Sam in the Suburbs

It has been well said that the world knows little of its greatest men. This name, which would have thrilled Kay Derrick, made no impression upon Soapy Molloy. He was not a great reader; and when he did read, it was something a little lighter and more on the zippy side than Is There a Hell?

“How do?” he said gruffly.

“And ’ow many of the five-shilling may I sell you and your good lady?” inquired the constable. His respect for the cloth had kept him silent through the recent conversation, but now he seemed to imply that business is business.

“It is a most excellent charity,” said the Rev. Aubrey, edging past Soapy in spite of that sufferer’s feeble effort to block the way. “And I understand that several highly competent performers will appear on the platform. I am right, am I not, officer?”

“Yes, sir, you are quite right. In the first part of the program Constable Purvis will render the ’Oly City—no, I’m a liar, Asleep on the Deep; Constable Jukes will render imitations of well-known footlight celebrities ’oo are familiartoyouall; Inspector Oakshott will render conjuring tricks; Constable——”

“An excellent evening’s entertainment, in fact,” said the Rev. Aubrey. “I am taking the chair, I may mention.”

“And the vicar is taking the chair,” said the policeman, swift to seize upon this added attraction. “So ’ow many of the five-shilling may I sell you and your good lady, sir?”

Soapy, like Chimp, was a thrifty man; and apart from the expense, his whole soul shrank from doing anything even remotely calculated to encourage the force. Nevertheless, he perceived that there was no escape and decided that it remained only to save as much as possible from the wreck.

“Gimme one,” he said, and the words seemed to be torn from him.

“One only?” said the constable disappointedly. “’Ow about your good lady?”

“I’m not married.”

“’Ow about your sister?”

“I haven’t a sister.”

“Then ’ow about if you ’appen to meet one of your gentlemen friends at the club and he expresses a wish to come along?”

“Gimme one!” said Soapy.

The policeman gave him one, received the money, returned a few genial words of thanks and withdrew. Soapy, going back into the house, was acutely disturbed to find that the vicar had come too.

“A most deserving charity,” said the vicar.

Soapy eyed him bleakly. How did one get rid of vicars? Short of employing his bride’s universal panacea and hauling off and busting him one, Soapy could not imagine.

“Have you been a resident of Valley Fields long, Mr. Shotter?”

“No.”

“I hope we shall see much of each other.”

“Do you?” said Soapy wanly.

“The first duty of a clergyman, in my opinion——”

Mr. Molloy had no notion of what constituted the first duty of a clergyman, and he was destined never to find out. For at this moment there came from the regions above the clear, musical voice of a woman.

“Sweet-ee!”

Mr. Molloy started violently. So did the Rev. Aubrey Jerningham.

“I’m in the bedroom, honey bunch. Come right on up.”

A dull flush reddened the Rev. Aubrey’s ascetic face.

“I understood you to say that you were not married, Mr. Shotter,” he said in a metallic voice.

“No—er—ah——”

He caught the Rev. Aubrey’s eye. He was looking as Sherlock Holmes might have looked had he discovered Doctor Watson stealing his watch.

“No—I—er—ah——”

It is not given to every man always to do the right thing in trying circumstances. Mr. Molloy may be said at this point definitely to have committed a social blunder. Winking a hideous, distorted wink, he raised the forefinger of his right hand and with a gruesome archness drove it smartly in between his visitor’s third and fourth ribs.

“Oh, well, you know how it is,” he said thickly.

The Rev. Aubrey Jerningham quivered from head to heel. He drew himself up and looked at Soapy. The finger had given him considerable physical pain, but it was the spiritual anguish that hurt the more.

“I do, indeed, know how it is,” he said.

“Man of the world,” said Soapy, relieved.

“I will wish you good evening, Mr. Shotter,” said the Rev. Aubrey.

The front door banged. Dolly appeared on the landing.

“Why don’t you come up?” she said.

“Because I’m going to lie down,” said Soapy, breathing heavily.

“What do you mean?”

“I want a rest. I need a rest, and I’m going to have it.” Dolly descended to the hall.

“Why, you’re looking all in, precious!”

“‘All in’ is right. If I don’t ease off for a coupla minutes, you’ll have to send for an ambulance.”

“Well, I don’t know as I won’t take a spell myself. It’s kinda dusty work, hunting around. I’ll go take a breath of air outside at the back.... Was that somebody else calling just now?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Gee! These people round these parts don’t seem to have any homes of their own, do they? Well, I’ll be back in a moment, honey. There’s a sort of greenhouse place by the back door. Quite likely old Finglass may have buried the stuff there.”

§ 3

The Rev. Aubrey Jerningham crossed the little strip of gravel that served both Mon Repos and San Rafael as a drive and mounted the steps to Mr. Wrenn’s front door. He was still quivering.

“Mr. Wrenn?” he asked of the well-dressed young man who answered the ring.

Mr. Braddock shook his head. This was the second time in the last five minutes that he had been taken for the owner of San Rafael; for while the vicar had worked down Burberry Road from the top, the policeman had started at the bottom and worked up.

“Sorry,” he said, “Mr. Wrenn’s out.”

“I will come in and wait,” said the Rev. Aubrey.

“Absolutely,” said Mr. Braddock.

He led the way to the drawing-room, feeling something of the embarrassment, though in a slighter degree, which this holy man had inspired in Soapy Molloy. He did not know much about vicars, and rather wondered how he was to keep the conversation going.

“Offer you a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’m afraid,” said Mr. Braddock apologetically, “I don’t know where they keep the whisky.”

“I never touch spirits.”

Conversation languished. Willoughby Braddock began to find his companion a little damping. Not matey. Seemed to be brooding on something, or Mr. Braddock was very much mistaken.

“You’re a clergyman, aren’t you, and all that?” he said, after a pause of some moments.

