The Little Warrior

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER FIVE

  1.

  There are streets in London into which the sun seems never topenetrate. Some of these are in fashionable quarters, and it is to besupposed that their inhabitants find an address which looks well onnote-paper a sufficient compensation for the gloom that goes with it.The majority, however, are in the mean neighborhoods of the greatrailway termini, and appear to offer no compensation whatever. Theyare lean, furtive streets, gray as the January sky with a sort ofarrested decay. They smell of cabbage and are much prowled over byvagrom cats. At night they are empty and dark, and a stillness broodson them, broken only by the cracked tingle of an occasional pianoplaying one of the easier hymns, a form of music to which thedwellers in the dingy houses are greatly addicted. By day theyachieve a certain animation through the intermittent appearance ofwomen in aprons, who shake rugs out of the front doors or, emergingfrom areas, go down to the public-house on the corner with jugs tofetch the supper-beer. In almost every ground-floor window there is acard announcing that furnished lodgings may be had within. You willfind these streets by the score if you leave the main thoroughfaresand take a short cut on your way to Euston, to Paddington, or toWaterloo. But the dingiest and deadliest and most depressing lieround about Victoria. And Daubeny Street, Pimlico, is one of theworst of them all.

  On the afternoon following the events recorded, a girl was dressingin the ground-floor room of Number Nine, Daubeny Street. A traybearing the remains of a late breakfast stood on the rickety tablebeside a bowl of wax flowers. From beneath the table peered the greencover of a copy of _Variety_. A gray parrot in a cage by the windowcracked seed and looked out into the room with a satirical eye. Hehad seen all this so many times before,--Nelly Bryant arrayingherself in her smartest clothes to go out and besiege agents in theiroffices off the Strand. It happened every day. In an hour or two shewould come back as usual, say "Oh, Gee!" in a tired sort of voice,and then Bill the parrot's day proper would begin. He was a bird wholiked the sound of his own voice, and he never got the chance of areally sustained conversation till Nelly returned in the evening.

  "Who cares?" said Bill, and cracked another seed.

  If rooms are an indication of the characters of their occupants,Nelly Bryant came well out of the test of her surroundings. Nothingcan make a London furnished room much less horrible than it intendsto be, but Nelly had done her best. The furniture, what there was ofit, was of that lodging-house kind which resembles nothing else inthe world. But a few little touches here and there, a fewinstinctively tasteful alterations in the general scheme of things,had given the room almost a cosy air. Later on, with the gas lit, itwould achieve something approaching homeiness. Nelly, like manyanother nomad, had taught herself to accomplish a good deal with poormaterial. On the road in America, she had sometimes made even abedroom in a small hotel tolerably comfortable, than which there isno greater achievement. Oddly, considering her life, she had a geniusfor domesticity.

  Today, not for the first time, Nelly was feeling unhappy. The facethat looked back at her out of the mirror at which she was arrangingher most becoming hat was weary. It was only a moderately prettyface, but loneliness and underfeeding had given it a wistfulexpression that had charm. Unfortunately, it was not the sort ofcharm which made a great appeal to the stout, whisky-nourished menwho sat behind paper-littered tables, smoking cigars, in the roomsmarked "Private" in the offices of theatrical agents. Nelly had beenout of a "shop" now for many weeks,--ever since, in fact, "Follow theGirl" had finished its long ran at the Regal Theatre.

  "Follow the Girl," an American musical comedy, had come over from NewYork with an American company, of which Nelly had been a humble unit,and, after playing a year in London and some weeks in the number onetowns, had returned to New York. It did not cheer Nelly up in thelong evenings in Daubeny Street to reflect that, if she had wished,she could have gone home with the rest of the company. A mad impulsehad seized her to try her luck in London, and here she was now,marooned.

  "Who cares?" said Bill.

  For a bird who enjoyed talking he was a little limited in his remarksand apt to repeat himself.

  "I do, you poor fish!" said Nelly, completing her maneuvers with thehat and turning to the cage. "It's all right for you--you have aswell time with nothing to do but sit there and eat seed--but how doyou suppose I enjoy tramping around, looking for work and neverfinding any?"

