CHAPTER XXII.
UNDER THE HAMMER
Some few minutes elapsed before Mr. Gray, descending from the platform, furious at such sudden interruption of his business, was able to gather vaguely from excited persons what had occurred.
The throng were passing around the steps, so that he, in charge of the auction, could not get near.
Of a sudden, an excited man, tall, thin-faced, and wearing a faded blue rain-coat, a type of low-class dealer seen at every auction all over the country, rushed up to him, saying:
“Ain’t it terrible, Mr. Gray?”
“What’s happened?” asked the auctioneer, who was so well-known and popular in that riverside district.
“Why, a poor little chap—a telegraph boy! ’E fell down the steps, and they say ’e’s dead!”
“Fell down? What? Stumbled?”
“They say ’e came ’ere with a wire for somebody named Long, a chap from Birmingham. Somebody saw Mr. Long go into the ’ouse, and, hearing the lad shout the name, sent him inside. He found him, and as he went out to get his bike, which ’e left at the steps, he fell down, and they say he’s dead!”
Mr. Gray stood staggered at the story. And well he might, recollecting his own strange experience, followed by that of Doctor Otway and the death of Farmer the caretaker.
The unconscious lad was quickly carried up the steps into the dining-room by willing hands, and soon a doctor was present.
“He’s still alive,” the medical man declared. “But he’s suffering from some violent shock, I think.”
Meanwhile the police were warned by telephone, and in a car belonging to a West End dealer the poor lad was hurried away to the Richmond Hospital.
Fully half-an-hour elapsed before calm reigned among the crowd of buyers.
The incident was discussed by everyone. Some of those present remembered what had appeared in the papers concerning the long-closed house and the evil upon it, and began to talk of curses and of the bad luck which might follow those who bought any of its contents. They were members of what is known in auction circles as “the knock-out”—a ring of dealers who were there to rope in all they could get at lowest prices, by not bidding against each other, one of the most insidious and dishonest forms of purchasing.
This reached Mr. Gray’s ears, and when order was at length restored, by a telephone message from the hospital, which announced that the lad was simply in an epileptic fit and would recover, he again mounted the rostrum.
“Gentlemen!” he cried, striking the table with his mallet, “the interruption upon our day’s proceedings has been a most unfortunate occurrence—the more unfortunate because a certain ring of ill-disposed people have circulated an utterly fantastic story that upon the contents of these premises there exists an evil influence—a curse it has been called. This is a further illustration of the low depths to which our friends of the ‘knock-out’ will descend. I put it to you, gentlemen, is this not hitting us all, myself included, beneath the belt? I am open, as the majority of you here are, for a fair and honest deal. We are all out to make a margin of profit for ourselves—myself included. The more commission I get, the happier I shall be!”
Whereat a great laugh resounded through the garden, and a man’s voice cried: “Good old Gray! You’re one of us!”
“I am,” declared the auctioneer, laughing, and putting everyone in a good temper. “So don’t let us waste any further time, gentlemen. Let’s get to business.”
The next lot was a Charles the Second day-bed, cane-bottomed with spindle legs, in preservation so perfect that it might have been made but forty years ago. All specimens have the canes damaged or holed, but in this case it was flawless.
“Now, gentlemen! How much for this perfect specimen?—a museum piece. Nobody here has ever set eyes upon any day-bed as fine as this. We’re not dealing with Curtain Road stuff to-day, gentlemen, but museum pieces. What shall I say for this magnificent specimen? Two hundred and fifty guineas?”
A little, grey-faced old man in the front of the crowd nodded in assent. He had not bid before, and the crowd of dealers, looking eagerly at him, saw he was not of them—an amateur, no doubt.
Another voice instantly cried “Two-sixty!”
“Two hundred and sixty guineas I am offered for this lot!” cried Mr. Gray. “Come, gentlemen,” he said in his ordinary voice. “The figure is ridiculous. Please don’t let us stay here all the afternoon. Three hundred pounds is offered. Three hundred! Any advance?”
“Guineas!” said the little old stranger in a high-pitched, squeaky voice, as he glanced round apprehensively to see if anyone was about to outbid him.
“Three fifty pounds!” came good-humoredly from a well-known Kensington firm of antique dealers.
“Three-sixty,” added the diminutive old stranger.
“Seventy,” replied the man from Kensington.
“Four hundred pounds,” said the little old man quite calmly.
“Four-ten,” was bid by the other.
“Fifteen!” exclaimed somebody at the back, whereupon the manager of a well-known firm in Wigmore Street, perhaps one of the greatest dealers in first-class antiques, whispered to a friend:
“Not worth more than that!”
To which his fellow dealer agreed.
“Twenty!” exclaimed the old amateur.
“Four hundred and twenty pounds for this perfect Charles the Second day-bed!” cried the man with the hammer. “Four-twenty-five! Four-twenty-five? Now, Mr. Lewis,” he went on, looking at the Kensington dealer. “Four-twenty-five. A unique piece you must acknowledge!”
The dealer from Kensington nodded.
“Four-twenty-five is offered sir,” exclaimed the auctioneer, fixing his eyes upon the little old man.
But the latter shook his head, and when the hammer fell his shiny face relaxed into a triumphant smile, for he had never had any intention whatever of buying it, and had simply run up the price out of mere devilry.
The auction proceeded, but the old gentleman, who was evidently a person of discretion and knowledge, elbowed his way into the house and went upstairs from room to room, examining the contents of each apartment—which would occupy three days in the selling—with critical eyes.
Presently, in descending, he passed for the second time into the long, old drawing-room where the faint wintry light came through the dingy, old, glass windows.
He was alone. For the moment the crowd were all eagerly excited at the sale below.
Glancing apprehensively around, he suddenly clenched his hands, and, raising his face to the ceiling, began to utter some words in gibberish that was quite unintelligible. “The great mystery,” “the strife of Lucifer,” “the all-powerful King,” “the Evil which is Ruler of the Universe,” “the Death God of the Humans!” and such-like expressions were all that were distinguishable.
In those few minutes his breath came and went in short, hard gasps as he lifted his skinny hands and grasped the air in his excitement and fervor.
In language which was cryptic and unintelligible he seemed to be invoking evil upon the place, though no one was present to see him.
Two women suddenly entered that room in which Mr. Gray had been attacked upon the reopening of the disused house, when suddenly the stranger ceased his imprecations, and, pretending to closely examine one of the pictures, a portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence, he strolled out and down the wide stairs. On returning to the crowd he found a set of ancient wrought iron fire-dogs being put up, but evinced no interest in them. For a quarter of an hour he idled about the grounds, and then left to stroll back to the station.
As he ambled along, absorbed apparently in his own thoughts, he took no notice of a tall, rather thickly-built man of middle age who had been present at the sale, and who, like himself, was on his way to the station to take the next train back to London. The pair arrived at the station almost at the same moment and passed the ticket collector one behind the other. The elder man entered a first-class carriage, but the other went third, yet on arrival at Waterloo about half-past four, the younger man watched the other’s movements closely, and, when he entered a taxi, the other followed him across Waterloo Bridge in another cab.