“I am. My name is the Rev. Aubrey Jerningham. I have just taken up my duties as vicar of this parish.”

“Ah? Jolly spot.”

“Where every prospect pleases,” said the Rev. Aubrey, “and only man is vile.”

Silence fell once more. Mr. Braddock searched in his mind for genial chatter, and found that he was rather short on clerical small talk.

He thought for a moment of asking his visitor why it was that bishops wore those rummy bootlace-looking things on their hats—a problem that had always perplexed him; but decided that the other might take offence at being urged to give away professional secrets.

“How’s the choir coming along?” he asked.

“The choir is quite satisfactory.”

“That’s good. Organ all right?”

“Quite, thank you.”

“Fine!” said Mr. Braddock, feeling that things were beginning to move. “You know, down where I live, in Wiltshire, the local padres always seem to have the deuce of a lot of trouble with their organs. Their church organs, I mean, of course. I’m always getting touched for contributions to organ funds. Why is that? I’ve often wondered.”

The Rev. Aubrey Jerningham forbore to follow him into this field of speculation.

“Then you do not live here, Mr.——”

“Braddock’s my name—Willoughby Braddock. Oh, no, I don’t live here. Just calling. Friend of the family.”

“Ah? Then you are not acquainted with the—gentleman who lives next door—Mr. Shotter?”

“Oh, yes, I am! Sam Shotter? He’s one of my best pals. Known him for years and years and years.”

“Indeed? I cannot compliment you upon your choice of associates.”

“Why, what’s wrong with Sam?”

“Only this, Mr. Braddock,” said the Rev. Aubrey, his suppressed wrath boiling over like a kettle: “He is living a life of open sin.”

“Open which?”

“Open sin. In the heart of my parish.”

“I don’t get this. How do you mean—open sin?”

“I have it from this man Shotter’s own lips that he is a bachelor.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And yet a few minutes ago I called at his house and found that there was a woman residing there.”

“A woman?”

“A woman.”

“But there can’t be. Sam’s not that sort of chap. Did you see her?”

“I did not wait to see her. I heard her voice.”

“I’ve got it,” said Mr. Braddock acutely. “She must have been a caller; some casual popper-in, you know.”

“In that case, what would she be doing in his bedroom?”

“In his bedroom?”

“In—his—bedroom! I came here to warn Mr. Wrenn, who, I understand from Mr. Cornelius, has a young niece, to be most careful to allow nothing in the shape of neighbourly relations between the two houses. Do you think that Mr. Wrenn will be returning shortly?”

“I couldn’t say. But look here,” said Mr. Braddock, troubled, “there must be some mistake.”

“You do not know where he is, by any chance?”

“No—yes, I do, though. He said something about going to see Cornelius. I think they play chess together or something. A game,” said Mr. Braddock, “which I have never been able to get the hang of. But then I’m not awfully good at those brainy games.”

“I will go to Mr. Cornelius’ house,” said the Rev. Aubrey, rising.

“You don’t play mah-jongg, do you?” asked Mr. Braddock. “Now, there’s a game that I——”

“If he is not there, I will return.”

Left alone, Willoughby Braddock found that his appetite for tea had deserted him. Claire, grateful for his services, had rather extended herself over the buttered toast, but it had no appeal for him. He lighted a cigarette and went out to fiddle with the machinery of his two-seater, always an assistance to thought.

But even the carburettor, which had one of those fascinating ailments to which carburettors are subject, yielded him no balm. He was thoroughly upset and worried.

He climbed into the car and gave himself up to gloomy meditation, and presently voices down the road announced the return of Kay and Sam. They were chatting away in the friendliest possible fashion—from where he sat, Willoughby Braddock could hear Kay’s clear laugh ringing out happily—and it seemed to Mr. Braddock, though he was no austerer moralist than the rest of his generation, that things were in a position only to be described as a bit thick. He climbed down and waited on the pavement.

“Why, hullo, Willoughby,” said Kay. “This is fine. Have you just arrived? Come in and have some tea.”

“I’ve had tea, thanks. That girl Claire gave me some, thanks.... I say, Sam, could I have a word with you?”

“Say on,” said Sam.

“In private, I mean. You don’t mind, Kay?”

“Not a bit. I’ll go in and order tea.”

Kay disappeared into the house; and Sam, looking at Mr. Braddock, observed with some surprise that his face had turned a vivid red and that his eyes were fastened upon him in a reproachful stare.

“What’s up?” he asked, concerned.

Willoughby Braddock cleared his throat.

“You know, Sam——”

“But I don’t,” said Sam, as he paused.

“——you know, Sam, I’m not a—nobody would call me a—— Dash it, now I’ve forgotten the word!”

“Beauty?” hazarded Sam.

“It’s on the tip of my tongue—Puritan. That’s the word I want. I’m not a Puritan. Not strait-laced, you know. But, really, honestly, Sam, old man—I mean, dash it all!”

Sam stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“I still don’t quite get it, Bradder,” he said. “What exactly is the trouble?”

“Well, I mean, on the premises, old boy, absolutely on the premises—is it playing the game? I mean, next door to people who are pals of mine and taking Kay to the theatre and generally going on as if nothing was wrong.”

“Well, what is wrong?” asked Sam patiently.

“Well, when it comes to the vicar beetling in and complaining about women in your bedroom——”

“What?”

“He said he heard her.”

“Heard a woman in my bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“He must be crazy. When?”

“Just now.”

“This beats me.”

“Well, that was what he said, anyway. Dashed unpleasant he was about it too. Oh, and there’s another thing, Sam. I wish you’d ask that man of yours not to call me brother. He——”

“Great Cæsar!” said Sam.

He took Willoughby Braddock by the arm and urged him toward the steps. His face wore a purposeful look.

