”Mr. Priestley shook his head. “There’s no Miss Howard here. I don’t even know a Miss Howard. There is a Miss Merriman, Miss Laura Merriman, staying here with me.”“Staying here?” echoed Cynthia, considerably startled. She devoted one searching look at Mr. Priestley and knew him at once for what he was; then she laid back her head and laughed very heartily. “Oh, Laura!” laughed Cynthia. “Yes, it must be her. Well, it was her own fault and I’m very glad to hear it. It may do her quite a lot of good.”It was Mr. Priestley’s turn to look mystified. Also he was beginning to feel slightly alarmed. Mrs. Nesbitt’s call could only mean one thing, and that was that his connection with the business at Duffley had come to light. Probably Pat Doyle had asked her to give him a hint of warning. Oh, dear, how exceedingly awkward!“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he faltered.Cynthia threw him a compassionate glance. “No, I shouldn’t think you do,” she said warmly. “That’s why I’m here.” She walked swiftly over to the door, and, to Mr. Priestley’s astonishment, turned the key. “I want to talk to you very confidentially, Mr. Priestley. I’ve only got a very few minutes, and whatever happens nobody must see me here. Oh, why aren’t you in the telephone-book? I’ve wasted hours finding out your address.”“God bless my soul!” said the astonished Mr. Priestley.Cynthia began to talk.Out in the passage, hovering warily, Barker heard the key turn in the lock and walked thoughtfully back to the kitchen. “The saucy old kipper!” was Mr. Barker’s summing-up of the situation, after profound cogitation. He repeated his analysis to an empty milk-jug. “The saucy oldkipper!” confided Mr. Barker to the milk-jug.Ten minutes later Cynthia was taking farewell of a staggered Mr. Priestley. “And you’ll be by the Achilles statue at three o’clock?” she said, offering the gray-gloved hand again. “I’ve ever so much more to tell you, but I simply must fly now as she’s been waiting there since twelve for the cloak-room ticket. Think over that idea of mine in the meantime, and see if you can improve on it. And for goodness’ sake don’t let Laura follow you this afternoon. Good-bye, Mr. Priestley.”“Good-bye, Mrs. Nesbitt,” mumbled Mr. Priestley, who had been conversing for the last ten minutes entirely in gasps. “And—and thank you so much.”“Not a bit. I can only apologise most humbly, as the only member of the conspiracy with perhaps a single grain of sense, that I ever let things go so far; I ought to have put my foot down at the very beginning. And now I must go. Oh, and perhaps you’d better tell your man not to let it out to Laura that I’ve been here this morning.”“Yes, yes, of course,” muttered the dazed recipient of her confidences, trying to open the door by twisting the handle backwards and forwards. Cynthia gently unlocked it for him.Mr. Priestley saw her out himself, more or less, and then ambled along the passage to the kitchen.“Barker,” said Mr. Priestley, eyeing his servitor as blankly as if the latter had actually turned into the breakfast dish he so much resembled. “Barker, kindly say nothing to Miss How—to Miss Lau—to my cousin about the lady who called this morning. Or,” added Mr. Priestley comprehensively, “to any one else.”“Very good, sir,” agreed Barker without visible emotion.He waited till Mr. Priestley’s shuffling footsteps had ceased to be audible in the passage. Then he gave vent to his feelings. “Well, I’ll be blowed!” remarked Mr. Barker to the silver spoon he happened to be polishing at the moment. “Running two of ’em at once, unbeknown to each other! Sends one out and has the other in, and vice verse. The giddy old gazebo!” said Mr. Barker to the silver spoon.
It is to be recorded that when Mr. Priestley’s tour arrived in London, the member of it known variously as Miss Howard, Mrs. Spettigue, Miss Merrriman and Laura, did not slip away from it. She was hard put to it to explain to herself exactly why she did not, for opportunity after opportunity continued to present itself with sickening plausibility. Perhaps the reason she gave Cynthia later is as good as any: she simply hadn’t the heart. Anyhow, the consequence was that, some half-hour afterwards, Laura found herself walking delicately over the threshold of Mr. Priestley’s bachelor rooms, still in the rôle of a damsel in distress without a rag to her back or a penny in her purse; though now she had a roof to her head, Mr. Priestley’s.