It was a case of cat-and-mouse, for the elder man who had made such a close bid for the Carolean day-bed was none other than the promenader at Monte Carlo, in whose movements François Lebeau had been so deeply interested, while the man who had travelled up to London was Albert Ashe, the ex-butler of the Countess of Wyndcliffe!
CHAPTER XXIII.
OUR SINISTER WORLD
Soon after ten o’clock that night Mr. Ashe called at the Grosvenor Hotel, and, inquiring for Mrs. Wilcox, was at once shown up to Etta’s sitting-room.
The handsome woman, in a pale-mauve and silver dinner-frock, was reclining upon a couch near the fire reading the evening paper.
“I’ve seen some of the prices fetched at the sale,” were her first words as her ex-butler entered.
“Yes, fairly high, eh?” he said. “But how did you get on with Rupert?”
“Rotten,” she replied, suddenly raising herself and taking a cigarette from the onyx box beside her.
“What do you mean?” asked the man, who did not take off his overcoat, but cast himself into a chair after helping himself to a drink from the decanter on the sideboard. “Why rotten?”
“I really can’t tell you, my dear Albert, but I’ve one of my psychic feelings that all is not running as we expected it. There’s some grit in the wheels of the machine somewhere.”
“H’m! You’re nervy! That’s evident! You women are so damned unreliable, and you rat when it comes to a real pinch,” he growled, lighting a cigarette which he took from her box.
“I’m not nervy at all, you fool! Only I have an intuition that things don’t go as they should, and they won’t.”
“Funnily enough, as a matter of fact, I’ve the same notion, my dear girl.”
Then he told her of the incident of the telegraph boy’s sudden seizure at the Guest House and the sensation it had caused.
“The paper says nothing about it.”
“I suppose a mere boy who has a fit doesn’t matter to the papers. But there you are—another remarkable and inexplicable circumstance. I’m getting the wind up, I don’t mind telling you!”
“What! that you’ll also be stricken down?” laughed Etta, flicking her cigarette-ash into the fire and glancing up at him with those magnetic eyes of hers. “You’re a bit of a coward, my dear Albert, after all!”
“I’m not. But how are we going to put these turtledoves apart? That’s what I want to know, and that’s what concerns us both,” said the adventurer who had played so many parts successfully on both sides of the Atlantic. “If we don’t act very soon, and with a strong and relentless hand, then the wedding-bells at St. Margaret’s will be playing a requiem to all our hopes and happy aspirations. Oh, it is all too fearful for words! What does old Gordon Routh say?”
“Gordon! He’s a complete wash-out! A fine old sportsman across the tables, I admit, but a white-livered old fossil when there is anything really serious doing,” replied the adventuress, with whom so many men—and girls, too—had had bitter reason to regret acquaintanceship.
Bearing the name of one of England’s oldest earldoms, she had not so long ago been a bedecked decoy of the supergang of trans-Atlantic card-sharpers, blackmailers, and confidence tricksters, and yet only a year before in London she had presented two girls at Court and held three big balls at Claridge’s. How strange our everyday world has now become—our world where honest folk of both sexes are elbowed out by food profiteers, escrocs, and adventuresses.
Truly our octopus London is increasingly amazing. Its greedy struggle for Press notoriety at so much a paragraph is astounding, while its open immorality is fast approaching that of the ancient orgies of Rome. Yet nobody cares.
The seasons come and go, “Little” and “High,” in which innocent girls of all classes, from the highest to the lowest, are ever sacrificed upon the altar of Mammon—with perhaps a big car thrown in. The invention of the motor-car introduced a new medium for immorality, for the young man’s car is usually a bird-cage, while the rich old man cages his young bird in its beautifully upholstered interior.
The schemers sat silent, smoking, and looking into the glowing fire.
It was upon the tip of Ashe’s tongue to mention having seen that mysterious man of execrations who had given the name of Bettinson. Being a wise person, he resolved to keep his knowledge to himself.
From without, in the rainy night came the noise of taxis and throbbing motor-buses in the station square, that racket and shouting which is always consequent upon railway arrivals and departures.
The comfortable Grosvenor, the jumping-off place for the Continent, patronized by worldly London and the provinces, is a place where, in the hall, everyone of note meets everyone else of note going to and fro to the ends of the earth. The square hall, in which laughter is rife all day and hot tears are shed morning and evening, is the common meeting-ground for those journeying eastward, whether to Paris, India, or Japan.
Ashe glanced at the green marble timepiece and rose. He was uneasy and did not concentrate.
“Going so soon?” Etta asked. “Why? I’m alone. Do remain and keep me company.”
“No, my dear Etta. I’m awfully sorry, but I have a special appointment,” replied the man. “When you’ve seen Rupert again let me know at once. Have you heard from Wyndcliffe?”
“I had a letter last night from Boston. He’s on some wild-goose financial scheme, as usual. It seems that somebody named Schendel is buying up all the candy stores in the States, and wants Wyndcliffe to be chairman of the company. A big swindle, I expect, like that Stream Line Motors, of Detroit. Personally, I don’t trust any of those financial propositions. I like to see cash down on the table,” she said.
Then, tapping her cigarette, in its long tortoise-shell holder, she looked up at him with half-closed, alluring eyes, and laughed.
“I agree, Etta, dollar bills or treasury notes are far better than being left by these share-pushers to nurse the baby.”
“Oh! Let’s discuss the future,” she said impatiently.
“Well, what about it?” Ashe asked.
The pretty woman shrugged her shapely shoulders.
“You haven’t rid yourself of your incubus yet,” he said, regarding her.
“Oh, that ass, Rupert! I don’t know really what to do.”
“You surely do. I’ve told you what to do a hundred times, my dear girl.”
“No! Not that!” she cried frantically, with a look of horror on her face. “Not that!”
“Well, you want to discuss the future,” the broad-shouldered man went on. “As far as I can see, we are both completely in the cart with our assets each hour slipping away from us. Think of to-day’s sale—thousands of pounds profit which ought to be ours. And they haven’t yet touched the really good things—tapestries or pictures.”
“I agree, my dear Albert. It’s all rotten and very disappointing.”
“You’ve only yourself to blame, Etta. You haven’t yet got rid of Rupert, and also you’ve let the turtledoves coo too long.”
The woman stirred uneasily from her couch, and, tearing her cigarette-end out of its holder, flung it viciously into the fire.
“Give me a drink,” she said, and obediently he crossed and mixed one, afterwards watching her as she drank it.
“We must have money, Albert,” she said, after taking a good gulp of her brandy-and-soda.
“Certainly we must,” replied the man. “You’ve never been squeamish in the old days, eh?” And he laughed lightly. “You’re a really wonderful woman, Etta, when you put your fine wits to work.”
