The Garden of Mystery E-Book

Marsh Richard

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Sir Philip Ford is intrigued by a beautiful girl in Monte Carlo — until she nearly stabs him, mistaking him for someone else. He returns to England to discover his friend Alan has married this wicked character with the extremely shady past. Eveleen initiates a conspiracy to murder her new husband, planning to throw the blame on the innocent Doris (Sir Philip’s love interest). A suspenseful story, with an under-current of romance.

Leseprobe

THE GARDEN OF MYSTERY

RICHARD MARSH

1906

© 2021 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383831426

CONTENTS

1 … The Two Players

2 … In My Lady’s Chamber

3 … The Summer House

4 … Sir Philip Ford

5 … “What on Earth Am I to Do?”

6 … Doris Returns from Her Walk

7 … Doris Interviews Sir Philip

8 … A Question of Compensation

9 … His Hostess

10 … Mrs. Thurston Practises a Losing Hazard

11 … The End of the Party

12 … The Rectory Garden

13 … The Two Friends

14 … The Letter

15 … The Telegram

16 … The Cupboard Was Bare

17 … A Puzzle

18 … The Uninvited Guest

19 … Bianca

20 … Conspirators

21 … The Rector Is Troubled.

22 … Mrs. Thurston Inquires for Her Husband

23 … Sir Philip Is Convinced

24 … P.-C. Felling

25 … Mr. Felling Is Put to Confusion

26 … The Rector Is Interrupted

27 … The Accusation of Doris

28 … An Intervention

29 … Heated Passages

30 … The Punch-Bowl

31 … The Procession Starts Again

32 … John Beasley

33 … Sir Philip Explains

34 … The Fish-Pond

35 … Vale!

— I —

THE TWO PLAYERS

Philip Ford watched the comedy with amusement. The gentleman had won again, the lady had lost – and she so obviously did not like losing. She was so young, so pretty, in that place so altogether unusual. Almost a girl, there was an air of freshness about her which many girls might envy. Her dress was simple, inexpensive, in striking contrast to many of those about her. In the casino at Monte Carlo there are so many women to whom their dress is their fortune. Normally, Mr. Ford felt convinced, her mood was sunny. Now she was in a rage. Like a child in a temper which came very near to tears. Indeed it was her childishness which made her seem so out of place in such surroundings.

Ford found himself wondering who she could be. She was apparently alone. So far as he had seen not a soul had spoken to her, and she had spoken to no one. She was her own banker, carrying her money in a little leather satchel which hung about her waist. Philip Ford was beginning to suspect that there was not much left in it. He would have liked to beg of her to cease to play, if for no other reason than that luck was so persistently against her. She had lost continuously – not large sums – though he was pretty sure that they were large to her. She had commenced by staking two or three louis at a time; now she had descended to five-franc pieces; and each piece seemed to linger longer between her fingers before she let it go. At last there was an end of them. He felt sure of it. She glanced inside the satchel. He would have been prepared to bet that it was empty, because she snapped the clasp with such a furious little snap, and because she bit her pretty lips as if trying to keep the angry tears out of her childlike eyes.

And the man won all the time, as he had been doing from the first. Ford doubted if he had lost half a dozen coups. It tickled him to notice that in appearance the fellow was not unlike himself – tall, thin, with a slight stoop; black hair, parted in the centre, short moustache, monocle carried in his right eye – so far the resemblance was almost weird. Yet the differences were sufficiently marked to make it difficult to mistake one for the other. Ford’s peculiarities were written large all over him. To look at him one could easily have believed that he was an anchorite under a vow of fasting. He was thin almost to the point of attenuation. There was an aloofness about his manner which induced strangers to regard him as austere. He was reserved, self-contained, prone, one might say, to speechlessness; a man, one felt, who could be silent in many languages.

The man who was winning handfuls of gold was, equally obviously, of a very different type. No traces of austerity about him, nor of reserve. His were eyes which had looked often upon the wine when it was red, and other liquors also, to say nothing of those various delights which appeal to the carnal mind. His lips were pendulous, the red wine gleamed through his cheeks, his eyes were muddy. This was not the first time this man had played roulette for stakes which counted. Indeed, to judge from his demeanour, the pursuit was such a familiar one that it had ceased to interest him whether he won or lost. He picked up the money which the croupier’s rake continually pushed in his direction with a listless air as though, if anything, it rather bored him to have to put himself to so much exertion.

