CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A half-past two that afternoon, full of optimism and cold beef, gailyunconscious that Webster, with measured strides was approaching evernearer with the note that was to give it him in the neck, proper,Samuel Marlowe dangled his feet from the top bar of the gate at the endof the lane and smoked contentedly as he waited for Billie to make herappearance. He had had an excellent lunch; his pipe was drawing well,and all Nature smiled. The breeze from the sea across the meadows,tickled pleasantly the back of his head, and sang a soothing song inthe long grass and ragged-robins at his feet. He was looking forwardwith a roseate glow of anticipation to the moment when the whiteflutter of Billie's dress would break the green of the foreground. Howeagerly he would jump from the gate! How lovingly he would....
The elegant figure of Webster interrupted his reverie. Sam had neverseen Webster before, and it was with no pleasure that he saw him now. Hehad come to regard this lane as his own property, and he resentedtrespassers. He tucked his legs under him, and scowled at Webster underthe brim of his hat.
The valet advanced towards him with the air of an affable executionerstepping daintily to the block.
"Mr. Marlowe, sir?" he enquired politely.
Sam was startled. He could make nothing of this.
"Eh? What?"
"Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. S. Marlowe?"
"Yes, that's my name."
"Mine is Webster, sir, I am Mr. Bennett's personal gentleman'sgentleman. Miss Bennett entrusted me with this note to deliver to you,sir."
Sam began to grasp the situation. For some reason or other, the deargirl had been prevented from coming this afternoon, and she had writtento explain and to relieve his anxiety. It was like her. It was just thesweet, thoughtful thing he would have expected her to do. Hiscontentment with the existing scheme of things returned. The sunshone out again, and he found himself amiably disposed towards themessenger.
"Fine day," he said, as he took the note.
"Extremely, sir," said Webster, outwardly unemotional, inwardly full ofa grave pity.
It was plain to him that there had been no previous little rift toprepare the young man for the cervical operation which awaited him, andhe edged a little nearer, in order to be handy to catch Sam if theshock knocked him off the gate.
As it happened, it did not. Having read the opening words of the note,Sam rocked violently; but his feet were twined about the lower bars andthis saved him from overbalancing. Webster stepped back, relieved.
The note fluttered to the ground. Webster, picking it up and handing itback, was enabled to get a glimpse of the first two sentences. Theyconfirmed his suspicions. The note was hot stuff. Assuming that itcontinued as it began, it was about the warmest thing of its kind thatpen had ever written. Webster had received one or two heated epistlesfrom the sex in his time--your man of gallantry can hardly hope toescape these unpleasantnesses--but none had got off the markquite so swiftly, and with quite so much frigid violence as this.
"Thanks," said Sam, mechanically.
"Not at all, sir. You are very welcome."
Sam resumed his reading. A cold perspiration broke out on his forehead.His toes curled, and something seemed to be crawling down the small ofhis back. His heart had moved from its proper place and was now beatingin his throat. He swallowed once or twice to remove the obstruction,but without success. A kind of pall had descended on the landscape,blotting out the sun.
Of all the rotten sensations in this world, the worst is therealisation that a thousand-to-one chance has come off, and caused ourwrong-doing to be detected. There had seemed no possibility of thatlittle ruse of his being discovered, and yet here was Billie in fullpossession of the facts. It almost made the thing worse that she didnot say how she had come into possession of them. This gave Sam thatfeeling of self-pity, that sense of having been ill-used by Fate, whichmakes the bringing home of crime so particularly poignant.
"Fine day!" he muttered. He had a sort of subconscious feeling that itwas imperative to keep engaging Webster in light conversation.
"Yes, sir. Weather still keeps up," agreed the valet suavely.
Sam frowned over the note. He felt injured. Sending a fellow notesdidn't give him a chance. If she had come in person and denounced himit would not have been an agreeable experience, but at least it wouldhave been possible then to have pleaded and cajoled and--and all thatsort of thing. But what could he do now? It seemed to him that his onlypossible course was to write a note in reply, begging her to see him.He explored his pockets and found a pencil and a scrap of paper. Forsome moments he scribbled desperately. Then he folded the note.
"Will you take this to Miss Bennett," he said, holding it out.
Webster took the missive, because he wanted to read it later at hisleisure; but he shook his head.
"Useless, I fear, sir," he said gravely.
"What do you mean?"
"I am afraid it would effect little or nothing, sir, sending our MissB. notes. She is not in the proper frame of mind to appreciate them. I sawher face when she handed me the letter you have just read, and I assureyou, sir, she is not in a malleable mood."
"You seem to know a lot about it!"
"I have studied the sex, sir," said Webster modestly.
"I mean, about my business, confound it! You seem to know all aboutit!"