  She picked up her gloves. "Oh, well!" she said. "Wish me luck!"

  "Good-bye, boy!" said the parrot, clinging to the bars.

  Nelly thrust a finger into the cage and scratched his head.

  "Anxious to get rid of me, aren't you? Well, so long."

  "Good-bye, boy!"

  "All right, I'm going. Be good!"

  "Woof-woof-woof!" barked Bill the parrot, not committing himself toany promises.

  For some moments after Nelly had gone he remained hunched on hisperch, contemplating the infinite. Then he sauntered along to theseed-box and took some more light nourishment. He always liked tospread his meals out, to make them last longer. A drink of water towash the food down, and he returned to the middle of the cage, wherehe proceeded to conduct a few intimate researches with his beak underhis left wing. After which he mewed like a cat, and relapsed intosilent meditation once more. He closed his eyes and pondered on hisfavorite problem--Why was he a parrot? This was always good for anhour or so, and it was three o'clock before he had come to hiscustomary decision that he didn't know. Then, exhausted by brain-workand feeling a trifle hipped by the silence of the room, he lookedabout him for some way of jazzing existence up a little. It occurredto him that if he barked again it might help.

  "Woof-woof-woof!"

  Good as far as it went, but it did not go far enough. It was not realexcitement. Something rather more dashing seemed to him to beindicated. He hammered for a moment or two on the floor of his cage,ate a mouthful of the newspaper there, and stood with his head on oneside, chewing thoughtfully. It didn't taste as good as usual. Hesuspected Nelly of having changed his _Daily Mail_ for the _DailyExpress_ or something. He swallowed the piece of paper, and wasstruck by the thought that a little climbing exercise might be whathis soul demanded. (You hang on by your beak and claws and work yourway up to the roof. It sounds tame, but it's something to do.) Hetried it. And, as he gripped the door of the cage, it swung open.Bill the parrot now perceived that this was going to be one of thosedays. He had not had a bit of luck like this for months.

  For awhile he sat regarding the open door. Unless excited by outsideinfluences, he never did anything in a hurry. Then proceedingcautiously, he passed out into the room. He had been out therebefore, but always chaperoned by Nelly. This was something quitedifferent. It was an adventure. He hopped onto the window-sill. Therewas a ball of yellow wool there, but he had lunched and could eatnothing. He cast around in his mind for something to occupy him, andperceived suddenly that the world was larger than he had supposed.Apparently there was a lot of it outside the room. How long this hadbeen going on, he did not know, but obviously it was a thing to beinvestigated. The window was open at the bottom, and just outside thewindow were what he took to be the bars of another and larger cage.As a matter of fact they were the railings which afforded a modestprotection to Number Nine. They ran the length of the house, and weremuch used by small boys as a means of rattling sticks. One of thesestick-rattlers passed as Bill stood there looking down. The noisestartled him for a moment, then he seemed to come to the conclusionthat this sort of thing was to be expected if you went out into thegreat world and that a parrot who intended to see life must not allowhimself to be deterred by trifles. He crooned a little, and finally,stepping in a stately way over the window-sill, with his toes turnedin at right angles, caught at the top of the railing with his beak,and proceeded to lower himself. Arrived at the level of the street,he stood looking out.

  A dog trotted up, spied him, and came to sniff.

  "Good-bye, boy!" said Bill chattily.

  The dog was taken aback.
Hitherto, in his limited experience, birdshad been birds and men men. Here was a blend of the two. What was tobe done about it? He barked tentatively, then, finding that nothingdisastrous ensued, pushed his nose between two of the bars and barkedagain. Any one who knew Bill could have told him that he was askingfor it, and he got it. Bill leaned forward and nipped his nose. Thedog started back with a howl of agony. He was learning something newevery minute.

  "Woof-woof-woof!" said Bill sardonically.

  He perceived trousered legs, four of them, and, cocking his eyeupwards, saw that two men of the lower orders stood before him. Theywere gazing down at him in the stolid manner peculiar to theproletariat of London in the presence of the unusual. For someminutes they stood drinking him in, then one of them gave judgment.