The lender of the roof led her into his study and rang for his man. Twenty seconds later that functionary stood before him, pale, genteel, with a face as like a boiled egg as ever. Nothing had ever been known to disturb this Being, not even when Mr. Priestley, ten years younger and just beginning to open wondering eyes to the sinfulness of this world, had ostentatiously taken to locking up his cigars when not himself requiring the box; so far from being disturbed, all the Being had done was to take, unobtrusively and in a gentlemanly way, an impression of the cigar-cabinet key, walk along to the nearest locksmith’s and then proceed as before. If, therefore, anybody could have been so futile as to expect him to show signs of surprise at Mr. Priestley’s fracture of a life-long habit in spending an unexpected and unheralded night, and at that an unpacked-for night, away from home, returning the next afternoon with a personable young woman in tow, then that person deserved all the contempt which Barker would scorn to bestow on him. After all, Barker set a certain value on his contempt.
“You rang, sir?” said Barker, taking in Mr. Priestley’s somewhat unkempt appearance, his torn trouser-leg and the personable young woman at a single glance, and not batting an eyelid.
“Yes, some tea, please, Barker,” said Mr. Priestley briskly.
“Very good, sir.” Barker began to progress towards the door. Barker never did anything quite so vulgar as exactly to walk, nor did he precisely glide, chassis or slither; he just progressed. The sound of Mr. Priestley attacking his quite admirable fire stopped him. He retrogressed.
“Permit me, sir,” said Barker, neatly twitching the poker out of Mr. Priestley’s grasp. He dropped on one knee on the hearthrug as if about to breathe a prayer up the chimney, and lightly tapped three pieces of blazing coal. The fire was as perfect as a fire in this world can be, and Barker was not going to demean himself by pretending that he thought it anything else. But he was prepared lightly to tap three pieces of coal out of sheer courtesy.
Mr. Priestley also knew the fire was a perfectly admirable fire, though he was quite prepared to demean himself by pretending to think otherwise. He had, in fact, gripped the poker as a means of ensuring Barker’s presence in the room for another two minutes, by the end of which period Mr. Priestley devoutly hoped he would have jumped his next two fences. They were fences at which he shied a good deal.
He took a running leap at the first one. “By the way, Barker,” he said, with the chattiness of sheer nerves, “this is Miss Merriman—MissLauraMerriman, Barker—a cousin of mine, who is going to stay with me here for a little while.”
“Very good, sir,” Barker acquiesced woodenly in this momentous news.
“She—she will assist me in a secretarial capacity,” continued Mr. Priestley unnecessarily. “She is a trained typist, and—and she will assist me in a secretarial capacity.”
“Very good, sir,” repeated Barker stolidly from the hearthrug. Not a sign appeared on his boiled-egglike countenance of the joyful interest he was feeling in his master’s unexpected depravity and his wonder why the old josser should think it necessary to fill him up with all this bunkum about cousins and secretarial capacities. Barker had no doubt that this tidy bit of goods was here to assist Mr. Priestley all right, but not in a secretarial capacity.
The tidy bit of goods, seated in an arm-chair, demurely contemplated her shoes, unconscious of these uncharitable reflections.
“That’s all right then,” said Mr. Priestley, with relief at this first fence safely negotiated. “So get the spare room ready, please.”
“Yes, sir.” Barker rose and dusted the knees of his trousers with mild reproach. “And the young lady’s luggage?” he asked maliciously.
“Her—her luggage?” stammered Mr. Priestley, who had not expected this query. “Oh, it’s—yes, it’s been mislaid. Most—er—annoying. You quite lost sight of it on the journey, didn’t you, Laura?”
“Oh, quite,” Laura agreed, heroically suppressing a giggle.
“Should you like me to go and make inquiries about it, sir?” asked Barker, still more maliciously.
“No, no,” said Mr. Priestley testily. “We—we have already attended to that. Of course we have.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Barker with a perfectly blank face. He turned to go. Of course the bit of goods had no luggage, he’d known that all along; but he had felt that Mr. Priestley deserved the question. Fancy trying to takehimin with silly tales about cousins and secretarial capacities! Barker felt almost hurt.
“Oh, and Barker!”
Barker turned back resignedly, but continuing to impersonate a boiled-egg. “Sir?”
Mr. Priestley was fumbling inside his waistcoat, his face exceedingly red. After a little preliminary manœuvring he extended his left arm; the wrist was encircled by an unmistakable handcuff, from which another handcuff dangled wistfully.