"Why, yes, sir, I think I may say that I have grasped the position ofaffairs. And, if you will permit me to say so, sir, you have myrespectful sympathy."
Dignity is a sensitive plant which flourishes only under the fairestconditions. Sam's had perished in the bleak east wind of Billie's note.In other circumstances he might have resented this intrusion of astranger into his most intimate concerns. His only emotion now, was oneof dull but distinct gratitude. The four winds of heaven blew chillyupon his raw and unprotected soul, and he wanted to wrap it up in amantle of sympathy, careless of the source from which he borrowed thatmantle. If Webster, the valet, felt disposed, as he seemed to indicate,to comfort him, let the thing go on. At that moment Sam would haveaccepted condolences from a coal-heaver.
"I was reading a story--one of the Nosegay Novelettes; I do not know ifyou are familiar with the series, sir?--in which much the samesituation occurred. It was entitled 'Cupid or Mammon!' The heroine,Lady Blanche Trefusis, forced by her parents to wed a wealthy suitor,despatches a note to her humble lover, informing him it cannot be. Ibelieve it often happens like that, sir."
"You're all wrong," said Sam. "It's not that at all."
"Indeed, sir? I supposed it was."
"Nothing like it! I--I--"
Sam's dignity, on its death-bed, made a last effort to assert itself.
"I don't know what it's got to do with you!"
"Precisely, sir!" said Webster, with dignity. "Just as you say! Goodafternoon, sir!"
He swayed gracefully, conveying a suggestion of departure withoutmoving his feet. The action was enough for Sam. Dignity gave anexpiring gurgle, and passed away, regretted by all.
"Don't go!" he cried.
The idea of being alone in this infernal lane, without human support,overpowered him. Moreover, Webster had personality. He exuded it.Already Sam had begun to cling to him in spirit, and rely on hissupport.
"Don't go!"
"Certainly not, if you do not wish it, sir."
Webster coughed gently, to show his appreciation of the delicate natureof the conversation. He was consumed with curiosity, and his threateneddeparture had been but a pretence. A team of horses could not havemoved Webster at that moment.
"Might I ask, then what...?"
"There's been a misunderstanding," said Sam. "At least, there was, butnow there isn't, if you see what I mean."
"I fear I have not quite grasped your meaning, sir."
"Well, I--I--played a sort of--you might almost call it a sort of trickon Miss Bennett. With the best motives, of course!"
"Of course, sir!"
"And she's found out. I don't know how she's found ou
t, but she has. Sothere you are!"
"Of what nature would the trick be, sir? A species of ruse, sir,--somekind of innocent deception?"
"Well, it was like this."
It was a complicated story to tell, and Sam, a prey to conflictingemotions, told it badly; but such was the almost superhumanintelligence of Webster, that he succeeded in grasping the salientpoints. Indeed, he said that it reminded him of something of much thesame kind in the Nosegay Novelette, "All for Her," where the hero,anxious to win the esteem of the lady of his heart, had bribed a trampto simulate an attack upon her in a lonely road.
"The principle's the same," said Webster.
"Well what did he do when she found out?"
"She did not find out, sir. All ended happily, and never had thewedding-bells in the old village church rung out a blither peal thanthey did at the subsequent union."
Sam was thoughtful.
"Bribed a tramp to attack her, did he?"
"Yes, sir. She had never thought much of him till that moment, sir.Very cold and haughty she had been, his social status beingconsiderably inferior to her own. But, when she cried for help, and hedashed out from behind a hedge, well, it made all the difference."
"I wonder where I could get a good tramp," said Sam, meditatively.
Webster shook his head.
"I really would hardly recommend such a procedure, sir."
"No, it would be difficult to make a tramp understand what you wanted."
Sam brightened.
"I've got it! _You_ pretend to attack her, and I'll...."
"I couldn't, sir! I couldn't really! I should jeopardise my situation."
"Oh, come! Be a man!"
"No, sir, I fear not. There's a difference between handing in yourresignation--I was compelled to do that only recently, owing to a fewwords I had with the guv'nor, though subsequently prevailed upon towithdraw it--I say there's a difference between handing in yourresignation and being given the sack, and that's what wouldhappen--without a character, what's more, and lucky if it didn't meana prison cell. No, sir; I could not contemplate such a thing."
"Then I don't see that there's anything to be done," said Sam morosely.
"Oh, I shouldn't say that, sir," said Webster, encouragingly. "It'ssimply a matter of finding the way. The problem confronting us--you,I should say...."
"Us," said Sam. "Most decidedly us."
"Thank you very much, sir. I would not have presumed, but if you sayso--The problem confronting us, as I envisage it, resolves itself intothis. You have offended our Miss B. and she has expressed adisinclination ever to see you again. How, then, is it possible, inspite of her attitude, to recapture her esteem?"