“You go in, like a good chap, and talk to Kay,” he said. “Tell her I’ll be in in a minute. There’s something I’ve got to look into.”

“Yes, but listen——”

“Run along!”

“But I don’t understand.”

“Push off!”

Yielding to superior force, Willoughby Braddock entered San Rafael, walking pensively. And Sam, stepping off the gravel onto the grass, moved with a stealthy tread toward his home. Vague but lively suspicions were filling his mind.

He had reached the foot of the steps and paused to listen, when the evening air was suddenly split by a sharp feminine scream. This was followed by a joyous barking. And this in its turn was followed by the abrupt appearance of a flying figure, racing toward the gate. It was moving swiftly and the light was dim, but Sam had no difficulty in recognising his old acquaintance Miss Gunn, of Pittsburgh. She fled rapidly through the gate and out into Burberry Road, while Amy, looking in the dusk like a small elephant, gambolled about her, uttering strange canine noises. Dolly slammed the gate, but gates meant nothing to Amy. She poured herself over it and the two passed into the darkness.

Sam’s jaw set grimly. He moved with noiseless steps to the door of Mon Repos and took out his key.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

MAINLY ABOUT TROUSERS

The single scream which she emitted, previous to saving her breath for the race for life, penetrated only faintly to where Mr. Molloy sat taking a rest on the sofa in the drawing-room. He heard it, but it had no message for him. He was feeling a little better now, and his ganglions, though not having ceased to vibrate with uncomfortable rapidity, were beginning to simmer down. He decided that he would give himself another couple of minutes of repose.

It was toward the middle of the second minute that the door opened quietly and Sam came in. He stood looking at the recumbent Mr. Molloy for a moment.

“Comfortable?” he said.

Soapy shot off the sofa with a sort of gurgling whoop. Of all the disturbing events of that afternoon, this one had got more surely in amongst his nerve centres than any other. He had not heard the door open, and Sam’s voice had been the first intimation that he was no longer alone.

“I’m afraid I startled you,” said Sam.

The exigencies of a difficult profession had made Soapy Molloy a quick thinker. Frequently in the course of a busy life he had found himself in positions where a split second was all that was allowed him for forming a complete plan of action. His trained mind answered to the present emergency like a machine.

“You certainly did startle me,” he said bluffly, in his best Thomas G. Gunn manner. “You startled the daylights out of me. So here you are at last, Mr. Shotter.”

“Yes, here I am.”

“I have been waiting quite some little time. I’m afraid you caught me on the point of going to sleep.”

He chuckled, as a man will when the laugh is on him.

“I should imagine,” said Sam, “that it would take a smart man to catch you asleep.”

Mr. Molloy chuckled again.

“Just what the boys used to say of me in Denver City.” He paused and looked at Sam a little anxiously. “Say, you do remember me, Mr. Shotter?”

“I certainly do.”

“You remember my calling here the other day to see my old home?”

“I remember you before that—when you were in Sing Sing.”

He turned away to light the gas, and Mr. Molloy was glad of the interval for thought afforded by this action.

“Sing Sing?”

“Yes.”

“You were never there.”

“I went there to see a show, in which you took an important part. I forget what your number was.”

“And what of it?”

“Eh?”

Mr. Molloy drew himself up with considerable dignity.

“What of it?” he repeated. “What if I was for a brief period—owing to a prejudiced judge and a packed jury—in the place you mention? I decline to have the fact taken as a slur on my character. You are an American, Mr. Shotter, and you know that there is unfortunately a dark side to American politics. My fearless efforts on behalf of the party of reform and progress brought me into open hostility with a gang of unscrupulous men, who did not hesitate to have me arrested on a trumped-up charge and——”

“All this,” said Sam, “would go a lot stronger with me if I hadn’t found you burgling my house.”

It would have been difficult to say whether the expression that swept over Mr. Molloy’s fine face was more largely indignation or amazement.

“Burgling your house? Are you insane? I called here in the hope of seeing you, was informed that you were not at home, and was invited by your manservant, a most civil fellow, to await your return. Burgling your house, indeed! If I were, would you have found me lying on the sofa?”

“Hash let you in?”

Such was the magnetic quality of the personality of one who had often sold large blocks of shares in nonexistent oil wells to Scotchmen, that Sam was beginning in spite of himself to be doubtful.

“If Hash is the name of your manservant, most certainly he let me in. He admitted me by the front door in the perfectly normal and conventional manner customary when gentlemen pay calls.”

“Where is Hash?”

“Why ask me?”

Sam went to the door. The generous indignation of his visitor had caused him to waver, but it had not altogether convinced him.

“Hash!” he called.

“He appears to be out.”

“Hash!”

“Gone for a walk, no doubt.”

“Hash!” shouted Sam.

From the regions below there came an answering cry.

“Hi! Help!”

It had been a long and arduous task for Hash Todhunter to expel from his mouth the duster which Soapy Molloy had rammed into it with such earnest care, but he had accomplished it at last, and his voice sounded to Mr. Molloy like a knell.

“He appears to be in, after all,” he said feebly.

Sam had turned and was regarding him fixedly, and Soapy noted with a sinking heart the athletic set of his shoulders and the large muscularity of his hands. “Haul off and bust him one!” his wife’s gentle voice seemed to whisper in his ear; but eying Sam, he knew that any such project was but a Utopian dream. Sam had the unmistakable look of one who, if busted, would infallibly bust in return and bust disintegratingly.

“You tied him up, I suppose,” said Sam, with a menacing calm.

Soapy said nothing. There is a time for words and a time for silence.