As the girl came to the conclusion that her little bag was really and truly empty the man had the maximum on fourteen, and the number turned. He had had the maximum on the winning number a few minutes before; since when he had been backing different combinations with nearly unvarying success. A murmur went round the table as he won again. The girl glanced in his direction with envy in her eyes. Ford noticed that desire, for what the fellow was winning, seemed to cause the whole expression of her face to change. He turned away, unwilling to continue any longer to be the witness of a spectacle which did not please him. The thing was familiar there. Men would win, and women would give themselves in exchange for some of their winnings; only Ford did not care to associate that pretty young English girl with such reflections. She was English, undoubtedly; that was, in fact, the pity of it. What was so fair a compatriot doing in such an atmosphere? He did not like to think.

It was perhaps half an hour later when, having had more than enough of the casino, he went out into the night. Moon and stars gleamed from a cloudless sky. It was cool but beautiful. Buttoning his coat about his neck, he walked briskly from terrace to terrace, up and down, to and fro. The moon was almost at the full. The sea was like a silver lake. Only the faintest breeze was stirring. A yacht, blazing with illuminations, stood out like a thing of beauty. It was so still that voices, music, laughter travelled to him from its deck across the water. He knew what the yacht was, and the meaning of the blaze of glory. The boat, the Hoosier, was the property of Mrs. Van Volst, the widow of a notorious rather than famous, American multimillionaire. She was giving a dinner on board, to be followed by a dance. Had he chosen, Philip Ford might have been among the guests. Now as he stood there, solitary, listening, watching, he rather wished that he had consented to join the revels later. He would have at least been free to follow his mood. The sight and the sound seemed to accentuate his feeling of solitude.

He turned to go to his hotel. As he did so he almost knocked over someone who was standing so close behind him that it was almost impossible for him to move without coming into collision. He drew back, with a half-uttered apology.

“I beg your pardon – but—”

Then he stopped to stare. The person whom he had nearly overturned was a woman – to his astonishment, the girl of the casino, who had always lost until at last he had been sure her satchel was empty. She was dressed exactly as he had seen her last, without even a cloak thrown over her shoulders; from her left wrist was still suspended the empty satchel.

It was the singularity of her attitude which started him. Her right arm was raised in the manner of one who is about to strike a blow, while in her hand something gleamed. He saw it but an instant, but in the moonlight he saw it clearly – the flash of steel. In less than six seconds after he had turned and they had seen each other her arm fell, her hand went behind her – too late to hide what was in it. Both were silent, and both apparently for the same reason; because she seemed to be as much surprised as he was. If she was not the quicker to regain her presence of mind she was at least the first to speak. Her voice was not only musical, unmistakably a lady’s, but she spoke with a smiling calmness which amazed him more and more.

“Do you know, it was lucky for you, indeed, it was lucky for both of us, you turned. I was almost – as nearly as possible – making a mistake.”

In the moonlight she was prettier than ever, and more of a child.

“Of what nature?”

She pulled a little face.

“It’s very odd, but there’s someone else exactly like you from the back, here in Monte Carlo. I’ve been watching you – oh, for some minutes, and you quite deceived me. When you turned it gave me such a shock. But, as I said, it was lucky for both of us you did turn – just then, very.”

She nodded lightly, gaily, carelessly; then, before he could speak again, flitted along the path at a pace which was half a run. She had vanished before it occurred to him that there were questions which it would perhaps have been better if he had put to her. Her bearing had been so debonair; there was about her such a suggestion of being amused, that it had been difficult to associate her with anything but comedy. And yet why had she stolen up to him so softly that, even in the intense stillness, he had not heard her coming? And his hearing, as a rule, was so acute. Why had she approached so close to him, within touching distance of his back? Why had her arm been raised in so ominous an attitude? What was it she had been holding in her hand? A knife, beyond a doubt.

If such was the case – of which he was convinced – then was it conceivable that she, a mere child, a seemingly innocent girl, had meant to stab him in the back? To the question put so the answer was a negative. She had not meant to stab him. As she herself had explained, she as nearly as possible had made a mistake. He had all but fallen a victim in a case of mistaken identity. The uplifted blade had been meant for the fortunate gambler, by whose likeness to himself Mr. Ford had been struck. If there was a resemblance between them as seen from the front, from the back possibly it was greater still – especially in the moonlight. Seeing him in the glamour of the moon from behind the girl had supposed him to be the lucky gambler, whose pockets were stuffed with the casino spoils, and had proposed to bury her knife in his back. As she had said, it was lucky for both of them that he had turned – just then. In another moment her error might have been beyond undoing.