“A friend of mine,” said Mr. Priestley with considerable dignity, “fastened this foolish contrivance on my wrists. I have managed to get one free, but I cannot liberate the other. Will you please find some instrument to—er—to free me with?”
Barker looked at his employer’s wrist, and then at his employer’s red but dignified face. His lips twitched. His face suddenly took on a poached aspect, and then a positively scrambled one.
“Very good,” he began bravely, “s-s-s——” A hoarse cry suddenly escaped from him and he dived from the room. Further hoarse sounds were distinctly audible from the passage outside.
Mr. Priestley looked at the closed door with considerable interest. “Do you know,” he said with mild wonder, “I believe Barker actuallylaughedthen. He must be human after all.”
Mr. Priestley was right. Barker was human. Exceedingly human thoughts were coursing through Barker’s mind as he busied himself in preparing the tea. But what was surprising Barker so very much was to find that Mr. Priestley was human too.
“The wicked old sinner!” commented Barker to the tea-caddy. “To think of ’im breaking out like a two-year-old after all this time! Ah, well,” reflected Barker philosophically, “they always do say the older you grow the friskier you get.”
In the study the frisky one proceeded to elaborate his plan.
“You must have clothes, of course,” he said. “Perhaps we had better go out to-morrow morning and get you some. Now how much money,” asked Mr. Priestley diffidently, “does a girl’s outfit cost? Including everything, I mean?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” said Laura warmly, touched afresh by this large-hearted generosity. “It’s out of the question.”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Priestley firmly. “It’s essential. Please don’t be obstinate, Laura. You must have clothes. Would—do you think a hundred pounds would be enough to get you what you require? I know women’s clothes are exceedingly expensive,” added Mr. Priestley, somehow contriving to apologise to the object of his charity for this awkward quality of her own garments.
Laura gasped.
“I always keep a hundred pounds in cash on the premises, just for emergencies,” explained Mr. Priestley happily, “so you see there is no difficulty about that at all.” “For, of course,” added Mr. Priestley’s expression, “one might just as well spend the silly stuff as keep it lying about here for nothing; and just at the moment I think I’d rather spend it on girl’s clothes than anything else.” One gathered from Mr. Priestley’s expression that Laura would really be doing him a very great favour if she would allow Mr. Priestley to spend his own hundred pounds on a number of garments which could be of really very little practical use to himself.
“It’s out of the question,” said Laura feebly. “I—I couldn’t hear of it.”
“I insist,” retorted Mr. Priestley with his famous imitation of a strong if not silent man.
The discussion raged.
Mr. Priestley closed it with a snap. “Very well,” he said, “if you refuse to come with me, I shall go out and buy them alone.”
A horrified vision arose before Laura’s eyes of the garments Mr. Priestley might be expected to purchase if left to himself. Sheer desperation presented her with the essentials of a scheme for escaping from the impasse. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll give in, though I don’t approve of it at all. But of course it’s perfectly sweet of you. I’ll let you pay for the clothes on one condition—that I go and buy them alone. You know,” she added persuasively, “you wouldn’t really like coming to lingerie shops with me, would you?”
“Not at all,” beamed Mr. Priestley. “But I’ll tell you why I wished to come with you. Because I didn’t want to let you out of my sight! You are an independent girl, and I was afraid that if I let you go out alone you quite possibly would not return.”
“Oh!” said Laura, having had this very intention.
“I may have been wrong,” continued Mr. Priestley happily, “but I feared that, once you were out of my clutches, so to speak, you would begin to imagine all sorts of foolish things, such as that your presence here might possibly—er—embarrass me, as it were, and that I should not care to be saddled with the responsibility of looking after you. Nothing,” said Mr. Priestley very earnestly, “could in reality be further from the truth. I will, therefore, agree to your condition upon one of my own: that you give me your word of honour to return here whenever you go out, either to-day or to-morrow, take up your residence as I suggested, and look upon this place as your home until all this awkward affair is finally cleared up.” He smiled at her benevolently.
“Oh!” said Laura blankly.
Now Laura was not one of those feeble-minded creatures who go through life with the fatuous question constantly on their lips: What will people say? She did not care a rap what people said about her (which was perhaps as well); all that concerned her was what she was. But however free from conventional ties a young woman may consider herself, to take up her residence in a bachelor’s flat is not a step to be made without a certain amount of reflection; if one only owes the duty of essentials to oneself, one does owe a certain duty of external appearances to one’s friends and relations. On the other hand, those friends and relations, being themselves clean-minded people, would, if they ever came to hear of the escapade at all, certainly recognise Mr. Priestley for the innocent babe he was.