  "It's a parrot!" He removed a pipe from his mouth and pointed withthe stem. "A perishin' parrot, that is, Erb."

  "Ah!" said Erb, a man of few words.

  "A parrot," proceeded the other. He was seeing clearer into thematter every moment. "That's a parrot, that is, Erb. My brother Joe'swife's sister 'ad one of 'em. Come from abroad, _they_ do. My brotherJoe's wife's sister 'ad one of 'em. Red-'aired gel she was. Married afeller down at the Docks. _She_ 'ad one of 'em. Parrots they'recalled."

  He bent down for a closer inspection, and inserted a finger throughthe railings. Erb abandoned his customary taciturnity and spoke wordsof warning.

  "Tike care 'e don't sting yer, 'Enry!"

  Henry seemed wounded.

  "Woddyer mean sting me? I know all abart parrots, I do. My brotherJoe's wife's sister 'ad one of 'em. They don't 'urt yer, not ifyou're kind to 'em. You know yer pals when you see 'em, don't yer,mate?" he went on, addressing Bill, who was contemplating the fingerwith one half-closed eye.

  "Good-bye, boy," said the parrot, evading the point.

  "Jear that?" cried Henry delightedly. "Goo'-bye, boy!' 'Uman theyare!"

  "'E'll 'ave a piece out of yer finger," warned Erb, the suspicious.

  "Wot, 'im!" Henry's voice was indignant. He seemed to think that hisreputation as an expert on parrots had been challenged. "'E wouldn't'ave no piece out of my finger."

  "Bet yer a narf-pint 'e would 'ave a piece out of yer finger,"persisted the skeptic.

  "No blinkin' parrot's goin' to 'ave no piece of no finger of mine! Mybrother Joe's wife's sister's parrot never 'ad no piece out of nofinger of mine!" He extended the finger further and waggled itenticingly beneath Bill's beak. "Cheerio, matey!" he said winningly."Polly want a nut?"

  Whether it was mere indolence or whether the advertised docility ofthat other parrot belonging to Henry's brother's wife's sister hadcaused him to realize that there was a certain standard of goodconduct for his species one cannot say: but for awhile Bill merelycontemplated temptation with a detached eye.

  "See!" said Henry.

  "Woof-woof-woof!" said Bill.

  "_Wow-Wow-Wow!_" yapped the dog, suddenly returning to the scene andgoing on with the argument at the point where he had left off.

  The effect on Bill was catastrophic. Ever a high-strung bird, he lostcompletely the repose which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere and thebetter order of parrot. His nerves were shocked, and, as always undersuch conditions, his impulse was to bite blindly. He bit, andHenry--one feels sorry for Henry: he was a well-meaning man--leapedback with a loud howl.

  "That'll be 'arf a pint," said Erb, always the business man.

  There was a lull in the rapid action. The dog, mumbling softly tohimself, had moved away again and was watching affairs from the edgeof the sidewalk. Erb, having won his point, was silent once more.Henry sucked his finger. Bill, having met the world squarely andshown it what was what, stood where he was, whistling nonchalantly.

  Henry removed his finger from his mouth. "Lend me the loan of thatstick of yours, Erb," he said tensely.

  Erb silently yielded up the stout stick which was his inseparablecompanion. Henry, a vastly different man from the genial saunterer ofa moment ago, poked wildly through the railings. Bill, panic-strickennow and wishing for nothing better than to be back in his cosy cage,shrieked loudly for help. And Freddie Rooke, running the corner withJill, stopped dead and turned pale.

  "Good God!" said Freddie.

  2.