On the other hand, ought he to have let her go scot-free, suspecting her of such an intention? What did it matter? He was not a policeman. He was not even particularly interested in the preservation of law and order. He distinctly objected to being dragged into the public gaze. There were all sorts of people in Monte Carlo; the whole world knew it; let them all take care of themselves. So, strolling leisurely back to his hotel, Philip Ford slept the sleep of the just.

The following morning as he was thinking vaguely of where he should breakfast, a waiter thrust a telegram into his hand. He tore it open, with the indifference of the man to whom telegrams are common things; but all indifference vanished when he read the contents:

Sir Geoffrey has been seriously injured, and Mr. Geoffrey killed, in accident to motorcar. Doctors say Sir Geoffrey’s condition is very grave. Come at once.

RAWSON.

The words were so startling that he had to read them a second time before he began to apprehend their full meaning. Sir Geoffrey’s condition very grave? His only brother, from whom he had had a letter so recently as yesterday, in which the writer confessed himself to be in the best of health and spirits. Mr Geoffrey – young Geoffrey – killed? His brother’s one child, of whom the father had been so proud, and who had had in him the making of so fine a man What – even in the first moment of the shock the thought would obtrude itself – what a difference thee things might make to him! But the thought was banished as quickly as it came He recalled his brother’s face, and the boy’s, young Geoff’s, flushed with youth and health and happiness; and he wondered, conscious of an unwonted stain somewhere within him, how quickly he could get home.

While he wondered, someone spoke to him – Major Downs, whose acquaintance he had first made in the Punjaub, and who at Monte Carlo had shown the inclination of the solitary but gregarious man to attach himself rather more closely than Philip Ford desired. In spite of his preoccupation, the Major’s words seemed to penetrate his brain with curious distinctness.

“Shocking affair, Ford – eh? I always have said, and I always shall say, that Monte Carlo is the sink of Europe, and that something ought to be done. It is my firm conviction that more crimes take place here than people in general have the faintest notion of. They hush ’em up, that’s what they do, they hush ’em up; devilish clever these fellows here at hushing up.” Apparently something in Philip Ford’s face hinted that his remarks were unintelligible. “What – haven’t you heard? The whole place is talking of it – no wonder! They won’t be able to hush it up this time. That poor chap who was winning at roulette last night – won no end of a lot – I saw you watching him. I don’t know if you noticed it, but it struck me that there was a kind of a likeness between you two – as if he was a sort of half-brother of yours, don’t you know.” The Major laughed, as if he had made a joke.

“What’s happened to him?” He spoke as if in reply to an unuttered question. “The worst, my dear sir, the very worst. He’s been found dead in the casino gardens – without a farthing on him, after all his winnings. He’s been lying there all night, murdered – robbed and murdered” – the Major’s voice dropped to an impressive semitone – “stabbed in the back.”

— II —

IN MY LADY’S CHAMBER

Mrs. Thurston was in the best of tempers. She generally was, even when alone, which is rather rarer than some think. Persons who are notorious for their sunny disposition in public are frequently remarkable for something quite different when there is no one there but themselves and the mask comes off. But it was characteristic of Mrs. Thurston that she was apt to be merrier in private than when other persons were present, if the thing were possible. On the present occasion something seemed to be tickling her immensely.

“To think,” she exclaimed aloud, as if someone else had been there to hear, “that all this is mine, and it might so easily have been hers. Mine! mine! all mine! It really is a most magnificent jest – for me!” She laughed, daintily, musically, the sound coming from her pretty throat as sweetly as if it were the song of some light-hearted bird. “And how long ago is it since I was a governess on thirty pounds a year? It seems ages, but in reality it’s only weeks. Dear me, what vicissitudes I have known in my short life!” She sighed – a sigh which did not suggest distress, for laughter was dancing in her eyes. “What a room I had at Mrs. Welby’s – quite a respectable room for a governess creature, I’ll admit – but, still, compared to this, which is something like a room—”

She sighed again, this time a sigh of sheer content. As she observed, it was something like a room the one in which she was; as charming an apartment as even the soul of a beauty-loving woman could very well desire. A cunning mixture of the old and the new. Shaded electric lights looked down on furniture which would have delighted the connoisseur’s heart, and yet which was all that one could wish in the way of comfort. The windows were draped with costly hangings. The half-dozen water-colours which hung against the daintily coloured walls were delights to the eye. Costly knick-knacks were scattered here and there, with a profusion which spoke not only of an artistic sense, but also of a well-filled purse. Indeed, every article which the room contained was a thing both of beauty and of price. And the most beautiful thing in it was the lady who owned it all. Very charming it was to note the delight which came to her from the mere joy of possession, as, like a child, she passed from treasure to treasure, admiring, fondling each in turn.