Sam looked at him in some perplexity. He had begun to see that he was faced with the rather delicate problem of how to be in two places at the same time. He must, of course, at once go down to the kitchen and release Hash. But if he did that, would not this marauder immediately escape by the front door? And if he took him down with him to the kitchen, the probability was that he would escape by the back door. While if he merely left him in this room and locked the door, he would proceed at once to depart by the window.

It was a nice problem, but all problems are capable of solution. Sam solved this one in a spasm of pure inspiration. He pointed a menacing finger at Soapy.

“Take off those trousers!” he said.

Soapy gaped. The intellectual pressure of the conversation had become too much for him.

“Trousers?” he faltered.

“Trousers. You know perfectly well what trousers are,” said Sam, “and it’s no good pretending you don’t. Take them off!”

“Take off my trousers?”

“Good Lord!” said Sam with sudden petulance. “What’s the matter with the man. You do it every night, don’t you? You do it when you take a Turkish bath, don’t you? Where’s the difficulty? Peel them off and don’t waste time.”

“But——”

“Listen!” said Sam. “If those trousers are not delivered to me f. o. b. in thirty seconds, I’ll bust you one!”

He had them in eighteen.

“Now,” said Sam, “I think you’ll find it a little difficult to get away.”

He gathered up the garments, draped them over his arm and went down to the kitchen.

§ 2

Love is the master passion. It had come to Hash Todhunter late, but, like measles, the more violent for the delay. A natural inclination to go upstairs and rend his recent aggressor limb from limb faded before the more imperious urge to dash across to San Rafael and see Claire. It was the first thing of which he spoke when Sam, with the aid of a carving knife, had cut his bonds.

“I got to see ’er!”

“Are you hurt, Hash?”

“No, ’e only ’it me on the ’ead. I got to see ’er, Sam.”

“Claire?”

“Ah! The pore little angel, crying ’er ruddy eyes out. The gentleman was saying all about it.”

“What gentleman?”

“A gentleman come to the back door and told that perisher all about how the pore little thing was howling and weeping and all, thinking ’e was me.”

“Have you had a quarrel with Claire?”

“We ’ad words. I got to see ’er.”

“You shall. Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk. Why shouldn’t I walk?”

“Come along then.”

In spite of his assurance, however, Hash found his cramped limbs hard to steer. Sam had to lend an arm, and their progress was slow.

“Sam,” said Hash, after a pause which had been intended primarily for massage, but which had plainly been accompanied by thought, “do you know anything about getting married?”

“Only that it is an excellent thing to do.”

“I mean, ’ow quick can a feller get married?”

“Like a flash, I believe. At any rate, if he goes to a registrar’s.”

“I’m going to a registrar’s then. I’ve ’ad enough of these what I might call misunderstandings.”

“Brave words, Hash! How are the legs?”

“The legs are all right. It’s her mother I’m thinking of.”

“You always seem to be thinking of her mother. Are you quite sure you’ve picked the right one of the family?”

Hash had halted again, and his face was that of a man whose soul was a battlefield.

“Sam, ’er mother wants to come and live with us when we’re married.”

“Well, why not?”

“Ah, you ain’t seen her, Sam! She’s got a hooked nose and an eye like one of these animal trainers. Still——”

The battle appeared to be resumed once more.

“Oh, well!” said Hash. He mused for a while. “You’ve got to look at it all round, you know.”

“Exactly.”

“And there’s this to think of: She says she’ll buy a pub for us.”

“Pubs are pubs,” agreed Sam.

“I’ve always wanted to have a pub of my own.”

“Then I shouldn’t hesitate.”

Hash suddenly saw the poetic side of the vision.

“Won’t my little Clara look a treat standing behind a bar, serving the drinks and singing out, ‘Time, gentlemen, please!’ Can’t you see her scraping the froth off the mugs?”

He fell into a rapt silence, and said no more while Sam escorted him through the back door of San Rafael and led him into the kitchen.

There, rightly considering that the sacred scene of re-union was not for his eyes, Sam turned away. Gently depositing the nether garments of Mr. Molloy on the table, he left them together and made his way to the drawing-room.

§ 3

The first thing he heard as he opened the door was Kay’s voice.

“I don’t care,” she was saying. “I simply don’t believe it.”

He went in and discovered that she was addressing her uncle, Mr. Wrenn, and the white-bearded Mr. Cornelius. They were standing together by the mantelpiece, their attitude the sheepish and browbeaten one of men who have been rash enough to argue with a woman. Mr. Wrenn was fiddling with his tie, and Mr. Cornelius looked like a druid who is having a little unpleasantness with the widow of the deceased.

Sam’s entrance was the signal for an awkward silence.

“Hullo, Mr. Wrenn,” said Sam. “Good evening, Mr. Cornelius.”

Mr. Wrenn looked at Mr. Cornelius. Mr. Cornelius looked at Mr. Wrenn.

“Say something,” said Mr. Cornelius’ eye to Mr. Wrenn. “You are her uncle.”

“You say something,” retorted Mr. Wrenn’s eye to Mr. Cornelius. “You have a white beard.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a time,” said Sam to Kay. “I have had a little domestic trouble. I found a gentleman burgling my house.”

“What?”

“There had been a lady there, too, but she was leaving as I arrived.”

“A lady!”

“Well, let us call her a young female party.”

Kay swung round on Mr. Wrenn, her eyes gleaming with the light that shines only in the eyes of girls who are entitled to say “I told you so!” to elderly relatives. Mr. Wrenn avoided her gaze. Mr. Cornelius plucked at his beard and registered astonishment.

“Burgling your house? What for?”

“That’s what’s puzzling me. These two people seem extraordinarily interested in Mon Repos. They called some days ago and wanted to buy the place, and now I find them burgling it.”

“Good heavens!” cried Mr. Cornelius. “I wonder! Can it be possible?”

“I shouldn’t wonder. It might,” said Sam. “What?”