“Bah! Don’t flatter me,” she replied in a hard, determined voice. “Let us both face the music and just discern a way out,” she went on. “If Sibell died, then all the estate would go to Gordon Routh and——”
“And old Gordon would chuck it all away at Monte in a single season,” Ashe interrupted.
“Agreed. But supposing nothing happened to Sibell—except what might possibly occur in that accursed old house of hers, and there one never knows what might take place—and she married Gussie Gretton? What then?”
“Easy as melting ice,” laughed Ashe. “Gussie is the biggest rotter I know, immensely rich, for his father made hundreds of thousands with his chain of cheap tailors’ shops—reach-me-down, ready-for-service shoddy suits sold at big profits. His headquarters was a brilliantly-lit shop in the Whitechapel Road, where he began life in a back room, a Pole whose name was Grabov. His son, who has washed his hands of all sartorial dealings, is a wealthy and eligible bachelor, a member of the Bachelors’ and White’s, with a flat in Park Lane.”
“I only wish I could see them marry,” exclaimed Etta wholeheartedly.
“We’d have twenty thousand to divide at the very least. Perhaps more. I’d try and push up a bit more of course. Gussie is awfully keen on her, as we both know.”
“Then let’s make another effort, and try to do it,” said the woman.
“You can, my dear Etta, but I can’t. Use all your woman’s wits and your influence to get Otway back to his beloved practice once and for all. Get old Gordon into our swim, as there’s certainly something for him out of it, My great, God-fearing aunt! Fancy letting a cool ten thousand slip through one’s fingers. It’s really criminal!”
“Quite so. But I want to put a serious question to you, Albert,” said the woman, rising to her feet and facing him earnestly. “Have you any idea—or even any suspicion—of the basis of that extraordinary evil which asserts itself at the Guest House? To what can it be due? Now, tell me the truth, for we are both afloat on the same tide, and I admit I’m mystified.”
“I tell you the honest truth,” replied the man who was her associate. “I am just as mystified as you are. I can’t see any solution of the problem. Why should that poor telegraph boy fall down in a fit to-day, for example? The whole affair is most amazing, astounding, and uncanny. You see, even Otway was taken ill, yet no woman has ever been affected! That to me is the most puzzling point in the whole weird affair.”
“If women were affected, then perhaps Sibell might—well, feel its sinister influence,” the woman said after a pause. “The caretaker died after the incantations of that mysterious old stranger, who is apparently the unknown evil genius of the place.”
“I confess that it’s all beyond me,” Ashe declared. “I’m not usually nervy, as you well know. But I admit that I shouldn’t like to enter that accursed house. I’m a bit too sinful perhaps”; and he grinned.
“Nor should I,” laughed Etta grimly, while the man drained his glass and announced that he really must go.
“Look here, Etta,” he added, taking up his hat and buttoning his black evening overcoat. “At all hazards get rid of Rupert. Send him back, bury him, do whatever you like with him. But while he’s here a danger exists every moment—the danger of him finding out that you’re Wyndcliffe’s wife. It isn’t a savory theme, is it?”
“And you’re going to leave me to face everything, eh?” she cried suddenly, her eyes flashing.
“Not at all, my dear girl. I’m going to work at once in our mutual interests as I’ve always done. You are an English peeress, and I’m only your abusive butler. Funny, isn’t it? How the people in the States would laugh if they knew how you and I have pulled the legs of exclusive London Society, and you at Court too!” And he added: “Well, good-night, Etta, dear. We’ve always been pals, and we always will remain so”; and then, suddenly taking her slim, white hand, he bent over it with a studied courtesy and kissed it.
“Good-night, Mrs. Wilcox,” he said, laughing. “But do get a move on and in the direction we are agreed. Get the lovers back and play chess with them—as you’ve done before”; and he went out.
Otway and Sibell had delayed their return to London for a week, for he had arranged with his locumtenens to carry on until the date of his arrival back at Golder’s Green. To both it was a great disappointment that Lord Wyndcliffe’s beautiful villa was not to be reopened that season. On several occasions they had been up to it, and had taken tea upon the great, broad terrace, with its climbing flowers and gorgeous views of the green Estrelles and the ever-changing Mediterranean, sometimes sapphire-colored, sometimes grey, or at other times the deep color of lapis lazuli. The two old French servants, husband and wife, had served them with tea, and in the gardens they had picked the orange-blossoms—emblem of marriage—and the violets, daffodils, and yellow mimosa to carry back to the hotel. Life for them was certainly one of exquisite bliss, their hearts beating ever in unison, and their own little world confined to their own whims and pleasures of the moment.
One day, having been over to the Municipal Casino at Nice to an afternoon dance, Sibell, on her return in the evening, suddenly discovered that she had lost a little chain-bracelet set with turquoises, a birthday present from her mother in her school-days.
Next morning Brinsley left to go back to Nice to try and recover it from the lost-property office at the Casino; when, on descending into the lounge, Sibell met a girl she instantly recognised, Marigold Ibbetson, one of her old schoolfellows at Cheltenham College, whom she had not seen for three years.
Their meeting was cordial, and they took their petit déjeuner together.
“I’ve been here over a week,” laughed the auburn-haired, rather good-looking girl. “Auntie is not very well to-day, and she’s not coming down till luncheon. I thought it was you, but only last night I asked the concierge your name, and he told me. Well, and how has the world been treating you, old girl?”
“Oh, not so badly. I’ve been travelling a lot,” Sibell replied. “My aunt, Lady Wyndcliffe, who has a villa here, was to meet me, but she hasn’t turned up—gone to America instead.”
“Meet you, eh?” laughed the slim, well-dressed girl. “You mean both of you—you and your fiancé?”
“How did you know?” inquired the girl quickly.
They had just left the hotel and were out in the flower-garden.
“Because I’ve watched you, and it is obvious. I congratulate you, Sibell. Who is he?”
Her friend told her, speaking enthusiastically as may be well imagined. And as they walked down the gravelled drive to the road, they were joined by a tall, long-limbed, plain girl, to whom Sibell was introduced. Her name was Moyna Lascelles, who had been at Cheltenham after Sibell had left.
As they took a pleasant stroll along the Croisette together, Moyna suddenly turned to Sibell and congratulated her upon her engagement to Brinsley Otway.
“As a matter of fact, I know Brinsley quite well,” the girl said. “When he was at the Hospital School he was an intimate friend of my brother Fred, and very often he spent week-ends with us at Thames Ditton. But please don’t say a word, because of a very tragic circumstance. Promise me you won’t, eh?”
“Yes, I’ll promise of course,” Sibell said.
“Well, one evening he took out to a dance at a riverside hotel a girl named Peterson, who lived opposite in a house-boat with her parents, who were music-hall artistes. On the way back the boat capsized, and the poor girl was drowned. He swam to save her, but the current proved too strong, and he narrowly escaped with his own life.”
“He has never told me that,” Sibell said.
“Perhaps not,” laughed the girl. “That’s why Brinsley is such a good fellow. My pal Jack Cranston, the cross-channel air-pilot, who is here with my mother, is his friend, and he tells me what a fine fellow he is. I hear he’s a good dancer too.”