“Mine! mine! all mine! The most wonderful part of it all is that Alan, of all people in the world, should have such rooms, for the bedroom’s almost more exquisite than this, and the drawing-room’s a dream. When I first met Alan I never should have guessed him to be the owner of such a house as this. Money, yes, Alan emanates money; but taste – dear Alan’s taste is excellent – or I shouldn’t be here; but it’s not equal to this. Dear, dear Alan.” Again the musical laughter which, in such a connection, one hardly knew how to take. “It only shows that dear Alan is cleverer than one would think, or he would never have guessed that, in some directions, he wasn’t clever. This Sir Philip Ford must be by way of being a curiosity. That Alan thinks him a tin god goes for nothing; he has a good many tin gods, has Alan, and he has no idea how tinny some of them are. The dear, dear boy! Fancy Alan asking him to furnish his house for him, and fancy Sir Philip doing it! ‘I asked him,’ says Alan, ‘to make of it a perfect house for a perfect woman, and you’ll find he’s done it.’ For once in his life Alan was right – Sir Philip has done it. The man must be a genius. I’ve seen some fine houses in one way or another, but I do believe that this is the most perfect of them all. And it’s mine! mine! all mine!” Once more the laughter, which this time seemed more in place.

“The point of the joke is that I am persuaded that she was the perfect woman for whom it was all designed; that it was she whom Alan had in his mind’s eye when he set Sir Philip to work. Poor dear, ill-treated young woman! I could see it in her face as she entered the room. Of course she never would have come if it had not been for her mamma. What an affliction mamma must be. I have found her a trial on those occasions on which I have been compelled to have one; there are times when a lone lorn maiden must have a female parent; but a permanent mamma – how thankful I ought to be when I consider that I always have been saved from that!”

The little lady, stretching herself full length upon a couch, passed from the consideration of how delightful it was to be without a mother, to admiration of the small pair of red shoes which peeped from under the hem of her skirt.

“What pretty feet I have – really pretty; because mine are feet which don’t owe their beauty to a shoemaker. And that’s the secret of it all – I am so pretty altogether. It makes it so delightful. In a female creature beauty and brains are the two things most to be desired; and since I have them both how thankful I ought to be. Men may pose as they please, but they find it impossible to be hard on a really pretty and clever girl, while the average masculine will forgive her anything. He likes to be twisted round a pretty woman’s pretty fingers. Of course there are exceptions; it is they who give to life its savour. I love a man who can be a brute to me if only because it supplies me with such a very adequate reason why I should be a brute to him. Oh, dear, how sick I should get of always honey!”

There was a tap on the door. A maid entering advanced towards her with an envelope upon a salver.

“The person who brought it, madam, is waiting for an answer.”

Mrs. Thurston skimmed the brief note which the envelope contained. She looked up with a smile.

“Go into the other room and wait. I’ll have an answer ready in a minute; then I’ll ring.”

The maid retired. The little lady re-read the note, this time more carefully, yet still with smiling face.

“There is one of the brutes – I wondered how long it would be before he appeared upon the scene. Funny boy! he writes as if it were his to command and mine to obey. When will men learn?”

Seating herself at a writing-table, which was so exquisitely fashioned that it seemed almost desecration to use it for its avowed purpose, scribbling a few hasty lines, she crammed the sheet of paper on which they had been written into an envelope, then hesitated.

“Shall I put any name outside? Better not.” Touching a bell which was in front of her she handed the blank envelope to the maid. “Give that to the person who is waiting.”

Alone again, she glanced at the clock on the mantel.

“I’ve nearly half an hour in which to compose my mind, and prepare myself – for the very worst. So here goes for preparation.”

Moving to the piano, she began to sing a song which had recently been the rage in Paris; but which was hardly the sort of song one might expect that a young married woman would sing even in the solitude of her own chamber.