  In pursuance of his overnight promise to Derek, Freddie Rooke had gotin touch with Jill through the medium of the telephone immediatelyafter breakfast, and had arranged to call at Ovington Square in theafternoon. Arrived there, he found Jill with a telegram in her hand.Her Uncle Christopher, who had been enjoying a breath of sea-air downat Brighton, was returning by an afternoon train, and Jill hadsuggested that Freddie should accompany her to Victoria, pick upUncle Chris, and escort him home. Freddie, whose idea had been a_tete-a-tete_ involving a brotherly lecture on impetuosity, haddemurred but had given way in the end; and they had set out to walkto Victoria together. Their way had lain through Daubeny Street, andthey turned the corner just as the brutal onslaught on the innocentHenry had occurred. Bill's shrieks, which were of an appallingtimbre, brought them to a halt.

  "What is it?" cried Jill.

  "It sounds like a murder!"

  "Nonsense!"

  "I don't know, you know this is the sort of street chappies aremurdering people in all the time."

  They caught sight of the group in front of them, and were reassured.Nobody could possibly be looking so aloof and distrait as Erb, ifthere were a murder going on.

  "It's a bird!"

  "It's a jolly old parrot. See it? Just inside the railings."

  A red-hot wave of rage swept over Jill. Whatever her defects,--andalready this story has shown her far from perfect,--she had theexcellent quality of loving animals and blazing into fury when shesaw them ill-treated. At least three draymen were going about Londonwith burning ears as the result of what she had said to them ondiscovering them abusing their patient horses. Zoologically, Bill theparrot was not an animal, but he counted as one with Jill, and shesped down Daubeny Street to his rescue,--Freddie, spatted and hattedand trousered as became the man of fashion, following disconsolately,ruefully aware that he did not look his best sprinting like that. ButJill was cutting out a warm pace, and he held his hat on with oneneatly-gloved hand and did what he could to keep up.

  Jill reached the scene of battle, and, stopping, eyed Henry with abaleful glare. We, who have seen Henry in his calmer moments and knowhim for the good fellow he was, are aware that he was more sinnedagainst than sinning. If there is any spirit of justice in us, we arepro-Henry. In his encounter with Bill the parrot, Henry undoubtedlyhad right on his side. His friendly overtures, made in the bestspirit of kindliness, had been repulsed. He had been severely bitten.And he had lost half a pint of beer to Erb. As impartial judges wehave no other course before us than to wish Henry luck and bid him goto it. But Jill, who had not seen the opening stages of the affair,thought far otherwise. She merely saw in Henry a great brute of a manpoking at a defenceless bird with a stick.

  She turned to Freddie, who had come up at a gallop and was wonderingwhy the deuce this sort of thing happened to him out of a city of sixmillions.

  "Make him stop, Freddie!"

  "Oh, I say you know, what!"

  "Can't you see he's hurting the poor thing? Make him leave off!Brute!" she added to Henry (for whom one's heart bleeds), as hejabbed once again at his adversary.

  Freddie stepped reluctantly up to Henry, and tapped him on theshoulder. Freddie was one of those men who have a rooted idea that aconversation of this sort can only be begun by a tap on the shoulder.

  "Look here, you know, you can't do this sort of thing, you know!"said Freddie.

  Henry raised a scarlet face.

  "'Oo are _you?_" he demanded.

  This attack from the rear, coming on top of his other troubles, triedhis restraint sorely.

  "Well--" Freddie hesitated. It seemed silly to offer the fellow oneof his cards. "Well, as a matter of fact, my name's Rooke . . ."

  "And who," pursued Henry, "arsked _you_
to come shoving your ugly mugin 'ere?"

  "Well, if you put it that way . . ."

  "'E comes messing abart," said Henry complainingly, addressing theuniverse, "and interfering in what don't concern 'im and muckingaround and interfering and messing abart. . . . Why," he broke off ina sudden burst of eloquence, "I could eat two of you for a relish wivme tea, even if you 'ave got white spats!"

  Here Erb, who had contributed nothing to the conversation, remarked"Ah!" and expectorated on the sidewalk. The point, one gathers,seemed to Erb well taken. A neat thrust, was Erb's verdict.