“Do you remember my telling you, Mr. Shotter, when you came to me about the lease of the house that a well-known criminal had once lived there?”

“Yes.”

“A man named Finglass. Do you remember Finglass, Wrenn?”

“No; he must have been before my time.”

“How long have you been here?”

“About three years and a half.”

“Ah, then it was before your time. This man robbed the New Asiatic Bank of something like four hundred thousand pounds’ worth of securities. He was never caught, and presumably fled the country. You will find the whole story in my history of Valley Fields. Can it be possible that Finglass hid the bonds in Mon Repos and was unable to get back there and remove them?”

“You said it!” cried Sam enthusiastically.

“It would account for the anxiety of these people to obtain access to the house.”

“Why, of course!” said Kay.

“It sounds extremely likely,” said Mr. Wrenn.

“Was the man tall and thin, with a strong cast in the left eye?”

“No; a square-faced sort of fellow.”

“Then it would not be Finglass himself. No doubt some other criminal, some associate of his, who had learned from him that the bonds were hidden in the house. I wish I had my history here,” said Mr. Cornelius. “Several pages of it are devoted to Finglass.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Sam, “go and get it.”

“Shall I?”

“Yes, do.”

“Very well. Will you come with me, Wrenn?”

“Certainly he will,” said Sam warmly. “Mr. Wrenn would like a breath of fresh air.”

With considerable satisfaction he heard the front door close on the non-essential members of the party.

“What an extraordinary thing!” said Kay.

“Yes,” said Sam, drawing his chair closer. “The aspect of the affair that strikes me——”

“What became of the man?”

“He’s all right. I left him in the drawing-room.”

“But he’ll escape.”

“Oh, no.”

“Why not?”

“Well, he won’t.”

“But all he’s got to do is walk out of the door.”

“Yes, but he won’t do it.” Sam drew his chair still closer. “I was saying that the aspect of the affair that strikes me most forcibly is that now I shall be in a position to marry and do it properly.”

“Are you thinking of marrying someone?”

“I think of nothing else. Well, now, to look into this. The bank will probably give a ten per cent reward for the return of the stuff. Even five per cent would be a nice little sum. That fixes the financial end of the thing. So now——”

“You seem very certain that you will find this money.”

“Oh, I shall find it, have no fear. If it’s there——”

“Yes, but perhaps it isn’t.”

“I feel sure that it is. So now let’s make our plans. We will buy a farm somewhere, don’t you think?”

“I have no objection to your buying a farm.”

“I said we. We will buy a farm, and there settle down and live to a ripe old age on milk, honey and the produce of the soil. You will wear a gingham gown, I shall grow a beard. We will keep dogs, pigeons, cats, sheep, fowls, horses, cows, and a tortoise to keep in the garden. Good for the snails,” explained Sam.

“Bad for them, I should think. Are you fond of tortoises?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not very.”

“Then,” said Sam magnanimously, “we will waive the tortoise.”

“It sounds like a forgotten sport of the past—Waving the Tortoise.”

“To resume. We decide on the farm. Right! Now where is it to be? You are a Wiltshire girl, so no doubt will prefer that county. I can’t afford to buy back Midways for you, I’m afraid, unless on second thoughts I decide to stick to the entire proceeds instead of handing them back to the bank—we shall have to talk that over later—but isn’t there some old greystone, honeysuckle-covered place in the famous Braddock estates?”

“Good heavens!”

“What’s the matter?”

“You said you had left that man in your drawing-room.”

“Well?”

“I’ve suddenly remembered that I sent Willoughby over to Mon Repos ten minutes ago to find out why you were so long. He’s probably being murdered.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so. To go back to what I was saying——”

“You must go and see at once.”

“Do you really think it’s necessary?”

“Of course it is.”

“Oh, very well.”

Sam rose reluctantly. Life, he felt with considerable peevishness, was one long round of interruptions. He went round to the door of Mon Repos and let himself in with his key. A rumble of voices proceeding from the drawing-room greeted him as he entered. He banged the door, and a moment later Mr. Braddock came out, looking a little flustered.

“Oh, there you are, Sam! I was just coming round to fetch you.”

“Anything wrong?”

“It depends on what you call wrong.” Mr. Braddock closed the drawing-room door carefully. “You know Lord Tilbury?”

“Of course I know Lord Tilbury.”

“Well, he’s in there,” said Willoughby Braddock, jerking an awed thumb toward the drawing-room, “and he hasn’t got any trousers on.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

SAM HEARS BAD NEWS

“No. As a matter of fact, we’ve been chatting mostly about trousers. You haven’t got a spare pair in the house by any chance, have you?”

“Of course I have—upstairs.”

“Then I wish,” said Mr. Braddock earnestly, “that you would dig them out and give them to the old boy. He’s been trying for the last ten minutes to get me to lend him mine, and it simply can’t be done. I’ve got to be getting back to town soon to dress for dinner, and you can say what you like, a fellow buzzing along in a two-seater without any trousers on looks conspicuous.”

“Darn that fool, coming down here at just this time!” said Sam, still aggrieved. “What exactly happened?”

“Well, he’s a bit on the incoherent side; but as far as I can make out, that man of yours, the chap who called me brother, seems to have gone completely off his onion. Old Tilbury rang the front doorbell, and there was a bit of a pause, and then this chap opened the door and old Tilbury went in, and then he happened to look at him and saw that he hadn’t any trousers on.”

“That struck him as strange, of course.”

“Apparently he hadn’t much time to think about it, for the bloke immediately proceeded to hold him up with a gun.”

“He hadn’t got a gun.”

“Well, old Tilbury asserts that he was shoving something against his pocket from inside.”

“His finger, or a pipe.”

“No, I say, really!” Mr. Braddock’s voice betrayed the utmost astonishment and admiration. “Would that be it? I call that clever.”