Sibell only smiled at hearing such laudation of her fiancé. It comforted and gratified her, as it certainly would any girl whose lover was her ideal. And what girl of any class exists who has no ideal of a gallant and strong lover who will hold her in his arms and fight for her until death?
Men may be deceivers ever, but a woman’s heart, once won, is the great and incomparable gem which crowns human life, true and unbending in adversity or prosperity until the parting by death.
Alas! that men are so egotistical, so self-confident, that they so frequently leave women to weep over the burden of their overbearance, and their illogical misunderstanding of woman’s heart.
CHAPTER XXIV.
UNKNOWN!
Brinsley Otway had for a week or two had his eyes upon a beautiful square-cut diamond and emerald ring in platinum—a single diamond, set with a very fine, well-matched emerald on either side—which was shown in the window of that expensive jeweller’s in the Galerie Charles X at Monte Carlo. It had been sold by one of the Hapsburg princesses, who had, like many, been temporarily embarrassed at the tables, so the jeweller said, and, after considerable bargaining, Brinsley bought it, and on his return, presented it to his fiancée.
It fitted perfectly on her finger, and she was beside herself with delight, and kissed him fondly, time after time, for his beautiful present, intended as a birthday gift, for her anniversary would be in about a week’s time.
Next day turned out grey and damp, with a slight drizzle, one of the days all know on the Riviera. Otway went out for exercise about eleven o’clock, leaving Sibell to write letters, when suddenly he encountered the tall, thin-faced air-pilot Jack Cranston, whom he knew during the war, at the ill-fated aerodrome at Dunkirk.
“Hulloa, Otway,” he cried merrily. “Fancy! After all this time! Only yesterday I heard you were here through my friend Miss Ibbetson.”
“Really!” replied Brinsley. “She is an old schoolfellow of my fiancée whom you know, I think. They were at Cheltenham College together.”
“Marigold is a great friend of Moyna Lascelles. I’m staying here with her mother, who is a distant relation of mine. She has a villa out on the road to Nice.”
Then, as they walked together towards the Casino, Cranston suddenly turned, and said:
“Look here, Brinsley, excuse me for asking the question, but is it true that you’re engaged to Sibell Dare?”
“Of course I am,” replied the other in considerable surprise at his tone of voice. “I thought everybody knew that!”
“Oh, I see,” exclaimed the other. “But of course I mean no offence. Understand that!”
“Why should I take offence?” asked the young doctor, facing him inquiringly.
“Nothing, my dear old fellow, nothing. I’m sorry I mentioned it, that’s all. Forgive me, I’m a fool.”
“Why should you regret? I thought everyone knew it. The announcement was in the papers weeks ago.”
“I’ve been abroad for months, my dear old chap, so I haven’t seen it,” replied his friend quite honestly.
“Come over into the bar yonder”; and Brinsley indicated the Casino. “Let’s have a drink and talk it over,” he suggested.
“I’d really rather not, old man,” was the other’s reply. “What I may say might only give you pain. And, further, it’s really none of my business what girl you marry, is it, now?”
“Well, I should think not, all things considered.”
“Then why should we discuss the matter? Let’s talk of something else. Do!”
“No, we won’t, Cranston,” said Otway insistently. “You’ll just come in and have a drink with me and tell me what’s at the back of your mind. Now is it about that infernal house of old Henry the Eighth’s time at Hampton Court that people are discussing?”
The keen-faced cross-channel pilot laughed heartily.
“Oh, my dear Brinsley, of course not. You surely don’t believe in curses, do you? I don’t.”
“No. Who does? There seems, however, to have been a lot of uncanny happenings there,” his friend replied. “I myself had a very curious attack after spending some hours in the old place. Indeed, I nearly lost my life over it.”
And then he went on to explain the mysterious circumstances which occurred after his visit to the Guest House to inspect those old books in the long-shut-up library.
At last Cranston, induced by Otway, went through the spacious hall of the Casino, and entered the bar, where they both sat at a little table in the corner to smoke and gossip. The usual crowd of Riviera idlers of all ages who assemble each morning were already there, but amid the chatter, laughter, and discussions over the previous night’s play in the Rooms their conversation could not be overheard.
“Now, tell me frankly, my dear Jack,” said Otway at last, leaning both elbows upon the little table and looking straight into his friend’s eyes. “Why are you so devilish mysterious about Sibell?”
“I’m not mysterious, my dear old chap—not at all,” declared the other. “I’m not going to interfere in the least in anything that doesn’t concern me. Forgive me, won’t you?”
“It isn’t the point of interference. Are we not friends, you and I?”
“I—well, I think so.”
“Then why don’t you speak out to me as a friend, as man to man? What are you concealing?”
“Nothing,” was the other’s reply.
“You swear that!” cried Otway, half rising, his face strong and intent.
Cranston wavered for only a second, and then excused himself, saying:
“Really, I didn’t come in here to be subjected to any inquisition! I must refuse.”
“My dear Cranston, I’m no inquisitor—only your good friend. Yet I demand to know why you are so reticent about Sibell. I noticed that curl of your lip, that glance of sarcasm when you mentioned her name. Now, if you are a real pal, as you pretend to be, out with it! What do you know? If you are not a pal—a false friend—then remain silent. And that’s the end.”
The pair sat facing each other for a full minute. Cranston felt himself cornered, as indeed he was.
“Well, Otway,” he said at last, speaking very slowly, “I really don’t know how to reply to you. I only know that to-day you are one of the happiest men in all the world—a charming girl, who is to be your wife, with so much money that you will never want to work another single day in all your life. Would not a million men like to be in your shoes?”
“Yes, I suppose they would,” replied his friend.
“I run lots of engaged couples and honeymooners over from Croydon to Le Bourget almost daily and I see a lot—I can assure you. We pilots see funny things very often, for our passengers are closely associated with us, especially if there’s any element of danger over the sea. Girls get the wind up terribly sometimes, and I’ve seen brave men turn pale when things are not going quite to my liking.”
“But how does that concern me?” asked Otway. “You seem somehow to be warning me! Tell me if you are, now, straight out.”
For a few moments Jack Cranston remained silent. Then, fixing his keen, hawk-like blue eyes upon his friend, he said:
“Yes. I’ll speak frankly and damn the consequences, Brinsley. I am warning you!”
“Of what?” the other gasped, staring at him.
“Of the girl you are about to marry. You’re trusting her far too implicitly.”
“What the devil do you mean?” asked the lover, rising quickly in fierce resentment. “Say that again!”
“I repeat it,” the air-pilot answered quite calmly.
“What do you say against Sibell, eh?”
“Merely that she’s not quite so true to you as she pretends, that’s all! I’m sorry to utter those words, Brinsley, but you’ve forced me to do so.”
“Then you mean that she’s playing me false?” he said in a hard, hoarse voice.