  "Just because you've got white spats," proceeded Henry, on whosesensitive mind these adjuncts of the costume of the well-dressed manabout town seemed to have made a deep and unfavorable impression,"you think you can come mucking around and messing abart andinterfering and mucking around. This bird's bit me in the finger, and'ere's the finger, if you don't believe me--and I'm going to twist'is ruddy neck, if all the perishers with white spats in London comemessing abart and mucking around, so you take them white spats ofyours 'ome and give 'em to the old woman to cook for your Sundaydinner!"

  And Henry, having cleansed his stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuffwhich weighs upon the heart, shoved the stick energetically once morethrough the railings.

  Jill darted forward. Always a girl who believed that, if you want athing well done, you must do it yourself, she had applied to Freddiefor assistance merely as a matter of form. All the time she had feltthat Freddie was a broken reed, and such he had proved himself.Freddie's policy in this affair was obviously to rely on the magic ofspeech, and any magic his speech might have had was manifestly offsetby the fact that he was wearing white spats and that Henry,apparently, belonged to some sort of league or society which had forits main object the discouragement of white spats. It was plainly nogood leaving the conduct of the campaign to Freddie. Whatever was tobe done must be done by herself. She seized the stick and wrenched itout of Henry's hand.

  "Woof-woof-woof!" said Bill the parrot.

  No dispassionate auditor could have failed to detect the nasty ringof sarcasm. It stung Henry. He was not normally a man who believed inviolence to the gentler sex outside a clump on the head of his missuswhen the occasion seemed to demand it: but now he threw away theguiding principles of a lifetime and turned on Jill like a tiger.

  "Gimme that stick!"

  "Get back!"

  "Here, I say, you know!" said Freddie.

  Henry, now thoroughly overwrought, made a rush at Jill: and Jill, whohad a straight eye, hit him accurately on the side of the head.

  "Goo!" said Henry, and sat down.

  And then, from behind Jill, a voice spoke.

  "What's all this?"

  A stout policeman had manifested himself from empty space.

  "This won't do!" said the policeman.

  Erb, who had been a silent spectator of the fray, burst into speech."She 'it 'im!"

  The policeman looked at Jill. He was an officer of many years'experience in the Force, and time had dulled in him that respectfor good clothes which he had brought with him fromLittle-Sudbury-in-the-Wold in the days of his novitiate. Jill waswell-dressed, but, in the stirring epoch of the Suffrage disturbances,the policeman had been kicked on the shins and even bitten by ladiesof an equally elegant exterior. Hearts, the policeman knew, just aspure and fair may beat in Belgrave Square as in the lowlier air ofSeven Dials, but you have to pinch them just the same when theydisturb the peace. His gaze, as it fell upon Jill, red-handed as itwere with the stick still in her grasp, was stern.

  "Your name, please, and address, miss?" he said.

  A girl in blue with a big hat had come up, and was standing staringopen-mouthed at the group. At the sight of her Bill the parrot uttereda shriek of welcome. Nelly Bryant had returned, and everything wouldnow be all right again.

  "Mariner," said Jill, pale and bright-eyed. "I live at NumberTwenty-two, Ovington Square."

  "And yours, sir?"

  "Mine? Oh, ah, yes. I see what you mean. Rooke, you know. F. L.Rooke. I live at the Albany and all that sort of thing."

  The policeman made an entry in his note-book. "Officer," cried Jill,"this man was trying to kill that parrot and I stopped him. . . ."

  "Can't help that, miss. You 'adn't no right to hit a man with astick. You'll 'ave to come along."

  "But, I say, you know!" Freddie was appalled. This sort of thing hadhappened to him before, but only on Boat-Race Night at the Empire,where it was expected of a chappie. "I mean to say!"

  "And you too, sir. You're both in it."

  "But . . ."

  "Oh, come along, Freddie," said Jill quietly. "It's perfectly absurd,but it's no use making a fuss."

  "That," said the policeman cordially, "is the right spirit!".

  3.