“Well, he hadn’t a gun when I caught him or he would have used it on me. What happened then?”

“How do you mean—caught him?”

“I found him burgling the house.”

“Was that chap who called me brother a burglar?” cried Mr. Braddock, amazed. “I thought he was your man.”

“Well, he wasn’t. What happened next?”

“The bloke proceeded to de-bag old Tilbury. Then shoving on the trousers, he started to leg it. Old Tilbury at this juncture appears to have said ‘Hi! What about me?’ or words to that effect; upon which the bloke replied, ‘Use your own judgment!’ and passed into the night. When I came in, old Tilbury was in the drawing-room, wearing the evening paper as a sort of kilt and not looking too dashed pleased with things in general.”

“Well, come along and see him.”

“Not me,” said Mr. Braddock. “I’ve had ten minutes of him and it has sufficed. Also, I’ve got to be buzzing up to town. I’m dining out. Besides, it’s you he wants to see, not me.”

“I wonder what he wants to see me about.”

“Must be something important to bring him charging down here. Well, I’ll be moving, old boy. Mustn’t keep you. Thanks for a very pleasant afternoon.”

Willoughby Braddock took his departure; and Sam, having gone to his bedroom and found a pair of grey flannel trousers, returned to the lower regions and went into the drawing-room.

He had not expected to find his visitor in anything approaching a mood of sunniness, but he was unprepared for the red glare of hate and hostility in the eyes which seared their way through him as he entered. It almost seemed as if Lord Tilbury imagined the distressing happenings of the last quarter of an hour to be Sam’s fault.

“So there you are!” said Lord Tilbury.

He had been standing with an air of coyness behind the sofa; but now, as he observed the trousers over Sam’s arm, he swooped forward feverishly and wrenched them from him. He pulled them on, muttering thickly to himself; and this done, drew himself up and glared at his host once more with that same militant expression of loathing in his eyes.

He seemed keenly alive to the fact that he was not looking his best. Sam was a long-legged man, and in the case of Lord Tilbury, Nature, having equipped him with an outsize in brains, had not bothered much about his lower limbs. The borrowed trousers fell in loose folds about his ankles, brushing the floor. Nor did they harmonise very satisfactorily with the upper portion of a morning suit. Seeing him, Sam could not check a faint smile of appreciation.

Lord Tilbury saw the smile, and it had the effect of increasing his fury to the point where bubbling rage becomes a sort of frozen calm.

“You are amused,” he said tensely.

Sam repudiated the dreadful charge.

“No, no! Just thinking of something.”

“Cor!” said Lord Tilbury.

Sam perceived that a frank and soothing explanation must be his first step. After that, and only after that, could he begin to institute inquiries as to why His Lordship had honoured him with this visit.

“That fellow who stole your trousers——”

“I have no wish to discuss him,” said Lord Tilbury with hauteur. “The fact that you employ a lunatic manservant causes me no surprise.”

“He wasn’t my manservant. He was a burglar.”

“A burglar? Roaming at large about the house? Did you know he was here?”

“Oh, yes. I caught him and I made him take his trousers off, and then I went next door to tea.”

Lord Tilbury expelled a long breath.

“Indeed? You went next door to tea?”

“Yes.”

“Leaving this—this criminal——”

“Well, I knew he couldn’t get away. Oh, I had reasoned it all out. Your happening to turn up was just a bit of bad luck. Was there anything you wanted to see me about?” asked Sam, feeling that the sooner this interview terminated the pleasanter it would be.

Lord Tilbury puffed out his cheeks and stood smouldering for a moment. In the agitation of the recent occurrences, he had almost forgotten the tragedy which had sent him hurrying down to Mon Repos.

“Yes, there was,” he said. He sizzled for another brief instant. “I may begin by telling you,” he said, “that your uncle, Mr. Pynsent, when he sent you over here to join my staff, practically placed me in loco parentis with respect to you.”

“An excellent idea,” said Sam courteously.

“An abominable idea! It was an iniquitous thing to demand of a busy man that he should take charge of a person of a character so erratic, so undisciplined, so—er—eccentric as to border closely upon the insane.”

“Insane?” said Sam. He was wounded to the quick by the injustice of these harsh words. From first to last, he could think of no action of his that had not been inspired and guided throughout by the dictates of pure reason. “Who, me?”

“Yes, you! It was a monstrous responsibility to give any man, and I consented to undertake it only because—er——”

“I know. My uncle told me,” said Sam, to help him out. “You had some business deal on, and you wanted to keep in with him.”

Lord Tilbury showed no gratitude for this kindly prompting.

“Well,” he said bitterly, “it may interest you to know that the deal to which you refer has fallen through.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Sam sympathetically. “That’s tough luck. I’m afraid my uncle is a queer sort of fellow to do business with.”

“I received a cable from him this afternoon, informing me that he had changed his mind and would be unable to meet me in the matter.”

“Too bad,” said Sam. “I really am sorry.”

“And it is entirely owing to you, you may be pleased to learn.”

“Me? Why, what have I done?”

“I will tell you what you have done. Mr. Pynsent’s cable was in answer to one from me, in which I informed him that you were in the process of becoming entangled with a girl.”

“What?”

“You need not trouble to deny it. I saw you with my own eyes lunching together at the Savoy, and I happen to know that this afternoon you took her to the theatre.”

Sam looked at him dizzily.

“You aren’t—you can’t by any chance be referring to Miss Derrick?”

“Of course I am referring to Miss Derrick.”

So stupendous was Sam’s amazement that anybody could describe what was probably the world’s greatest and most beautiful romance as “becoming entangled with a girl” that he could only gape.

“I cabled to Mr. Pynsent, informing him of the circumstances and asking for instructions.”