— III —

THE SUMMER HOUSE

Mrs. Owen was feeling unwell, as, when there was any unpleasantness in the air, she was very apt to do. There was something decidedly disagreeable in the air just then. Doris was behaving in a way which was most unsatisfactory. And that in spite of her mother’s plaintive wailing.

“Really, Doris, if you will persist in going on like this you’ll make me thoroughly ill. You know how easily things do upset me. In my present state of health it’s most unfeeling – most!”

Mrs. Owen, lying farther back on the pillows of the couch, held a cologne-laden pocket handkerchief to her forehead with one hand, and a bottle of smelling-salts to her nostrils with the other. In spite, however, of the lady’s conspicuous distress, her daughter continued to persist.

“I’m very sorry, mother, but you have brought it all upon yourself. If you will subject me to such humiliations—”

“Brought it all upon myself! Subject you to humiliations! As if you yourself were not the cause of everything! Oh, my poor head! I know I’m going to be ill.”

Instead of appearing properly sympathetic, an angry light came into the young lady’s eyes; her lips were drawn tighter together.

“I don’t wish to argue with you as to who has been most to blame—”

“I should think you didn’t!”

“But you yourself must see how perfectly impossible our position is in Mr. Thurston’s house.”

“Mr. Thurston! Why will you speak of him like that?”

“Is his name not Thurston?”

“Doris, you will drive me mad! When you have called him Alan all your life!”

“I will never call him Alan again, I promise you that; and surely you should be the last person to remind me that I have ever done so.”

“Oh, my poor head! Where is my phenacetin?”

“That you should insist on dragging me here was bad enough; but that you should think of staying when it is the evident intention of that woman he has married—”

“He would have had to marry a woman even if he had married you. Don’t throw the fact of his having married a woman in his face, my dear. You might have been the woman he has married had you chosen; don’t show temper because, by your own action, you are not.”

“Mother, why won’t you look the truth in the face?”

“Oh, my poor head! Why will you shout like this?”

“Don’t you know as well as I do how he has played fast and loose with me, throwing me on and off as if I were an old glove. Since you are my mother, one would have thought that you would have protected me from him; but that you have never dreamt of doing.”

“If you were like any ordinary person you wouldn’t talk such nonsense. You wanted a saint; instead of which Alan Thurston is just an ordinary man.”

“I should imagine, mother, that only an extraordinary man would treat the girl to whom he is engaged as Alan Thurston has treated me. I have forgiven him again and again for what the ordinary woman would never have forgiven him once. How long ago is it since he came to me with vows of penitence, imploring me to give him another trial? And then – within a month! – he marries a woman whom he has met for the first time in his life less than a fortnight before – and you say I could have married him. Apparently anyone could have done that.”

“Exactly. That has been my opinion all along, which only shows how foolish you were not to take advantage of the chance when you had it.”

“Mother, for both our sakes I will credit you with an incapacity to understand the meaning of your own words. And then, after he has used me in such a fashion, you drag me here, to his house, immediately after he has returned from his honeymoon. No wonder he does not condescend to be at home to receive us, and that his wife is insolent. I don’t know what you intend to do, but I shall leave tomorrow.”

“You shall do nothing of the kind. If you are not careful you will really rouse me, and then you will be sorry, as you frequently are when it is too late. Since you take up this high-faluting strain you shall know what my – what our exact position is. Are you aware that I changed our last five-pound note to bring us here?”

“Mother!”

“Our last five-pound note! I have less than two sovereigns left. If you insist on leaving tomorrow I have hardly enough money to pay your fare to London, and then what is to become of you – of both of us?”

The girl stood facing her with white cheeks and wide-open eyes.

“Mother, is this true?”

“Absolutely, literally true! I have not two sovereigns left in all the world. I don’t know what you have.”

“I? I have only a few shillings – certainly not half-a-sovereign.”

“Then that is precisely how it is with us.”

“But – I don’t understand. I had no idea that we were as poor as this. I – I thought you had some income, mother.”

“My income, such as it is, was mortgaged up to the hilt and over long ago.”

“Then – how have we been living?”

“Better ask no questions. I should have told you nothing now had you not forced me. I only wished to point out to you how impossible it is that we should leave tomorrow, so please let us consider that subject closed.”

“Mother, have you – have you been having money from Alan Thurston?”

“I will tell you one thing – I intend to have money from Alan Thurston.”

“Mother!”

