'I've snaffled an excellent chicken,' proceeded Toddy, with the modest pride of a Crusader who has done big things among the Paynim. 'Also some salad of sorts. Come along.'
Ann was a kind-hearted girl, and one who hated hurting people's feelings. Well aware of the perils to which Toddy had exposed himself in order that she might sup, she appreciated the justice of his claim on her society. For her sake he had fought and, practically, bled. She could not rebuff him now, in the very hour of his triumph. To do so would be to destroy all young Mr Malling's faith in Woman.
Besides, there would be plenty of opportunity for resuming that interrupted talk later on – in some more secluded spot. From the solicitous way in which Sir Herbert was patting his arm, it was plain that her mysterious friend must be a favoured guest. She would find him in the Crystal Ballroom when she had contrived to shake off the insistent Toddy.
'All right, Toddy,' she said. 'You're a hero. Lead on.'
'You don't mind if young Bertie Winch puts on the nosebag with us, do you?' said Toddy anxiously, as they passed through the door. 'I had to rope him in as an ally. It was imperative. I stationed him by the table and told him to look after that chicken like a baby sister. Otherwise, some of these bally pirates would infallibly have pinched it.'
Berry, meanwhile, had at last had it forced upon his senses that this Voice which was babbling in his immediate neighbourhood was addressing its remarks to him; and, though still distrait, he answered civilly.
'Quite,' he said. 'Absolutely. No doubt.'
The Voice appeared dissatisfied. And, more than dissatisfied, indignant. It rose querulously.
'I'm asking you,' it said, now undisguisedly peevish, 'who the devil you are and where the devil you came from and what the devil you think you're doing here. I don't know you from Adam, and I'd like to see your card of invitation, if you please.'
Berry came out of his reverie. There is a time for dreaming and a time for facing the issues of life in a practical spirit. This seemed to be one of the latter occasions. Peering through the golden mists which float about a lover, he perceived a rubicund little man of middle age with a walrus moustache and two chins. The moustache was twitching, and both chins waggled in an unpleasant and hostile manner.
'I beg your pardon?' he said.
'Never mind about begging my pardon,' replied his new acquaintance. 'Show me your invitation-card.'
In gazing at Berry as if he were an escape of sewer-gas and addressing him in a tone which a bilious warder in a prison might have used toward a convict whom he did not like very much, Sir Herbert Bassinger, Bart, undoubtedly had justice on his side. There had been this season at Society functions quite an epidemic of what is technically known as gate-crashing. At a great number of balls, that is to say, a great number of London's bright young men had put in an appearance, drunk as much champagne as they could hold without spilling over the brim, and danced till their ankles gave out, all without the formality of an invitation. Hosts had come to dislike this practice, and Sir Herbert Bassinger, who had suffered much from it at his last big affair, given earlier in the year, had sworn a dark oath that there was going to be none of that this time. It had, accordingly, been enjoined upon the guests at the dance in the Crystal Ballroom of the Mazarin Hotel that they should bring their invitation-cards with them and be prepared to show them on demand.
'Invitation-card!' said Berry musingly, as if the word was new to him.
'Invitation-card.'
'Well, the fact is . . .' said Berry.
It was a conversational gambit which told Sir Herbert all he wanted to know. Only the sinful and black of heart, he was aware, begin their remarks with that phrase. Comfortably sure now that he was not ejecting from his dance some scion of a noble house whose face he had chanced to forget – or, worse, a gossip-writer from one of the daily papers – he unmasked his batteries.
'I must request you to leave immediately.'
'But—'
'Get out!' said Sir Herbert, becoming terser.
'But I must speak to—'
The walrus moustache quivered like a corn-field in the evening breeze.
'Are you going, or shall I call a policeman?'
Berry perceived that he must be polite and winning. He was still unaware of the name and address of his goddess of the car, and this man could supply them. He forced an ingratiating smile.
It did not go well.
'Don't grin at me!' thundered Sir Herbert Bassinger.