“You did what?” Sam’s stupor of astonishment had passed away, whirled to the four winds on a tempestuous rush of homicidal fury. “You mean to tell me that you had the—the nerve—the insolence——” He gulped. Being a young man usually quick to express his rare bursts of anger in terms of action, he looked longingly at Lord Tilbury, regretting that the latter’s age and physique disqualified him as a candidate for assault and battery. “Do you mean to tell me——” He swallowed rapidly. The thought of this awful little man spying upon Kay and smirching her with his loathly innuendoes made mere words inadequate.

“I informed Mr. Pynsent that you were conducting a clandestine love affair and asked him what I was to do.”

To Sam, like some blessed inspiration, there came a memory of a scene that had occurred in his presence abaft the fiddley of the tramp steamer Araminta when that vessel was two days out of New York. A dreamy able-bodied seaman, thoughts of home or beer having temporarily taken his mind off his job, had chanced to wander backward onto the foot of the bos’n while the latter was crossing the deck with a full pot of paint in his hands. And the bos’n, recovering his breath, had condensed his feelings into two epithets so elastic and comprehensive that, while they were an exact description of the able-bodied seaman, they applied equally well to Lord Tilbury. Indeed, it seemed to Sam that they might have been invented expressly for Lord Tilbury’s benefit.

A moment before he had been deploring the inadequacy of mere words. But these were not mere words. They were verbal dynamite.

“You so-and-so!” said Sam. “You such-and-such!”

Sailors are toughened by early training and long usage to bear themselves phlegmatically beneath abuse. Lord Tilbury had had no such advantages. He sprang backward as if he had been scalded by a sudden jet of boiling water.

“You pernicious little bounder!” said Sam. He strode to the door and flung it open. “Get out!”

If ever there was an occasion on which a man might excusably have said “Sir!” this was it; and no doubt, had he been able to speak, this was the word which Lord Tilbury would have used. Nearly a quarter of a century had passed since he had been addressed in this fashion to his face, and the thing staggered him.

“Get out!” repeated Sam. “What the devil,” he inquired peevishly, “are you doing here, poisoning the air?”

Lord Tilbury felt no inclination to embark upon a battle of words in which he appeared to be in opposition to an expert. Dazedly he flapped out into the hall, the grey flannel trousers swirling about his feet. At the front door, however, it suddenly occurred to him that he had not yet fired the most important shell in his ammunition wagon. He turned at bay.

“Wait!” he cried. “I may add——”

“No, you mayn’t,” said Sam.

“I wish to add——”

“Keep moving!”

“I insist on informing you,” shouted Lord Tilbury, plucking at the trousers with a nautical twitch, “of this one thing: Your uncle said in his cable that you were to take the next boat back to America.”

It had not been Sam’s intention to permit anything to shake the stern steeliness of his attitude, but this information did it. He stopped midway in an offensive sniff designed to afford a picturesque illustration of his view on the other’s air-poisoning qualities and gazed at him blankly.

“Did he say that?”

“Yes, he did.” Sam scratched his chin thoughtfully. Lord Tilbury began to feel a little better. “And,” he continued, “as I should imagine that a young man of your intellectual attainments has little scope for making a living except by sponging on his rich relatives, I presume that you will accede to his wishes. In case you may still suppose that you are a member of the staff of Tilbury House, I will disabuse you of that view. You are not.”

Sam remained silent; and Lord Tilbury, expanding and beginning to realise that there is nothing unpleasant about a battle of words provided that the battling is done in the right quarter, proceeded.

“I only engaged you as a favour to your uncle. On your merits you could not have entered Tilbury House as an office boy. I say,” he repeated in a louder voice, “that, had there been no question of obliging Mr. Pynsent, I would not have engaged you as an office boy.”

Sam came out of his trance.

“Are you still here?” he said, annoyed.

“Yes, I am still here. And let me tell you——”

“Listen!” said Sam. “If you aren’t out of this house in two seconds, I’ll take those trousers back.”

Every Achilles has his heel. Of all the possible threats that Sam could have used, this was probably the only one to which Lord Tilbury, in his dangerously elevated and hostile frame of mind, would have paid heed. For one moment he stood swelling like a toy balloon, then he slid out and the door banged behind him.

A dark shape loomed up before Lord Tilbury as he stood upon the gravel outside the portal of Mon Repos. Beside this shape there frolicked another and a darker one.

“’Evening, sir.”

Lord Tilbury perceived through the gloom that he was being addressed by a member of the force. He made no reply. He was not in the mood for conversation with policemen.

“Bringing your dog back,” said the officer genially. “Found ’er roaming about at the top of the street.”

“It is not my dog,” said Lord Tilbury between set teeth, repelling Amy as she endeavoured in her affable way to climb on to his neck.

“Not a member of the ’ousehold, sir? Just a neighbour making a friendly call? I see. Now I wonder,” said the policeman, “if any of my mates ’ave approached you on the matter of this concert in aid of a charitubulorganisation which is not only most deserving in itself but is connected with a body of men to ’oom you as a nouse’older will——”

“G-r-r-h!” said Lord Tilbury.

He bounded out of the gate. Dimly, as he waddled down Burberry Road, the grey flannel trousers brushing the pavement with a musical swishing sound, there came to him, faint but pursuing, the voice of the indefatigable policeman:

“This charitubulorganisationtowhichIallude——”

Out of the night, sent from heaven, there came a crawling taxicab. Lord Tilbury poured himself in and sank back on the seat, a spent force.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

SAM HEARS GOOD NEWS

“Yes.”

“Poor Lord Tilbury!” said Kay, with a sudden silvery little bubble of laughter.

Sam said nothing.

“What did he want, by the way?”

“He came to tell me that he had had a cable from my uncle saying that I was to go back at once.”