“That’s my meaning. But I regret if my words hurt you. I know they do, old chap. But I leave you to discover the truth. That’s all.”
“It’s a damned lie!” cried Otway, striking the table with his fist and causing the others in the bar to look round.
“That is for you alone to discover, my dear Brinsley,” exclaimed his friend, still calmly. “If it is a lie then everyone believes it. That’s why they pity you, good, honest pal that you are, they pity you that you should be made sport of by that girl and her suave gentleman friend.”
“Who is the man?” demanded Otway fiercely. “Give me his name!”
“Are you really certain that you want it? Would it not be far the best way for you to set watch, and to discover for yourself? Believe me, my dear old Otway, that’s by far the best course. If I told you, then you would only say that I’m his enemy, or that I am prejudiced.”
“But I demand his name!” cried the unhappy lover vehemently.
Again a silence fell between them.
“Ask others. They will tell you. I refuse to say more,” said the airman.
“By God! I’ll drag the name out of you,” cried the distracted man in fury.
“No heroics, my dear fellow. Remain calm, and just watch. That’s my advice!” responded the keen-faced man, who on more than one occasion had lain in a shallow dug-out with yellow water trickling in, and braved the daily bombings of the Huns upon Dunkirk, those days when the German airmen absolutely wiped our stores and our planes out of existence.
“But can’t you give me any clue? For God’s sake, Cranston—at least do that!”
“I’d tell you his name, but surely you realize how painful it would be for me; how unfair it would be to give away a friend—just as you are.”
“Is he a man whom she has lately met—or one she has known a long time? Tell me that,” he asked in all eagerness, as may well be imagined. At one blow, all the poor fellow’s illusions as to Sibell’s all-absorbing love had been converted into a dark cloud of suspicion. And yet, he now asked himself the real reason—as well he might.
“I really can’t answer that question. I’m sorry,” was Cranston’s reply. “Just watch—that’s all I suggest.”
“Then you refuse to reveal the scoundrel’s name? He’s a friend of yours. That you admit, eh?”
“Not much of a friend, really. Only that I have once met him. My standpoint is that I refuse to be regarded as one who has any axe to grind, Otway. I simply tell you what I know, what many people gossip about, and suggest that you make independent inquiries for your own satisfaction. That’s all”; and he rose from the table, adding: “I’m going. I would never have said all these painful things had I not been really forced to do so.”
“And even now you refuse to give me the slightest hint as to this secret rival of mine!” cried Otway in fury.
“I have already explained the reason. Investigate for yourself and—well, forget that we met this morning. I’m leaving for Paris by the rapide at three-thirty, for I’m on duty again at the aerodrome to cross in the morning. Why don’t you come for a flip over with me one day?”
“I may when all this is cleared up, Cranston,” he replied. “But I tell you now frankly that I don’t believe it!”
The aviator shrugged his shoulders, and replied:
“I expected so. That’s exactly why I refuse to mention the name.”
And together they walked outside in silence, when, with estrangement, they parted.
On his way back to the Beau Site, passing the gay home-going tennis-playing crowd, Brinsley Otway walked with his eyes upon the ground, deep in thought. The seeds of deep suspicion had been sown, but, man-of-the-world that he was, he tried to steel himself not to believe them.
In any case his war-time friend had not substantiated anything. He had spoken through his hat, as it were, he reflected. Yet, why? What ulterior motive could Cranston have to warn him that Sibell was playing him false?
For a full hour he walked along the Croisette, and to ease his mind and pass the time, he went into a little café and called for an apéritif in order to think it all over.
He reflected upon the past. His first chance meeting with Sibell, who had come so entirely and wholeheartedly into his life to console and become his other self—a woman who, in her ideals, in her aspirations, in her religious beliefs, and in her quality of soul, he found to be heights above any other girl he had ever met—his own affinity.
Yet, when poison of the mind is sown, it sweeps into an ever-increasing flood, to raise a tide that will overwhelm even the level-headed, and to swirl against the rocks of truth.
And where can one find truth, save in the bottom of the deepest well?
The man or woman who dares to tell the truth to-day deserves a statue as an heroic example. The ever-ready lie is to be found in every household, be it the cottage or the castle, whether at Sydenham or Sydney, Mayfair or Manitoba, and I leave the reader to complete the geographical survey.
If the woman of Mayfair is “peevy” and yet religious, she tells her butler that she is “not at home.” And that deliberate lie goes down through all the classes, even to the grey-haired wives of Church of England country parsons themselves.
And yet, is not the lie forbidden to the Christian? And if lies are told daily, even by those chosen to administer in religion, why should anyone hold the lie in abhorrence? We are a wonderful people. The village parson, with his tea upon his knees, will say in his best Oxford drawl:
“Oh, I’m sorry. But I never eat cakes!” And only because the cakes in question are underdone and hence do not appeal to his digestion.
A man who is now a Bishop of the Church of England once, in his early days, before his election to the House of Lords, was open enough to wire to his would-be hostess, a well-known peeress:
“Regret quite impossible. Lie follows by post.”
In such a mood, thinking out all the past, and contemplating the future, Brinsley re-entered the gay hotel, and, finding Sibell chatting in the lounge with her old school-friend Marigold, to whom she introduced him, he sat down beside them and ordered three cocktails.
As a real man-of-the-world, and a true lover, he tried to crush down those fierce feelings which had arisen within him in consequence of his friend’s warning, while Sibell, glancing at him, thought that her ideal lover had never appeared to be so charming.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE DOWNWARD STEP
The Myrtles at Cookham was, after all, a dull, damp place in March, with the mists hanging all day over the Thames, the trees leafless, the garden pretty in summer of course, but leaf-strewn, with rough lawn and weedy paths, in winter. After the gaiety of Cannes it was to Sibell terribly depressing.
With her Aunt Etta supposed to be away in America with her husband, and Brinsley back at his practice in Golder’s Green, she led a life of daily boredom, listening to old Gordon Routh’s many complaints, as to both depleted finance and his failing health.
Worn-out gamester that he was, he sat every evening over the wood-fire in the cottage sitting-room asking questions about the Rooms at Monte, the play, and the nightly sensation of high stakes and great losses, for the Administration of the Society of Sea-baths always take their lion’s share.
“Yes,” he said one stormy evening while the wind howled round the old house, and the rain beat heavily about the windows, “Monte Carlo can’t be the same as when Prince Albert ruled it. Nowadays Monaco has fallen into the hands of the big speculators. First Zaharoff and his friends, and now speculating friends of theirs. No! It can’t be the same. The rich Russians who lived on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, and who were the real players, are no longer there. They get no big coups as I knew them in the ’nineties, when Saturday nights were nights indeed.”
“You had your fling there, according to all accounts!” the girl laughed, looking up from the evening paper, warming her shapely feet upon the fender.
“I did. Then I got something for my money, in any case. To-day they seem in the public rooms to play what, in the old days, we might class as shove-ha’penny in any of our village pubs. Of course, I suppose stakes run a bit higher in the Cercle Privé!”