“You heard what I said, you are not deaf, nor am I, so please don’t shout ‘mother’! I am as conscious as you are that he has treated you shamefully; only, unlike you, I don’t intend to allow him to escape scot free. Either he hands me of his own accord a handsome sum, a really handsome sum, by way of compensation, or – he will receive a communication from my solicitor.”

“Mother, I – I won’t have it.”

“You won’t have it! Doris, don’t, if you can help it, be a greater idiot than you have been already. How are you going to prevent it? I have only to tell him the state of my affairs, and, unless I much misjudge him, he’ll need no pressing to induce him to give me what I ought to have, after the way in which he has treated you. He is a gentleman, in spite of all that you can bring against him, and nothing you can do or say will prevent his doing his best to keep me out of the workhouse, and himself out of the law courts. So, if you take my advice, you’ll hold your tongue, and for once in your life you’ll attempt no interference. You can look and play the martyr; but you can’t and shan’t leave this house until I tell you. Now, go! Leave me! You have made me more than half hysterical, and my head is splitting.”

Doris went, with a tempest of feeling raging within to which she was altogether incapable of giving utterance; out into the garden which, even in the darkness, she knew so well, along the winding path to the summer-house, in which it was the fashion at Glynde, in the long days of summer, to do almost everything but sleep. There, at that season of the year, she could be sure of being alone, and might sob out her grief and her shame in solitude.

By degrees the tumult even of her emotion began to be spent. She became conscious that time was passing, and that if she proposed to be present at dinner it was desirable that she should return to the house. She was lying, full length, face downwards, on a wooden seat, and was just about to change to a sitting posture when a sound caused her to continue motionless. She heard footsteps advancing along the path – the footsteps of more than one person. While she was hoping that it was no one who was coming in search of her, a voice came towards her through the darkness; one which, although she had only heard it once, she never should forget. It was the voice of Mrs. Thurston – Alan’s wife. At the sound Doris clung still closer to the seat, as if it were a refuge. Surely she was not coming to look for her. She should not find her if she was. Than endure the ignominy of being discovered in such a position by her, with the traces of her anguish written in unmistakable characters upon her face, the girl would almost rather have died.

But apparently she had alarmed herself unnecessarily. It soon became plain that she was not the object of the lady’s walks abroad. It was Mrs. Thurston’s companion who was the magnet who had drawn her out into the cold dampness of the November evening; it immediately became obvious to the listener’s attentive ear that that companion was a man.

The pair reached the summer-house, then paused. Doris held her breath. It was Mrs. Thurston speaking.

“This is the place I want; let us go in here. We ought to be safe from observation if there should happen to be a spy about; though let me inform you, my friend, this visit of yours must not be repeated. Now tell me – I can only give you two minutes at the most – what is it that you want?”

They entered; there was their tread upon the boarded floor. Then the man spoke, in a not unpleasant voice, though now and then in some of his tones was that which was hardly suggestive of ultra-refinement. His idioms also were frequently his own.

“The first thing I want’s a kiss. I’ve wanted that God knows how long. As I came, I swore I’d have one, if I had to take it under your new chap’s very nose.”

“My dear boy, you can have a dozen – under my very nose.” Judging from the sound he had them. At that moment Doris was physically incapable of revealing her presence; but if the ground would only have opened and swallowed her up! Presently it seemed that the lady was endeavouring to disengage herself from the gentleman’s arms. “Now, boy, don’t be silly! Since you’ve put pleasure first, do let’s come to business. Don’t you understand that I haven’t a couple of minutes? What do you want?”

“What I’ve always liked about you is your – shall we call it – sublime cheek.”

“You can call it what you please; only please don’t waste time in talking about me.”

“For calmness you’re unique. You promise that I shall be your best boy for all the days of your life, and then when, by the merest accident, I learn that you’ve gone and got yourself married, you tell me that I’m not to waste time in talking about you. What might you think I’ve come to talk about?”

“My dear Bill, I had to marry; I was sick of governessing.”

“You weren’t forced to governess. There was me.”

“You! The police are such disagreeable creatures, and you know how unpleasant they were making themselves about you.”

“I rather fancy that, at that time, they were also taking an interest in you.”

“Well, all the more reason why I should regulate myself, as I have done. They would never interfere with so respectable a person as I have become. Do you know there’s an earl in the family? One day I may be a countess.”

“How many lives are there between your husband and the title?”