  Lady Underhill paused for breath. She had been talking long andvehemently. She and Derek were sitting in Freddie Rooke's apartmentat the Albany, and the subject of her monologue was Jill. Derek hadbeen expecting the attack, and had wondered why it had not comebefore. All through supper on the previous night, even after thediscovery that Jill was supping at a near-by table with a man who wasa stranger to her son, Lady Underhill had preserved a grim reticencewith regard to her future daughter-in-law. But today she had spokenher mind with all the energy which comes of suppression. She hadrelieved herself with a flow of words of all the pent-up hostilitythat had been growing within her since that first meeting in thissame room. She had talked rapidly, for she was talking against time.The Town Council of the principal city in Derek's constituency in thenorth of England had decided that tomorrow morning should witness thelaying of the foundation stone of their new Town Hall, and Derek asthe sitting member was to preside at the celebration. Already Parkerhad been dispatched to telephone for a cab to take him to thestation, and at any moment their conversation might be interrupted.So Lady Underhill made the most of what little time she had.

  Derek had listened gloomily, scarcely rousing himself to reply. Hismother would have been gratified, could she have known how powerfullyher arguments were working on him. That little imp of doubt which hadvexed him in the cab as he drove home from Ovington Square had notdied in the night. It had grown and waxed more formidable. And, now,aided by this ally from without, it had become a colossus, straddlinghis soul. Derek looked frequently at the clock, and cursed theunknown cabman whose delay was prolonging the scene. Something toldhim that only flight could serve him now. He never had been able towithstand his mother in one of her militant moods. She seemed to numbhis faculties. Other members of his family had also noted thisquality in Lady Underhill, and had commented on it bitterly in thesmoking-rooms of distant country-houses at the hour when men meet todrink the final whisky-and-soda and unburden their souls.

  Lady Underhill, having said all she had to say, recovered her breathand began to say it again. Frequent iteration was one of herstrongest weapons. As her brother Edwin, who was fond of homelyimagery, had often observed, she could talk the hind-leg off adonkey.

  "You must be mad, Derek, to dream of handicapping yourself at thisvital stage of your career with a wife who not only will not be ahelp to you, but must actually be a ruinous handicap. I am notblaming you for imagining yourself in love in the first place, thoughI really should have thought that a man of your strength andcharacter would . . . However, as I say, I am not blaming you forthat. Superficially, no doubt, this girl might be called attractive.I do not admire the type myself, but I suppose she has thatquality--in my time we should have called it boldness--which seems toappeal to the young men of today. I could imagine her fascinating aweak-minded imbecile like your friend Mr Rooke. But that you . . .Still, there is no need to go into that. What I am trying to pointout is that in your position, with a career like yours in front ofyou,--it's quite certain that in a year or two you will be offeredsome really big and responsible position--you would be insane to tieyourself to a girl who seems to have been allowed to run perfectlywild, whose uncle is a swindler . . ."
<
br />   "She can't be blamed for her uncle."

  ". . . Who sups alone with strange men in public restaurants. . . ."

  "I explained that."

  "You may have explained it. You certainly did not excuse it or makeit a whit less outrageous. You cannot pretend that you really imaginethat an engaged girl is behaving with perfect correctness when sheallows a man she has only just met to take her to supper at theSavoy, even if she did know him slightly years and years ago. It isvery idyllic to suppose that a childhood acquaintance excuses everybreach of decorum, but I was brought up to believe otherwise. I don'twish to be vulgar, but what it amounts to is that this girl washaving supper--supper! In my days girls were in bed atsupper-time!--with a strange man who picked her up at a theatre!"

  Derek shifted uneasily. There was a part of his mind which calledupon him to rise up and challenge the outrageous phrase and demandthat it be taken back. But he remained silent. The imp-colossus wastoo strong for him. She is quite right, said the imp. That is anunpleasant but accurate description of what happened. He looked atthe clock again, and wished for the hundredth time that the cab wouldcome. Jill's photograph smiled at him from beside the clock. Helooked away, for, when he found his eyes upon it, he had an oddsensation of baseness, as if he were playing some one false who lovedand trusted him.