“They do,” said the girl, and for the next half-hour she described to him the Monte Carlo as it is to-day.
Every evening it was the same terrible boredom. By day the girl took long tramps alone over those wet, dismal roads up and down the lonesome hills, or else sat and wrote long letters to Brinsley. Then at evening she sat over the fire to gossip with the old hunchback, who always deplored his own bad luck at trente-et-quarante.
So bored did she become that one day, with old Routh’s permission, she wrote to Moyna Lascelles, who lived near Birmingham, to come and spend the week-end with her.
Since that day at Cannes the two girls had become firm friends, and since Sibell’s return, they had met twice in town and lunched together. So, in order to further cement their friendship, Sibell sent the invitation, which was at once accepted, old Gordon Routh expressing delight that Sibell should have found such a congenial companion.
The Guest House had meanwhile been cleared of its contents, and the decorators were hard at work cleaning, repainting, and papering the interior, planing and polishing the oaken floors, putting in fittings for electric cooking and light, new baths, central heating, and every modern labor-saving contrivance; while outside, the builders were at work removing the overgrowth of ivy from the red bricks, which they scraped and repointed. They reconditioned both lead-work and tiles on the roof, and the woodwork of window-sashes and doors.
Ten thousand pounds had already been placed to Sibell’s credit at the bank by the lawyers, therefore all went merrily, and, thanks to the girl’s generosity, old Gordon Routh found himself free from household expenses and certain little debts he had contracted in that pretty riparian village.
Brinsley’s habit was to ring her up each night at nine o’clock, after he came in from his heavy day’s work, before he sat down to his lonely evening meal. One night the bell went at half-past seven, just as they were sitting down to dinner.
Sibell rushed to the ’phone, only to hear bad news. Brinsley’s widowed mother, who lived outside Carlisle, had been taken suddenly ill, and he had been telegraphed for.
“I’ve managed to arrange for my absence with a chap I know named Lancaster, who is coming here to-night,” he said. “He was with me at the hospital, and it’s awfully fortunate that I could get hold of him. So I’m leaving Euston late to-night, darling. I’ll let you know by wire to-morrow.”
“But, my darling Brin, how sudden! I expected you would meet Moyna with me at the Trocadero for lunch to-morrow. We’re both horribly disappointed. But, of course, I realize how very worried you must be, dearest. I do hope you’ll find your mother better. Wire me in the morning, won’t you?”
“Of course, darling. I’m so sorry I cannot lunch with you, for I, too, was so looking forward to seeing you. But there you are! It can’t be helped,” he said.
And then, after some comforting words, her fiancé wished her good-night, and the conversation ended.
On returning to the little dining-room, she related what Otway had told her, but, in her ignorance, she never realized the strange look which overspread Moyna’s countenance.
“How very unfortunate!” she exclaimed. “We’ll postpone our trip to town till he’s back.”
And in that way the question was settled.
“What a glorious ring yours is!” remarked Moyna, when the two girls were seated beside the fire after dinner. “By Jove! it must have cost an awful lot,” she added, taking her friend’s hand and admiring it. “I wish I had one like it!”
“I expect it cost a good sum,” Sibell replied. “It’s a real good birthday gift, isn’t it?”
At breakfast next morning old Gordon Routh received a business letter which necessitated his presence for a couple of days in London, and at his suggestion, the two girls accompanied him, arriving at the Hotel Cecil just after tea.
Gordon Routh’s habit had been to stay there through many years; indeed, ever since that colossal hotel on the Embankment had been opened. Routh took his own favorite room on the fourth floor, while the girls had two rooms on the floor beneath.
After taking tea together in the great palm court, the old man rose, expressing regret that he would have to leave for his appointment.
“I don’t expect I’ll see you again to-night, girls, for no doubt I’ll be late. I’m not dressing for dinner. You’ll be able to amuse yourselves—go to a cinema or something, eh?”
And then he left them seated to watch the dancing.
“What shall we do?” asked Sibell of her friend. “How about a theatre? We can dine as early as we like, and so on. What would you like to see?”
After some discussion, they decided to go to the Haymarket, and Sibell obtained tickets at the box-office agency in the hotel. Afterwards they went upstairs, dressed leisurely, and about seven o’clock descended to the great grill-room for dinner. Sibell looked extremely charming—as, indeed, she always did—in a dainty frock of one of the new shades of green which she had had made for Gurnigel, while her rather saucy-faced girl friend was in black.
At table their conversation turned upon women’s charm. Sibell declared that, while the cult of beauty through the media of face-powders, lip-sticks, and massage has attracted notice, the effect of emotions and temperament as a connecting-link in its development had been entirely overlooked.
They were sitting at one of the side-tables in the long windows which by day overlook the busy Embankment and the Thames, but, now that the blinds were drawn, the spot was warm and cozy, being out of the hearing of the many other diners.
“I agree with you, my dear, to a certain extent,” replied her new-found friend. “Of course the first asset of good looks is good health. I’ve a pretty fair constitution, but I certainly haven’t any good looks. So I can’t help it”; and she laughed.
“But don’t you think that everyone’s character is reflected in one’s face, both in men and women?” Sibell asked. “However good a face may be in form or feature, it is chiefly the expression of it that attracts or repels. One’s face is surely the mirror of one’s mind, hence no beautiful character can be ugly in expression.”
“And yet one must not forget that old adage that beauty is but skin deep,” Moyna remarked, as she finished her filleted sole and raised her glass of Chablis.
“I hardly agree with that,” Sibell declared. “Gloomy faces always reflect gloomy minds, and disappointment shows its indelible mark in our wrinkles, which are an indication of a despondent outlook.”
“You seem uncommonly philosophical to-night,” laughed her friend, toying with her glass.
“Well, perhaps I am. Only I’ve been thinking over it all to-day.”
“Depressed because Brinsley is not with us, eh, Sibell?”
“Not exactly. I’m only thinking that fear, grief, and worry are depressing and must impair the digestion and deplete the vitality.”
“Well, my dear, you’ve nothing to worry about, lucky girl that you are!” exclaimed the other. “Your happy outlook should help all your mental and physical ills. For indeed joy is the greatest tonic and beautifier, and you should surely have enough of it—with a big fortune at your disposal and a handsome lover into the bargain!”
Scarcely had she uttered those words, than both girls, at the same moment, became conscious of a tall man in evening dress standing smiling before them.
“Well, Sibell!” he exclaimed cheerily. “I can hardly believe my eyes! Is it really you?”
The girl addressed looked up in surprise, and instantly recognized the broad-shouldered, good-humored man who held out his hand so frankly.
“How are you?” she asked in amazement, taking his proffered hand.
“Quite all right, my dear Sibell. I was sitting over yonder, and chanced to see you here. I thought you were on the Riviera with your aunt.”
“I’ve been there, but, as you see, I’m back again.” Then, glancing towards her companion, she asked: “May I introduce you to an old friend of mine, Mr. Gretton?”