Nevertheless half an hour ago, in spite of everything, Laura would have said very decidedly, “No,” and proceeded with her plan of escape. Now the whole situation was altered by Mr. Priestley’s utter generosity. To throw the gift he was trying to make back in his face would, in one sense, be the act of a complete rotter. After all, as she had had occasion to remind herself before, she had asked for everything and it was only poetic justice that she should get it. As things were, she owed Mr. Priestley all the reparation she could give him. But nevertheless, modern though she considered herself, there were limits even to such reparation, and was not to compromise herself hopelessly and for ever quite decidedly one of them? Oh, Lord, she didn’t knowwhatto do!
“All right,” Laura heard her own voice saying, “I agree. I give you my solemn word.” She listened to it with astonishment. So far as she knew, she had not arrived at any decision at all; apparently she had been wrong. The words seemed to have come out of her mouth without any volition on her part at all. Laura was grateful to her mouth; at any rate it had solved this very awkward problem for her.
Mr. Priestley replied fittingly.
“And I know what I’ll do,” Laura went on, speaking this time of her own free will. “I’ll adopt you as an uncle. That’ll make everything all right, won’t it?” The British mind, it has been said, loves a compromise.
Mr. Priestley looked slightly disappointed. He did not feel at all avuncular.
Twenty minutes later Laura, having obtained leave of absence for half an hour, was in Piccadilly, a smile on her lips and laughter in her heart. Now that the die actually was cast, she was prepared to enjoy the situation to its fullest extent. And anyhow, Duffley really was deadly dull.
She entered the Piccadilly Palace and made a bee-line for the telephone room. Their own house at Duffley was not on the telephone, and she gave the Nesbitt’s number. A quarter of an hour later she got it.
“Yes?” said Cynthia’s voice very wearily. “What is it?”
“Is that you, Cynthia darling? Lawks speaking.”
“Oh!” Cynthia’s voice brightened considerably. “I thought it was another wretched reporter. They’ve been buzzing round here like flies all the afternoon, and the telephone’s been going continuously. Lawks, what have you been doing, my dear?”
“Hush! Telephones have ears, you know, besides the ones at each end. I’ll tell you all about everything when I see you. My dear, I’ve had a perfectly hectic time. I—no, not now. Cynthia, will you take a message across for me to Dawks?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“I want her to pack a trunk for me. Tell her to put in my gray costume, my new black georgette, my …” A long list followed here, of intimate interest to both Laura and Cynthia, and none at all to the reader. “Oh, well, if you can’t remember all that, just tell her all my new spring things, my best evening frocks and my choicest undies. And I want you to tell George that——” Details followed of the car and the garage at Manstead.
“But Lawks, what ever are you doing?”
“Never mind, darling; of that anon. Oh, and tell Dawks to bring the trunk up here to-morrow morning, put it in the cloakroom, and meet me in the Piccadilly Palace lounge at twelve sharp.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Cynthia, to whom an idea had just occurred. “Yes, very well. Lawks, how’s—you know, your little friend?”
“Oh, sitting up and taking nourishment.”
“Yes, but is he—”
“Your thrrrree minutes is up,” said a harsh voice. “Do you want another thrrrree minutes?” And its owner promptly cut them off before either could answer her.
Laura returned to Half Moon Street with feelings which she made no attempt to analyse.
Mr. Priestley also did not stop to analyse his feelings when Laura returned to him. There was no need. His face one large beam, he welcomed her as if she had been away half a year instead of half an hour. It is to be feared that Mr. Priestley had not been quite as reassured as he should have been by Laura’s solemn word.
Having taken off her hat and admired the delightfully cosy little room prepared for her, in which a fire was already burning, Laura returned to the study, and insisted upon being initiated into her secretarial duties that very minute, brushing aside Mr. Priestley’s earnest attempts to establish a conscience which would not allow him even to think of work on a Sunday, much less practise it. Mr. Priestley, who had not the faintest idea what to do with a secretary or how on earth to keep her employed for more than ten minutes in the day, had considerable difficulty in concealing the fact that a secretary who knew no Latin or Greek was just about as much use to him personally as the clothes she was going to buy with his money. Laura, who read each thought as it flitted through his mind, listened demurely to his halting sentences and continued to think what a perfect dear he was.