Even filtered through the moustache, his voice made Berry leap a couple of inches. He removed the ingratiating smile. His companion's wish was law. Besides, it was hurting his face.
'I'll go,' he said reassuringly. 'Oh, I'll go. Of course I'll go. I quite understand that I have no business here. I'll go all right. I only came because I saw somebody I wanted to speak to going up in the lift. If you will just let me go into the supper-room and have a word with—'
Sir Herbert Bassinger was a man who, when stirred, was accustomed to fall back on a vocabulary of his own invention. He employed it now.
'Stop this tish-tosh!'
Berry continued to be polite and winning.
'Perhaps if you would just tell me her name?'
'Enough of this bubble-and-squeak!'
'Her name?' said Berry urgently. 'I must know her name. If you'll just be kind enough to tell me her name—'
'Will you kindly cease this tingle-tangle and get out of here!' said Sir Herbert Bassinger.
Several attendants in gay uniform had manifested themselves by now and were dotted about the room, eyeing Berry in that cold, severe way in which barmen eye the obstreperous in bars. Reluctantly, he realized that he could do no more. He had shot his bolt. A brawl, agreeable though it would have been to his ruffled feelings, was out of the question.
'Very well,' he said.
With no more tingle-tangle or tish-tosh, he turned and walked in silence to the stairs. His bearing was not exactly dignified, but it was as dignified as a man's can be who is undergoing a spiritual frog's march.
III
A light in the sitting-room of Peacehaven informed Berry on his return to Mulberry Grove that Lord Biskerton was still up and, no doubt, eager for a chat. He rapped on the window. It was opened hospitably, and he climbed through.
'Well?' said the Biscuit. 'What sort of a time did you have?'
He eyed Berry narrowly. There seemed to him in his friend's demeanour something strange – an unwonted sparkle in the eye, a suppressed elation as of one who on honey-dew has fed and drunk the milk of Paradise. This, the Biscuit felt, was scarcely to be accounted for by attendance at an Old Boys' dinner, and he sought elsewhere for the cause.
'What's the matter with you, reptile?' he asked. 'You're fizzing visibly. Come into money, or something?'
Berry sat down, got up, sat down, got up, sat down again, and got up once more. His manner was feverish, and his host disapproved of it.
'Roost!' commanded the Biscuit. 'Park yourself, confound you. You're making me giddy.'
Berry balanced himself on the edge of the horse-hair sofa. He did it as one not committing himself definitely to a sitting position but holding himself in readiness at any moment, should he see fit, to soar up to the ceiling.
'Now then,' said the Biscuit. 'Tell me all.'
'Biscuit,' said Berry, 'the most extraordinary thing has happened. There's a girl . . .'
'A girl, eh?' said the Biscuit, interested. He began to see daylight. 'Who is she?'
'What?' asked Berry, whose attention had wandered.
'I said, who is she?'
'I don't know.'
'What's her name?'
'I don't know.'
'Where does she live?'
'I don't know.'
'You aren't an Encyclopædia, old boy, are you?' said the Biscuit. 'Where did you meet her?'
'I saw her first across a restaurant.'
'Well?'
'We looked at one another a good deal.'
'And
then?'
'Then we went on looking at one another. It was that day you were wearing that beard, Biscuit. You remember?'
'I remember.'
'I felt absolutely desperate. I knew, just by looking at her, that I had found the only girl I should ever love . . .'
'You boys!' interjected the Biscuit tolerantly.
'And how on earth was I to get to know her? That was the problem.'
'It always is. I wish I had a quid for every time. . . .'
'When I came out into the street, I saw her getting into her car. And suddenly I had an inspiration. I jumped in after her, and told her to follow you.'
'Follow me? How do you mean, me? How do I come into it?'
'You were in your car just ahead.'
The Biscuit's interest deepened.
'Do you mean all this happened the day you lunched at the Berkeley, when I was giving the old fungus a trial trip?'
'Of course. I'm telling you.'
'Then who was the girl, I wonder,' mused the Biscuit. 'I don't remember seeing anything very special in the way of girls that time. However, don't let's wander from the point. You jumped into her car. What happened then?'