  "If you were an ordinary man like hundreds of the idle young men onemeets in London, I would have nothing to say. I dislike the girlintensely, but I would not interfere in what would be your ownprivate business. No doubt there are plenty of sets in society whereit matters very little what sort of a woman a man marries. But if youhave a career, especially in politics, you know as well as I do thata suitable wife means everything. You are a public figure even now.In a few years you will be a very big public figure. That means thatyour wife will have every eye upon her. And what will she be? Aminx!" said Lady Underhill viciously.

  Once more Derek stirred uneasily, and once more he remained silent. Agleam came into Lady Underhill's black eyes. All her life she hadbeen a fighter, and experience had taught her to perceive when shewas winning. She blessed the dilatory cabman.

  "Well, I am not going to say any more," she said, getting up andbuttoning her glove. "I will leave you to think it over. All I willsay is that, though I only met her yesterday, I can assure you that Iam quite confident that this girl is just the sort of harum-scarum,so-called 'modern' girl who is sure some day to involve herself in areally serious scandal. I don't want her to be in a position to dragyou into it as well. Yes, Parker, what is it? Is Sir Derek's cabhere?"

  The lantern-jawed Parker had entered softly, and was standingdeferentially in the doorway. There was no emotion on his face beyondthe vague sadness which a sense of what was correct made him alwayswear like a sort of mask when in the presence of those of superiorstation.

  "The cab will be at the door very shortly, m'lady. If you please, SirDerek, a policeman has come with a message."

  "A policeman?"

  "With a message from Mr Rooke."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I have had a few words of conversation with the constable, sir,"said Parker sadly, "and I understand from him that Mr Rooke and MissMariner have been arrested."

  "Arrested! What are you talking about?"

  "Mr Rooke desired the officer to ask you to be good enough to stepround and bail them out!"

  The gleam in Lady Underhill's eye became a flame, but she controlledher voice.

  "Why were Miss Mariner and Mr Rooke arrested, Parker?"

  "As far as I can gather, m'lady, Miss Mariner struck a man in thestreet with a stick, and they took both her and Rooke to the ChelseaPolice Station."

  Lady Underhill glanced at Derek, who was looking into the fire.

  "This is a little awkward, Derek," she said suavely. "If you go tothe police-station, you will miss your train."

  "I fancy, m'lady, it would be sufficient if Sir Derek were todispatch me with a check for ten pounds."

  "Very well. Tell the policeman to wait a moment."

  "Very good, m'lady."

  Derek roused himself with an effort. His face was drawn and gloomy.He sat down at the writing-table, and took out his check-book. Therewas silence for a moment, broken only by the scratching of the pen.Parker took the check and left the room.

  "Now, perhaps," said Lady Underhill, "you will admit that I wasright!" She spoke in almost an awed voice, for this occurrence atjust this moment seemed to her very like a direct answer to prayer."You can't hesitate now! You must free yourself from this detestableentanglement!"

  Derek rose without speaking. He took his coat and hat from where theylay on a chair.

  "Derek! You will! Say you will!"

  Derek put on his coat.

  "Derek!"

  "For heaven's sake, leave me alone, mother. I want to think."

  "Very well. I will leave you to think it over, then." Lady Underhillmoved to the door. At the door she paused for a moment, and seemedabout to speak again, but her mouth closed resolutely. She was ashrewd woman, and knew that the art of life is to know when to stoptalking. What words have accomplished, too many words can undo.

  "Good-bye."

  "Good-bye, mother."

  "I'll see you when you get back?"

  "Yes. No. I don't know. I'm not certain when I shall return. I may goaway for a bit."

  The door closed behind Lady Underhill. Derek sat down again at thewriting-table. He wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, then tore itup. His eye travelled to the mantelpiece. Jill's photograph smiledhappily down at him. He turned back to the writing-table, took out afresh piece of paper, thought for a few moments, and began to writeagain.

  The door opened softly.

  "The cab is at the door, Sir Derek," said Parker.

  Derek addressed an envelope, and got up.

  "All right. Thanks. Oh, Parker, stop at a district-messenger officeon your way to the police-station, and have this sent off at once."

  "Very good, Sir Derek," said Parker.

  Derek's eyes turned once more to the mantelpiece. He stood lookingfor an instant, then walked quickly out of the room.