The girl smiled as the man bowed, and then he asked if he might have a chair at their table, adding: “I’ve finished, and I’m just off. What are you doing?”
“Going to the Haymarket,” Sibell replied.
“I’m at a loose end. Can’t I come with you?” he asked. “As a matter of fact, I’m staying here.”
“So are we,” said Moyna. “I’ve never been here before, but it seems to be Mr. Routh’s pet haunt.”
“I’m often here,” he laughed. “I’ve let my rooms in St. James’s because I’ve been across to New York on business, so I’m pushed out here till next week-end.”
“Auntie is over in America. Lord Wyndcliffe is ill, and she’s joined him,” Sibell said.
“So you’re back at Cookham again, I suppose,” laughed the middle-aged, rather good-looking man, who was so well known about town as an eligible bachelor. “I saw your aunt at Lady Deepdene’s a few weeks ago, but she told me nothing about Wyndcliffe’s illness.”
“You really don’t want to go to the Haymarket, do you?” asked Sibell, wishing in her heart to get rid of him.
“I do. Really I do! I’ve wanted to see the piece. If I may come, I’ll be delighted. I’ll run up and get a seat before it’s too late.”
Then, hardly ere the girl had given her permission, he was on his feet, striding out of the restaurant.
“An awfully nice man!” Moyna remarked.
“Yes,” replied Sibell. “But he’s a bit of an ass—one of those who think that every woman is in love with him.”
“H’m. That’s the conclusion I’ve already formed. But, after all, he’ll be company for us to-night, won’t he?”
And she produced her long tortoise-shell cigarette-tube and began to smoke.
Gussie Gretton soon returned, his face wreathed in smiles. He had secured a stall in the same row as theirs, and, after he had given them coffee and liqueurs in the lounge, he took them in a taxi to the theatre. He was, of course, compelled to sit apart from them, but when he rejoined them at the fall of the curtain, he suggested:
“Now what about a spot of supper and a dance, Sibell? That is, of course, if you don’t think Otway would object. I’ve never met him, but I hear he’s a real good sort.”
The girls looked at each other in indecision, which he saw at once.
“Come to the Florida. It’s always cheery there. There’s a glass floor, and good food. Come along, girls.”
“Shall we?” asked Moyna. “I’d love it! Do come, Sibell.”
And so, having got their wraps, they drove round to Bruton Mews to taste the delights of one of the most exclusive dance clubs in London.
Gussie Gretton, being one of the club’s chief supporters, was at once received by a dapper little sous-maître d’hôtel, who was none other than Giovanni Savini, the friend of Albert Ashe. He piloted the trio to a cozy walled-off corner, where a table was set for four, with softly shaded lights, spotless napery, and a big central bowl of Emperor daffodils.
Already a few couples were dancing upon the glass floor to one of the best orchestras in London.
The evergreen and dandified Gussie, having nodded acquaintance with a bald-headed old earl who was supping with one of the principal and most daring dancers in a Parisian revue, at once ordered cocktails, and then examined the menu with the eye of the gourmet.
He ordered a delicious little meal with the inner knowledge of one well versed in London life, a meal which he knew would well suit the palates of his two charming guests. And hardly had he ordered it than he invited Sibell to dance.
She could scarcely refuse, because they were old friends. Gussie was one of her Aunt Etta’s pets, who went to and fro at her bidding. Yet, be it said, he had never known of her trans-Atlantic past, nor did Sibell, innocent girl that she was.
Her only thought that night was of her lover Brinsley and his terrible worry beside his mother’s bed. She had waited, but heard nothing from him, yet she still hoped that on her return to the Cecil she would receive a wire.
All three ate a merry supper together. Gussie was in his best form, telling them risqué stories of scandals in London Society and of the world of New York from which he had just returned.
“But, I say, Sibell,” he said suddenly, “what is that all concerning the house that you and Otway are to be doomed to live in? There’s been an awful lot about it in the papers.” And he placed another strong cocktail before her.
“I know nothing except what I hear. As far as I can ascertain, it seems to be all bunkum!” was her honest reply.
“Of course it is, my dear Sibell!” he laughed, raising his glass to her. “Here’s the best of luck to you.”
Clean-living and abstemious girl that she was, the cocktails she had taken were sadly muddling her, though she did not realize it. Insidious drinks did not affect Moyna, for she was used to them, but in the ordinary way a single glass of port always caused Sibell’s head to reel.
Suddenly, just as he had invited her to dance a foxtrot, he ejaculated:
“Oh, what a lovely ring you have there! A present from Otway, I’ll wager, eh? Do let me see it! I love gems—and especially emeralds. Do take it off.”
She did as he suggested, and under the shaded light he ran it to and fro before his eyes, admiring its multicolored flashes, for the three gems were certainly perfect specimens.
“I’d love to examine it again after the dance. May I?” he asked. “I’m mad on emeralds, as you know,” and, so saying, he slipped the ring into his waistcoat pocket and they both passed out upon the glass floor to dance, Sibell’s brain being awhirl because of the potent cocktails.
CHAPTER XXVI.
BEFORE THE DAWN
Gretton and Sibell returned to their table, whereon Moyna was leaning her shapely bare arms and smoking through her long cigarette-tube, watching them lazily.
Sibell, unsteady in movement, her brain muddled by the insidious drinks to which she was unused, sank upon the red silken settee and sighed deeply.
“I feel horribly tired,” she murmured, passing her hand wearily across her white brow and disarranging her evenly cut fringe of fair hair that so well became her.
“It’s awfully close in this place,” Moyna declared sympathetically. “I can’t think why it is that at any dance club they seem to be afraid of a little ventilation—not draughts, but a little fresh air.”
“I’m so very sorry, Sibell,” declared the tall, well-groomed man, bending over the girl whom he so greatly admired, and had hoped, before the unwelcome advent of young Brinsley Otway, to make his wife. “I’m afraid—I ought not to have asked you to dance. Do forgive me, Sibell, won’t you?” he asked, deeply penitent.
“Of course,” replied the girl, whose head was swimming. “It was not your fault. I’m—well, I’m a little giddy, that’s all. Give Moyna a dance, will you? I’ll sit quiet.”
Thus invited, her friend asked:
“You are quite sure you’re all right, dear? If not, we’ll go back to the hotel at once.”
“Quite. I’ll feel better if I remain here.”
So the pair crossed to the floor and began to Charleston.
“She looks rather bad,” Gretton murmured into his partner’s ear.
“Yes. We’d better take her home soon, I think. She’s not used, it seems, to hectic nights”; and she smiled.
Meanwhile to Sibell it seemed as though the dancers were floating around her, while the music sounded harsh and discordant, far away. She was twisting her bracelet around her wrist nervously and staring straight before her. Both Gretton and his dancing-partner at once realized that she was not herself.
“I feel very faint,” she replied, when Moyna asked how she was.