'You drove off, and we drove after you.'
'You mean she just said, "Yes, sir!" and trod on the self-starter? I should have thought she would have called a cop and two loony-doctors and had you put where you belonged.'
Berry hesitated. They had reached the only point in this romance of his on which he did not like to let his mind dwell. No lover enjoys feeling that he is deceiving the girl he loves. There had been an instant during that scene in the supper-room at the Mazarin when he had braced himself for a full confession. He had thought better of it, but, none the less, his conscience irked him.
'Well, as a matter of fact, Biscuit,' he said, 'I lied to her.'
'Starting early, what?'
'I told her I was a Secret Service man,' said Berry.
The Biscuit gaped.
'You – what?'
'I said I was a Secret Service man. You see, that explained why I wanted her to follow you.'
'Why? Who did you say I was?'
'I told her you were the head of a great Cocaine Ring.'
The Biscuit thanked him.
'I had to give some reason for jumping into her car like that.'
'And what happened when you told her that you had been fooling her?'
'I didn't.'
'You let her go on thinking you were a Secret Service man?'
'Yes.'
'God bless you, laddie! This is the best bed-time story I've heard for months and months and months. So she still thinks you're a Secret Service man? You didn't explain later?'
'No. What happened was this, you see. When I came out of the inn, she had gone. Her car wasn't there. She had driven off. But tonight I met her again. There was a dance going on at the Mazarin, and I had come out from the dinner, and I saw her going up in the lift. So I went up after her, and found her in the supper-room. And we were just starting to talk, when the man who was giving the dance came along and chucked me out.'
The Biscuit uttered appreciative cries.
'But before that happened I had had time to see . . . I mean,' said Berry, becoming incoherent, 'there was something in her eyes . . . The way she looked . . . I believe if only I had had a minute longer . . . It was the way she looked, if you know what I mean.'
'You clicked?' said the Biscuit, who liked his bed-time stories crisp.
Berry shuddered. The hideous phrase revolted him.
'I wish you wouldn't . . .'
'Either a man clicks or he does not click,' said the Biscuit firmly. 'There are no half measures. You did?'
'I think she was – pleased to see me.'
'Ah! Well, then, of course you proceeded to ask her name?'
'No.'
'You didn't?'
'I hadn't time.'
'Did you ask her where she lived?'
'No.'
'Did she ask you your name?'
'No.'
'Did she ask you where you lived?'
'No.'
'What the dickens did you talk about?' asked the Biscuit, curiously. 'The situation in Russia?'
Berry clenched his hands emotionally. Then a black recollection came to him, and his face clouded.
'I found out one thing about her,' he said. 'She's engaged.'
'Engaged?'
'Yes. I'm not worrying about finding her again. I know I shall find her. But if she's engaged . . .'
He broke off dejectedly, staring at the carpet.
'You feel that a Conway should refrain from butting in and coming between this girl and some bloke unknown, who no doubt loves her devotedly?' said the Biscuit.
'Yes. All the same . . .'
'All the same, you jolly well mean to do it?'
'Yes.'
'Quite right, too.'
'Do you really think so?'
'Certainly,' said the Biscuit firmly. 'All's fair in love and war, isn't it? I seem to see this other bloke. A weedy bird with a receding chin and an eyeglass. I shouldn't give him another thought. Good heavens! One can't stop to consider the feelings of some unknown wart at a time like this. He's probably someone like Merwyn Flock.'
'Who's Merwyn Flock?'
'Oh, just a fellow,' said the Biscuit. 'Just a blister who happens to be a sort of acquaintance of a friend of mine. From all accounts, one of the less attractive types of human gumboil. Don't you worry, old boy. You take my tip and charge right ahead. There are enough difficulties confronting you already without your having to bother about any vague lizard in the background.'
Berry bestowed upon his friend a look of the utmost gratitude and esteem. He had drawn much comfort from his words.
'I'm glad you feel like that about it,' he said.
'I'm glad you're glad,' said the Biscuit courteously.