With an air of great importance the perfect dear finally gave her some rough notes he had made ten years before (and never thought of since) upon certain obscure passages in Juvenal, to be put into shipshape form the next morning. Then, with the comfortable feeling of duty done and pleasure coming, he settled down in a chair by the fire for a companionable chat till dinner.
That meal safely over (and an admirable affair it was; Barker had seen to that, though distinctly disappointed that no champagne was drunk with it to mark the occasion fittingly), they went back to the library, and there Mr. Priestley had a very bright idea indeed. This dear girl was likely to be on his hands for some time; why not make that period of real solid value to her, and at the same time increase her own value to himself? Why not, in short, teach her a little Latin? He pottered happily off to see if he could unearth the old Kennedy’s grammar of his schooldays.
To Laura’s considerable regret, he succeeded.
To Barker, lurking tactfully in his own fastness and picturing lurid scenes in progress in the study with all the strength of his somewhat one-sided imagination, the truth regarding the next two hours would have been a poignant disappointment; there is very little luridness in the conjugation ofmensa. Laura spent a dull evening.
At half-past ten, feeling that she had had enough Latin to last her for several years, she announced her intention of going to bed, resisting all Mr. Priestley’s efforts to dissuade her.
“I’m very tired,” she said, not without truth, holding out a slim hand. “Good-night, Uncle Matthew.”
“Good-night, then Niece Laura,” beamed Mr. Priestley, taking the hand and forgetting apparently to release it again.
Laura could hardly go to bed without her hand; she lingered. They smiled at each other.
“Oh, well,” thought Laura, “why not? He deserves something, the funny old dear, and he does seem to enjoy it so.” She held up her cheek. “Good-night, dear, kind Uncle Matthew,” she said softly.
“God bless my soul!” observed Mr. Priestley, discovering suddenly that there are advantages in being an uncle after all.
“Besides, it isn’t the first time,” continued Laura’s thoughts as she went off to her bed and a pair of Mr. Priestley’s pyjamas; “and he certainly had that kissing look in his eye. Oh, well, I owe him that much, I suppose.” But not for one moment did she admit that the very simple reason why she had held up her face was that, for the first time in her life, she actually wanted to be kissed. A simple reason is so very dull, of course, when there is a complicated one to take its place.
Mr. Priestley rang for his night-cap and settled himself in his chair again feeling exactly ten years younger than when he had last performed the same action forty-eight hours ago. If Laura let him kiss her good-night, she ought by all logic to let him kiss her good-morning. If he kissed her once each night and once each morning, and she stayed in his rooms say, two months—no, three months at least for safety, then he could look forward to … thirty multiplied by three multiplied by two…. His thoughts ran happily on; very happily.
Mr. Priestley was a man of resilient disposition. Living as he had so far out of the everyday world, the things of the world passed him by without his very much noticing them. One day out in the world there might be a miners’ strike, but the next day Mr. Priestley had forgotten all about it; one day there would be a railway disaster most distressing at the moment of reading, the next there had never been a railway disaster at all; one night out in the big world Mr. Priestley might shoot a blackguard, the next his action had receded into a bad dream. Even the handcuff, last tangible link with that extraordinary affair, had been miraculously removed by Barker, to whom all things seemed possible. Mr. Priestley had reached the stage of having to pinch himself before he could realise that the thing had really happened. It is true that Laura remained, one last link and, presumably, a tangible one, especially when being bidden good-night. But Laura was a different affair altogether. Sipping his hot toddy, Mr. Priestley meditated not without awe how very different Laura was—different from everything and every one there had ever been before in the history of the world. Indubitably Laura was a different affair.
When he went to bed thirty minutes later, to sleep like a log all night, Mr. Priestley was still pondering reverently upon the really quite astonishing difference of Laura.
He had cause for further reflection the next morning, for that young woman, although greeting him with cheerful nieceishness at the breakfast-table, did not offer even a hand by way of token; indeed, she was at some pains to avoid her host’s distinctly pleading eye. During the meal Mr. Priestley found rueful employment in cutting down his arithmetical calculations by exactly one-half.