“Then we’d better get back. Don’t you think so, Mr. Gretton?” the girl asked anxiously. “Don’t come with us. We can easily go back in a taxi. It’s awfully good of you to have given both of us such a jolly nice time. I’m only anxious for Sibell’s health. I’ve been like this myself more than once. It’s nerves, of course.”
“No doubt,” said the man, taking up the cigarette he had left in the tray and which was still alight. “But, of course, I’ll see you back to the hotel.”
“You won’t,” declared the girl vehemently. “I won’t allow you to spoil your evening. You’ve lots of friends here. I can take her home quite well, so just see us to the ladies’ room—that’s all.”
“My dear Miss Lascelles, do you really think that I would allow you to take Sibell back?” he protested. Then, with a smile, he added, “Sibell and I are very old friends, and I would not dream of allowing you two to go alone.”
And he called the obsequious waiter, to whom he hurriedly handed a five-pound note, to pay the supper-bill.
As he was assisting Sibell into a taxi, the change was thrust into his hand by the alert little Italian, who received a ten-shilling note as his pourboire, and next moment the three were on their way back to the Hotel Cecil.
On arrival Gretton accompanied them to the lift, saying:
“I hope you’ll be all right in the morning, my dear Sibell. It is most unfortunate, isn’t it?” Then, turning to Moyna, he added, “If you want anything in the night, just call me. I’m in No. 231.”
“Righto! and lots of thanks,” replied the girl, shaking his hand, while Sibell, her brain still awhirl, sat in the lift and then managed to walk along the corridor to her room, even though a trifle unsteadily. Those ingeniously concocted cocktails, which are mixed in all the dance clubs, had done their work, and she only had a most hazy idea of what had occurred since her return to the table after dancing.
“Oh, my dear!” she gasped, as she sank upon her bed. “I—I feel most awfully ill. I—I really don’t know what is the matter with me. I came over horribly queer suddenly after that last drink which Gussie pressed me to have. Did you have one?”
“Of course I did. But I’m quite all right. So why should you be so queer?”
“I—I really don’t know, dear,” replied the girl, looking around the room blankly with wild, startled eyes. “I was a silly fool. I ought never to have allowed him to take us there. I’m sure Brin would have strongly objected.”
“Well, he doesn’t know, and he need never know, my dear old girl—unless you tell him.”
Then, as Moyna was helping the girl to undress, she went to the toilet-table, and saw a telegram lying upon the white cloth.
“Why, here’s a wire for you! Fancy, we’ve never noticed it before!”
And she handed it to Sibell, who tore it open with nervous fingers.
“Brin will be back in London at half-past seven to-morrow morning!” she said. “He has got word from Cookham that we are here for the night. So he’ll call on us for early breakfast. Won’t it be fun?”
“Yes. But of course you’ll say nothing about meeting Gussie Gretton?”
“No. Of course not. It would only worry the dear old thing. And surely he has lots of worry already. I’ll go to bed.”
And, while Moyna waited, she undressed, washed, put on a dainty boudoir cap, and made her toilette for the night, assuming a pretty nightie of pale-mauve crêpe-de-Chine.
She was already comfortably snuggled up in bed, and her friend had kissed her good night, when suddenly Moyna, glancing at her hand, exclaimed:
“Why, where’s your beautiful ring?”
Sibell started up in bed, staring aghast.
“Why, Gussie has got it! He wanted to have another look at it, and has forgotten to give it back to me.”
“That’s awkward! Brinsley, when he meets you at breakfast, will surely notice that it isn’t on your hand,” Moyna said. “You’ll have to get it back—and to-night. You must, my dear!”
The girl, sitting up in her bed, gazed around her, her blue eyes terror-stricken at her friend’s words. In an instant she was out of bed.
“I—I must! Of course I must! Brin’s birthday-present to me! Oh!” And she gasped, clutching her throat for air. “Oh, what a fool I was to let Gussie have it! How absurd of him to keep it! What can I possibly do?”
Then, glancing at the clock on the mantel-shelf, she said:
“Look! It’s late—past two o’clock! Where is he? How can I get it from him?” she asked distractedly and half-dazed.
“He gave us the number of his room—231. Don’t you remember? It’s on the second floor, evidently.”
“But Mr. Routh! He’s home by this time, no doubt. He could go and get it,” Sibell suggested, standing beside the toilet-table and staring vacantly into the mirror.
“For heaven’s sake, no! The old man might blurt it out in fun, and Brinsley might know that Mr. Gretton is here. Don’t be a fool! Put on your dressing-gown, and go down to Mr. Gretton’s room and get your ring. There’s nobody about, and, besides, he’s forgotten all about it, no doubt, and will hand it out to you!”
“Are you quite sure there’s nobody about?” asked the girl, and, to reassure her, her friend opened the door cautiously and, looking up and down the long corridor, said:
“No, nobody! Not a soul. Go down, and you’ll easily find the room and get the ring. Then all will be well in the morning, and your fiancé need not know anything. Why should he, after all?”
Sibell, instead of taking her kimono, slipped her feet into her little pink slippers and put on her long fur travelling-coat over her nightie, and in that attire and her boudoir cap, crept out of her room and, slipping down the broad flight of red-carpeted stairs in the silence of the night, stole quietly along the corridor until she found Gretton’s room.
Very softly she tapped upon the door. At first there was no response, but on tapping rather more loudly, she heard a movement within, and next moment the door was opened by Gussie, in blue-striped pyjamas.
“Good heavens! Sibell! What’s the matter?” he asked. “Come inside. Somebody may see you!” he whispered.
Next moment the girl was in his room, and they stood facing each other with the door closed.
“I—I’ve come for my ring,” she managed to gasp. “Do give it back to me at once. I must fly, for Moyna is waiting for me.”
The man instantly saw by her unusual expression that the cocktails and champagne she had drunk had muddled her brain, and at once sought to take advantage of it.
“Of course I’ll give you back the ring, my dear girl. But wouldn’t you trust me with it till the morning?”
“No. Brinsley will be here before you are up. He’s coming to breakfast. So he would certainly notice that I was not wearing it.”
“You could have made an excuse that you’d left it in your room,” Gretton said with a smile, for in her pretty cap and with her nightdress showing under her fur coat she looked extremely bewitching.
“No. I—I was afraid. Do give it to me at once, and let me go,” she implored him.
“Of course I will,” he said, crossing the room to where his evening clothes were folded upon a chair, and from the waistcoat pocket he took the handsome ring.
Then, walking back to the door, he laughed, saying:
“I’ll give it to you, my dear Sibell, but only on one condition—that you give me a kiss for its return.” And he placed his hand upon her shoulder.
In an instant she shook him off, and, drawing herself up, said:
“I most certainly refuse! I’ve never kissed you, and I never will.”
“Ah! That’s the worst of it,” he sighed with a touch of sarcasm. “Otway has all your caresses nowadays!”
“You are jealous of him, I know.”
“Perhaps I am,” the man said frankly. “You know how deeply I love you, Sibell. At least, if you don’t, your aunt does. She has no use for that young doctor, I tell you.”