CHAPTER 8
Mr Frisby buzzed the buzzer, and his private secretary came gambolling into the room like a lamb in springtime. The remarkable happenings of the previous night had the effect of raising Berry Conway's spirits to the loftiest heights. He felt as if he were walking on pink clouds above a smiling world.
'You rang, sir?' he said affectionately.
'Of course I rang. You heard me, didn't you? Don't ask dam'- fool questions. Get Mr Robbins on the 'phone.'
'Mr Who, sir?' asked Berry. There was nothing he desired more than to assist and oblige his employer, to smooth his employer's path and gratify his lightest whim, but the name was strange to him. Mr Frisby had a habit, which Berry deplored, of being obscure. His construction was bad. He would suddenly introduce into his remarks something like this Robbins motive – vital, apparently, to the narrative – without any preliminary planting or preparation. 'Mr Who, sir?' asked Berry.
'Mr gosh – darn – it – are – you – deaf – I – should – have – thought – I – spoke – plainly – enough – why – don't – you – buy – an – ear – trumpet. Robbins. My lawyer. Chancery 09632. Get him at once.'
'Certainly, sir,' said Berry soothingly.
He was concerned about his employer. It was plain that nothing jolly had been happening to him overnight. He was sitting bunched up in his swivel chair as if he had received a shock of some kind. His equine face was drawn, and the lines about his mouth had deepened. Berry would have liked to ask what was the matter, how bad the pain was and where it caught him. A long, sympathetic discussion of Mr Frisby's symptoms would just have suited his mood of loving-kindness.
Prudence, however, whispered that it would be wiser to refrain. He contented himself with getting the number, and presently found himself in communication with Mr Frisby's legal adviser.
'Mr Robbins is on the wire, sir,' he said in his best bedside manner, handing the instrument to the sufferer.
'Right,' said Mr Frisby. 'Get out.'
Berry did so, casting, as he went, a languishing glance at his overlord. It was meant to convey to Mr Frisby the messag
e that, no matter how black the skies might be, John Beresford Conway was near him, to help and encourage, and it was extremely fortunate that Mr Frisby did not see it.
'Robbins!' he was barking into the telephone, as the door shut.
A low, grave voice replied – a voice suggestive of foreclosed mortgages and lovers parting in the twilight.
'Yes, Mr Frisby?'
'Robbins, come round here at once. Immediately.'
'Is something the matter, Mr Frisby?'
'Oh, no!' The financier yapped bitterly. 'Nothing's the matter. Everything's fine. I've only been swindled and double-crossed by a hell-hound.'
'Tut!' said the twilight voice.
'I can't tell you over the wire. Come round. Hurry.'
'I will start immediately, Mr Frisby.'
Mr Frisby replaced the receiver and, rising, began to pace the room. He returned to the desk, picked up a letter, read it once more (making the tenth time), uttered a stifled howl (his fifteenth), threw it down, and resumed his pacing. He was plainly overwrought, and Berry Conway, if he had been present, would have laid a brotherly hand on his shoulder and patted him on the back and said 'Come, old man, what is it?' It was lucky, therefore, that instead of being present he was in his own little room, dreaming happy dreams.
These were interrupted almost immediately by the sound of the buzzer.
Mr Frisby, when Berry answered the summons, was waltzing about his office. He looked like one of those millionaires who are found stabbed with paper-knives in libraries.
'Sir?' said Berry tenderly.
'Hasn't Mr Robbins come yet?'
'Not yet, sir,' sighed Berry.
'Hell's bells!'
'Very good, sir.'
Mr Frisby resumed his waltzing. He had just paused to give the letter on the desk an eleventh perusal when the door opened again.
This time it was the office-boy.
'Mr Robbins, sir,' said the office-boy.
Mr Robbins, of Robbins, Robbins, Robbins and Robbins, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, was just the sort of man you would have expected him to be after hearing his voice on the telephone. He looked and behaved as if he were a mute at some particularly distinguished funeral. He laid his top-hat on the desk as if it had been a wreath.
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