“Only two. Under certain circumstances, two lives – what are they?”

“Exactly. What are they? You’re a beauty. What sort of man is the husband?”

“Well – he’s not a bad sort in a way; but – he’s variable. Normally, he’s a gentleman from top to toe, though there’s a streak of the cad in him.”

“And you found it. I see.”

“Really, Bill, that isn’t very nice of you. Yet I suppose I did; and now the trouble is that I don’t know whether to keep on finding it, or whether to screw him up to the gentleman pitch, and keep him there. But I dare say before very long I shall be able to make up my mind. Now, boy, I absolutely must go.”

“Before you go what I want to know, as you are very well aware, is, where, in all this, do I come in?”

“If you’ll give me your address, I’ll write to you, and meet you in town, and we’ll have a regular rare old time together; then I’ll explain where you come in. In the meanwhile, I do hope that you’re not pressed for cash.”

“I am, as you’ve evidently guessed.”

“Would French bank-notes be of any use to you?”

“Any number, if they’re not earmarked.”

“These aren’t. I’ve not much money of my own, but I happen to have some French notes, which came into my possession in rather a curious way.”

“Is it a good story?”

“Well, that depends; perhaps I’ll tell it you someday. There are five of them for a thousand francs each; that’s two hundred pounds. Would you like to strike a match to see that they’re all right?”

There was a rustling, as if papers were being passed from hand to hand.

“No, thanks, I’ll trust you. Kiddie, you’re a brick. I shouldn’t be surprised if I make my fortune with this two hundred.”

“Yes, I know. You’d better live on it until it’s gone; you’ll find that’s the best investment.”

“If two hundred was all you’d got, you’d go for the gloves, I bet.”

“Well, if you will go for the gloves – and I suppose you must – I hope you’ll get them. What’s the address which will find you?”

“William Seymour, 72 Albion Street, Regent’s Park, until you hear from me to the contrary.”

“I don’t want to hear from you; you’ll hear from me in about a fortnight. I expect by then I shall be bored to death; and when I am bored I must go bang. Now, boy, goodbye! That’s enough! Be good!”

The speakers left the summer-house. They went together for a certain distance; then they paused. Presently Doris could hear footsteps moving in two different directions. The pair had parted.

— IV —

SIR PHILIP FORD

Until the retreating footsteps had altogether died away, Doris scarcely dared to breathe. One tread ceased first; the lady’s, as she passed into the house. The other continued to be audible for some moments, as the man made the best of his, doubtless, more or less erratic way along the winding paths out of the grounds. When everything was perfectly still, Doris drew a long breath; it seemed to her that she had been nearly stifled. Then she sat upon the narrow wooden seat; it was not strange that she felt stiff. Her uncomfortable recumbent attitude had continued much longer than she supposed. Again she drew a long draught of air into her lungs; she was conscious of an unpleasant feeling of oppression. Then, staring straight in front of her into the darkness, she tried to arrange her thoughts, to think, to make head or tail of all that she had heard; to put the pieces of the puzzle together, and try to find the answer to the riddle.

Than her mother few people had a wider acquaintance of the world, including certain aspects of its shady side. But she! She knew nothing. It seemed only the other day, and indeed it was not long, that she had left her convent school, to which she had been sent because it was cheap. Her mother had kept her boxed up as much as possible since, in the hope and with the intention of marrying her to Alan. Because, however, in certain respects Alan had not come up to her fastidious standard, she had proved obstinate altogether beyond her mother’s worst forebodings. She would not marry him until he did; though she herself had not the faintest notion of how far, in reality, he had fallen beneath it. The young gentleman, with her mother’s assistance, had managed to conceal from her about three-fourths of the truth.

The full significance of the interview of which she had been an unintentional auditor reached into worlds of whose existence she was ignorant. But even she could not help but understand that this seemed rather a curious woman whom Alan had won for a wife. So curious a woman that, for Alan’s sake, she herself was frightened. Poor foolish Alan! She had known throughout that his worst fault was his foolishness; she would have given her right hand lightly to have made him what she considered wise. What had he done? Married a woman who allowed another man to kiss her, and talked – What was it they had been talking about? What did it all mean? Poor Alan! A wave of pity swept over her for Alan. Overtaken by a sudden irresistible something, putting her hands up to her face she broke into a flood of tears, and wept because of the plight in which Alan was likely to find himself.

For the second time she threw herself face downwards upon that wooden seat.