“Oh!” said Kay with a little gasp, and there was silence. “Go back—to America?”

“Yes.”

“At once?”

“Wednesday’s boat, I suppose.”

“Not this very next Wednesday?”

“Yes.”

There was another silence. The night was as still as if the clock had slipped back and Valley Fields had become the remote country spot of two hundred years ago.

“Are you going?”

“I suppose so.”

From far away, out in the darkness, came the faint grunting of a train as it climbed the steep gradient of Sydenham Hill. An odd forlorn feeling swept over Kay.

“Yes, I suppose you must,” she said. “You can’t afford to offend your uncle, can you?”

Sam moved restlessly, and there was a tiny rasping sound as his hand scraped along the fence.

“It isn’t that,” he said.

“But your uncle’s very rich, isn’t he?”

“What does that matter?” Sam’s voice shook. “Lord Tilbury was good enough to inform me that my only way of making a living was to sponge on my uncle, but I’m not going to have you thinking it.”

“But—well, why are you going then?”

Sam choked.

“I’ll tell you why I’m going. Simply because I might as well be in New York as anywhere. If there was the slightest hope that by staying on here I could get you to—to marry me——” His hand rasped on the fence again. “Of course, I know there isn’t. I know you don’t take me seriously. I haven’t any illusions about myself. I know just what I amount to in your eyes. I’m the fellow who blunders about and trips over himself and is rather amusing when you’re in the mood. But I don’t count. I don’t amount to anything.” Kay stirred in the darkness, but she did not speak. “You think I’m kidding all the time. Well, I just want you to know this—that I’m not kidding about the way I feel about you. I used to dream over that photograph before I’d ever met you. And when I met you I knew one thing for certain, and that was there wasn’t ever going to be anyone except you ever. I know you don’t care about me and never will. Why should you? What on earth is there about me that could make you? I’m just a——”

A little ripple of laughter came from the shadows.

“Poor old Sam!” said Kay.

“Yes! There you are—in a nutshell! Poor old Sam!”

“I’m sorry I laughed. But it was so funny to hear you denouncing yourself in that grand way.”

“Exactly! Funny!”

“Well, what’s wrong with being funny? I like funny people. I’d no notion you had such hidden depths, Sam. Though, of course, the palmist said you had, didn’t she?”

The train had climbed the hill and was now rumbling off into the distance. A smell of burning leaves came floating over the gardens.

“I don’t blame you for laughing,” said Sam. “Pray laugh if you wish to.”

Kay availed herself of the permission.

“Oh, Sam, you are a pompous old ass, aren’t you? ‘Pray laugh if you wish to’!... Sam!”

“Well?”

“Do you really mean that you would stay on in England if I promised to marry you?”

“Yes.”

“And offend your rich uncle for life and get cut off with a dollar or whatever they cut nephews off with in America?”

“Yes.”

Kay reached up at Sam’s head and gave his hair a little proprietorial tug.

“Well, why don’t you, Sambo?” she said softly.

It seemed to Sam that in some strange way his powers of breathing had become temporarily suspended. A curious dry feeling had invaded his throat. He could hear his heart thumping.

“What?” he croaked huskily.

“I said why—do—you—not, Samivel?” whispered Kay, punctuating the words with little tugs.

Sam found himself on the other side of the fence. How he had got there he did not know. Presumably he had scrambled over. A much abraded shin bone was to show him later that this theory was the correct one, but at the moment bruised shins had no meaning for him. He stood churning the mould of the flower bed on which he had alighted, staring at the indistinct whiteness which was Kay.

“But look here,” said Sam thickly. “But look here——” A bird stirred sleepily in the tree.

“But look here——”

And then somehow—things were happening mysteriously to-night, and apparently of their own volition—he found that Kay was in his arms. It seemed to him also, though his faculties were greatly clouded, that he was kissing Kay.

“But look here——” he said thickly. They were now, in some peculiar manner, walking together up the gravel path, and he, unless his senses deceived him, was holding her hand tucked very tightly under his arm. At least, somebody, at whom he seemed to be looking from a long distance, was doing this. This individual, who appeared to be in a confused frame of mind, was holding that hand with a sort of frenzied determination, as if he were afraid she might get away from him. “But look here, this isn’t possible!”

“What isn’t possible?”

“All this. A girl like you—a wonderful, splendid, marvellous girl like you can’t possibly love”—the word seemed to hold all the magic of all the magicians, and he repeated it dazedly—“love—love—can’t possibly love a fellow like me.” He paused, finding the wonder of the thing oppressive. “It—it doesn’t make sense.”

“Why not?”

“Well, a fellow—a man—a fellow—oh, I don’t know.”

Kay chuckled. It came upon Sam with an overwhelming sense of personal loss that she was smiling and that he could not see that smile. Other, future smiles he would see, but not that particular one, and it seemed to him that he would never be able to make up for having missed it.

“Would you like to to know something, Sam?”

“What?”

“Well, if you’ll listen, I’ll explain exactly how I feel. Have you ever had a very exciting book taken away from you just when you were in the middle of it?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, I have. It was at Midways, when I was nine. I had borrowed it from the page boy, who was a great friend of mine, and it was about a man called Cincinnati Kit, who went round most of the time in a mask, with lots of revolvers. I had just got half-way in it when my governess caught me and I was sent to bed and the book was burned. So I never found out what happened in the little room with the steel walls behind the bar at the Blue Gulch Saloon. I didn’t get over the disappointment for years. Well, when you told me you were going away, I suddenly realised that this awful thing was on the point of happening to me again, and this time I knew I would never get over it. It suddenly flashed upon me that there was absolutely nothing worth while in life except to be with you and watch you and wonder what perfectly mad thing you would be up to next. Would Aunt Ysobel say that that was love?”

“She would,” said Sam with conviction.