For an hour afterwards in the study Laura wrestled nobly with the obscurities of Juvenal. The time did not pass unpleasantly. She had a translation given her, and in the intervals of wrestling was able to discover some quite interesting reading therein. Mr. Priestley, pretending to scan his morning paper by the fire, glanced at her contentedly from time to time. This was a good idea of his, secretarial employment; working away at Juvenal, the poor girl would quite imagine that she was performing her share of a two-sided bargain; it would never occur to her now to consider herself an object of charity, with the inevitable resentment that a high-spirited girl naturally would feel in such circumstances. Yes, a really brilliant idea. Mr. Priestley turned to hisDaily Courierfor the forty-seventh time.
The Sunday CourierandThe Daily Courierwere as brothers having one father, Lord Lappinwick. WhatThe Sunday Couriersaid on SundayThe Daily Couriersaid on Monday, and whatThe Daily Couriersaid on SaturdayThe Sunday Courierrepeated with admiration on Sunday.The Daily Courierwas now busy repeating its brother’s observations of the day before, with added epithets and a few fresh facts. These latter did not amount to much, being merely the brilliant discoveries and deductions of Inspector Cottingham of the day before, and the story of them only confirmed Mr. Priestley’s own theory. They had furnished enough conversation to last throughout breakfast, but, speculation tending to move in an endless circle, were now exhausted. In the meantime Laura held her curiosity as best she could, till twelve o’clock.
An hour before that time she looked up from her work.
“Do you—do you think I might be spared now to go out and do that shopping?” she asked, with charming diffidence.
“God bless my soul, yes!” exclaimed Mr. Priestley, full of remorse. “Do you know, I’d forgotten all about it. Go and get your hat on at once, my dear; you’ve got two hours before lunch.”
Laura went.
“Here’s the hundred pounds,” said Mr. Priestley when she returned, and stuffed a bundle of notes in her hand.
Laura attempted to thank him, but was cut short. “Yes, yes,” he said, much embarrassed. “That’s all right. And—and you’ll be back for lunch.”
Laura smiled at the indifferently concealed anxiety in his voice. “Yes, Uncle Matthew, I’ll be back; or soon after, at any rate. I’m not going to run away. I gave you my word, you know.”
“So you did,” said Mr. Priestley. “So you did. Well, good-bye, my dear girl. Get yourself lots of pretty things.”
“I will, I promise you. Oh, and I’ve had an idea. I’m going to buy a second-hand trunk and have all the things packed in that. Then it will look to Barker as if it was just my luggage turned up, you see. What do you think of that?”
“Excellent!” said the guileless Mr. Priestley with much admiration. “Excellent! Well—er—good-bye, Niece Laura.”
“Good-bye, Uncle Matthew,” demurely said Laura, who was not taking any hints to-day. She went.
Mr. Priestley found plenty to think about for the next fifty minutes.
Then, at ten minutes to twelve, he heard the front door-bell ring, and Barker’s footsteps down the passage a moment later. He wondered idly who had rung. It may be noted that Mr. Priestley did not start guiltily every time a bell rang, nor did he cringe-about the place in constant expectation of a heavy hand on his shoulder. It might have been a mouse he had shot instead of a man for all the guilty starts and cringing that Mr. Priestley performed.
While Mr. Priestley was not starting guiltily, Barker was opening the door. Confronting him on the landing was a tall, slim woman, exquisitely dressed, who smiled at him. The smile was of such peculiar sweetness that Barker broke another life-time’s record and smiled back.
“Is Mr. Priestley in?” asked the lady, amid the shattered fragments of Barker’s record.
“Yes, madam.”
“Is he alone? Alone in the flat, I mean?”
“Yes, madam,” said Barker, concealing any surprise he might have felt under his usual egg-like expression.
“Then I should like to see him, please.”
“Yes, madam. Will you step this way? What name shall I say?”
The visitor smiled at him again, this time in a particularly confidential way. “It doesn’t matter about the name. Just say ‘a lady.’”
“Very good, madam. Will you come in here, please?”
Still somewhat upset by the smile, Barker did a thing he would never have dreamed of doing in normal circumstances and showed the caller straight into Mr. Priestley’ s study. There, regretfully, he left her.
“Good-morning, Mr. Priestley,” said the lady, advancing at once with outstretched hand and apparently quite at home. “You don’t know me, but I think you know Pat Doyle, who is a friend of ours. I am Mrs. Nesbitt.”