Suddenly a voice addressed her from out of the darkness – a masculine voice.

“I beg your pardon, but who is in there? Is anything wrong?”

Engrossed though she had been by her own sensations the owner of the voice must have moved softly to have come upon her without her having been conscious of his approach. Startled, she sprang to her feet with an exclamation which was part sob, part scream.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Her first thought was that Mrs. Thurston’s companion had returned. But the voice which replied was certainly not his. It was so quiet, yet so clear, that unawares it calmed her.

“I am no one in particular. Only as I was crossing the grounds I heard something which made me wonder if anyone was in trouble. May I strike a match?”

The answer came quick as a flash.

“You may not; you will certainly do nothing of the kind. Will you be so good as to let me pass?”

“It is rather difficult in this obscurity to see whereabouts you are, but I don’t think I am obstructing the way, I imagine that there is plenty of room for you to pass.”

Apparently there was, for with a sudden whirl of skirts a figure went by him, and up the path which led to the house, running like the wind. At a more leisurely pace he followed. As he entered the brightly lighted hall, a young man, who had been warming himself in front of the blazing fire, came briskly forward, with outstretched hands.

“Hullo, Ford! I’m awfully glad to see you. I was beginning to wonder where on earth you were. But, I say, what’s the matter with Doris?”

“Doris? I don’t understand.”

“She came tearing in at that door half a minute before you did, looking – well, as if she had been having a deuce of a time. She took me quite aback. When I went to speak to her she rushed off and up the stairs without a word. I hope she’s not mad with me because I wasn’t at home to receive her when she came. The fact is Earle persuaded me to stay and have a pop at some of his outlying birds, and time went so fast that I stopped later than I meant to.”

Sir Philip Ford, moving towards the fire, held out his hands to the warmth.

“Is Miss Owen here?”

“Rather. She came this afternoon, when I was out, bother it! She’s so quick to take offence. I thought you’d like to meet her.”

A faint smile wrinkled the corners of Sir Philip’s eyes.

“That was very good of you.”

“You know you told me that you had never met her.”

“I never have.”

“Although you knew her mother.”

“Oh yes, I know her mother.” There was a pause. Sir Philip looked down at the fire. “I am a little surprised to find Miss Owen here.”

“Quite so; only – the fact is, the old lady practically asked herself.”

“Did she say that her daughter desired to accompany her?”

The young man edged closer to Ford.

“I’m half inclined to suspect that, if she had had her way, Doris wouldn’t have come at all; and, between ourselves, I almost wish she hadn’t. It makes it most confoundedly awkward for me, you know.”

“And for her.”

“Yes, of course, and for her. But where she gets the pull is that she’s got the right on her side.”

“So I should imagine.”

“And I haven’t, which makes all the difference. And I can’t help feeling that she knows it. The consequence is that I don’t know exactly where I am.”

“A feeling you have possibly had before.”

“Don’t be nasty, Ford. I don’t need you to tell me that my conduct hasn’t been altogether what it might have, worse luck! but then, who’s has?”

“The point is that yours hasn’t.”

“Don’t you understand that that’s what makes it so horribly awkward for me? If I’d behaved well, and she’d behaved badly, I shouldn’t have minded meeting her twenty times a day; I should rather have liked it. But as it is – especially as Doris is – oh, she’s a thousand times too good for me.”

“Tell me, Alan, does Mrs. Thurston know the story of your relations with Miss Owen?”

Again the young man drew nearer to the other.

“She does, and she doesn’t; I had to tell her something. You don’t see all that her questions are driving at until you’ve answered them, and then I don’t doubt she’s guessed more on her own account – in fact, I know she has, from the hints she’s dropped. Bless you, she’s as sharp as a razor, though it doesn’t strike you when you know her first. At least, it didn’t me. But then, don’t you know, I believe women are sharper than men – all of ’em.”

“What did Mrs. Thurston say to the idea of Miss Owen’s presence in the house as your guest?”

“Nothing – not a word. As you’ll soon see for yourself, Eveleen is one of the dearest girls in the world – one of the very dearest; but what I like about her as much as anything is that she lets me do just as I like; never tries to talk me out of it, or anything like that, but she just lets me do it. Why, I believe if I wanted to ask the whole Empire ballet down here, she’d say, ‘Ask ’em.’”

“Would she?” Sir Philip, who had been facing the fire, now turned to confront his friend. “And I suppose you’re very much in love with her?”