“Mrs. Nesbitt!” repeated Mr. Priestley in amazement. He became aware of the outstretched hand in a gray glove and shook it absently. It was a very nice hand, and deserved more attention. “Mrs. Nesbitt! Well, good gracious me.”
“I want to speak to you very privately, Mr. Priestley,” Cynthia smiled again, and at once Mr. Priestley felt he had known her all his life. “Laura isn’t here, is she, by any chance?”
“Miss Merriman?” Mr. Priestley smiled back delightedly. “Oh, do you know her too? Excellent! No, she isn’t here just now. She went out nearly an hour ago, to—er—in fact, she went out. But she’ll be back for lunch, I hope.”
“Miss Merriman?” said Cynthia, puzzled. “I meant Laura Howard.”
Mr. Priestley shook his head. “There’s no Miss Howard here. I don’t even know a Miss Howard. There is a Miss Merriman, Miss Laura Merriman, staying here with me.”
“Staying here?” echoed Cynthia, considerably startled. She devoted one searching look at Mr. Priestley and knew him at once for what he was; then she laid back her head and laughed very heartily. “Oh, Laura!” laughed Cynthia. “Yes, it must be her. Well, it was her own fault and I’m very glad to hear it. It may do her quite a lot of good.”
It was Mr. Priestley’s turn to look mystified. Also he was beginning to feel slightly alarmed. Mrs. Nesbitt’s call could only mean one thing, and that was that his connection with the business at Duffley had come to light. Probably Pat Doyle had asked her to give him a hint of warning. Oh, dear, how exceedingly awkward!
“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he faltered.
Cynthia threw him a compassionate glance. “No, I shouldn’t think you do,” she said warmly. “That’s why I’m here.” She walked swiftly over to the door, and, to Mr. Priestley’s astonishment, turned the key. “I want to talk to you very confidentially, Mr. Priestley. I’ve only got a very few minutes, and whatever happens nobody must see me here. Oh, why aren’t you in the telephone-book? I’ve wasted hours finding out your address.”
“God bless my soul!” said the astonished Mr. Priestley.
Cynthia began to talk.
Out in the passage, hovering warily, Barker heard the key turn in the lock and walked thoughtfully back to the kitchen. “The saucy old kipper!” was Mr. Barker’s summing-up of the situation, after profound cogitation. He repeated his analysis to an empty milk-jug. “The saucy oldkipper!” confided Mr. Barker to the milk-jug.
Ten minutes later Cynthia was taking farewell of a staggered Mr. Priestley. “And you’ll be by the Achilles statue at three o’clock?” she said, offering the gray-gloved hand again. “I’ve ever so much more to tell you, but I simply must fly now as she’s been waiting there since twelve for the cloak-room ticket. Think over that idea of mine in the meantime, and see if you can improve on it. And for goodness’ sake don’t let Laura follow you this afternoon. Good-bye, Mr. Priestley.”
“Good-bye, Mrs. Nesbitt,” mumbled Mr. Priestley, who had been conversing for the last ten minutes entirely in gasps. “And—and thank you so much.”
“Not a bit. I can only apologise most humbly, as the only member of the conspiracy with perhaps a single grain of sense, that I ever let things go so far; I ought to have put my foot down at the very beginning. And now I must go. Oh, and perhaps you’d better tell your man not to let it out to Laura that I’ve been here this morning.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” muttered the dazed recipient of her confidences, trying to open the door by twisting the handle backwards and forwards. Cynthia gently unlocked it for him.
Mr. Priestley saw her out himself, more or less, and then ambled along the passage to the kitchen.
“Barker,” said Mr. Priestley, eyeing his servitor as blankly as if the latter had actually turned into the breakfast dish he so much resembled. “Barker, kindly say nothing to Miss How—to Miss Lau—to my cousin about the lady who called this morning. Or,” added Mr. Priestley comprehensively, “to any one else.”
“Very good, sir,” agreed Barker without visible emotion.
He waited till Mr. Priestley’s shuffling footsteps had ceased to be audible in the passage. Then he gave vent to his feelings. “Well, I’ll be blowed!” remarked Mr. Barker to the silver spoon he happened to be polishing at the moment. “Running two of ’em at once, unbeknown to each other! Sends one out and has the other in, and vice verse. The giddy old gazebo!” said Mr. Barker to the silver spoon.