"Exactly," said Sam.
"There are several methods which occur to one...."
"They don't occur to _me!_"
"Well, for example, you might rescue her from a burning building as in'True As Steel'...."
"Set fire to the house, eh?" said Sam, reflectively. "Yes, there mightbe something in that."
"I would hardly advise such a thing," said Webster, a littlehastily--flattered at the readiness with which his disciple was takinghis advice, yet acutely alive to the fact that he slept at the top ofthe house himself.
"A little drastic, if I may say so. It might be better to save her fromdrowning, as in 'The Earl's Secret'."
"Ah, but where could she drown?"
"Well, there is a lake in the grounds...."
"Excellent!" said Sam. "Terrific! I knew I could rely on you. Say nomore! The whole thing's settled. You take her out rowing on the lake,and upset the boat. I plunge in ... I suppose you can swim?"
"No, sir."
"Oh? Well, never mind. You'll manage somehow, I expect. Cling to theupturned boat or something, I shouldn't wonder. There's always a way.Yes, that's the plan. When is the earliest you could arrange this?"
"I fear such a course must be considered out of the question, sir. Itreally wouldn't do."
"I can't see a flaw in it."
"Well, in the first place, it would certainly jeopardise mysituation...."
"Oh, hang your situation! You talk as if you were Prime Minister orsomething. You can easily get another situation. A valuable man likeyou," said Sam, ingratiatingly.
"No, sir," said Webster firmly. "From boyhood up I've always had aregular horror of the water. I can't so much as go paddling without anuneasy feeling."
The image of Webster paddling was arresting enough to occupy Sam'sthoughts for a moment. It was an inspiring picture, and for an instantuplifted his spirits. Then they fell again.
"Well, I don't see what there _is_ to be done," he said, gloomily."It's no good making suggestions, if you have some frivolous objectionto all of them."
"My idea," said Webster, "would be something which did not involve myown personal and active co-operation, sir. If it is all the same toyou, I should prefer to limit my assistance to advice. I am anxious tohelp, but I am a man of regular habits, which I do not wish to disturb.Did you ever read 'Footpaths of Fate,' in the Nosegay series, sir? I'veonly just remembered it, and it contains the most helpful suggestion ofthe lot. There had been a misunderstanding between the heroine and thehero--their names have slipped my mind, though I fancy his was Cyril--andshe had told him to hop it...."
"To what?"
"To leave her for ever, sir. And what do you think he did?"
"How the deuce do I know?"
"He kidnapped her little brother, sir, to whom she was devoted, kept himhidden for a bit, and then returned him, and in her gratitude all wasforgotten and forgiven, and never...."
"I know. Never had the bells of the old village church...."
"Rung out a blither peal. Exactly, sir. Well, there, if you will allowme to say so, you are, sir! You need seek no further for a plan ofaction."
"Miss Bennett hasn't got a little brother."
"No, sir. But she has a dog, and is greatly attached to it."
Sam stared. From the expression on his face it was evident that Websterimagined himself to have made a suggestion of exceptional intelligence.It struck Sam as the silliest he had ever heard.
"You mean I ought to steal her dog?"
"Precisely, sir."
"But, good heavens! Have you seen that dog?"
"The one to which I allude is a small brown animal with a fluffy tail."
"Yes, and a bark like a steam siren, and, in addition to that, abouteighty-five teeth, all sharper than razors. I couldn't get within tenfeet of that dog without its lifting the roof off, and, if I did, itwould chew me into small pieces."
"I had anticipated that difficulty, sir. In 'Footpaths of Fate' therewas a nurse who assisted the hero by drugging the child."
"By Jove!" said Sam, impressed.
"He rewarded her," said Webster, allowing his gaze to straynonchalantly over the country-side, "liberally, very liberally."
"If you mean that you expect me to reward you if you drug the dog,"said Sam, "don't worry. Let me bring this thing off, and you can haveall I've got, and my cuff-links as well. Come, now, this is reallybeginning to look like something. Speak to me more of this matter.Where do we go from here?"
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"I mean, what's the next step in the scheme? Oh, Lord!" Sam's facefell. The light of hope died out of his eyes. "It's all off! It can'tbe done! How could I possibly get into the house? I take it that thelittle brute sleeps in the house?"
"That need constitute no obstacle, sir; no obstacle at all. The animalsleeps in a basket in the hall.... Perhaps you are familiar with theinterior of the house, sir?"
"I haven't been inside it since I was at school. I'm Mr. Hignett'scousin, you know."
"Indeed, sir? I wasn't aware. Mr. Hignett sprained his ankle thismorning, poor gentleman."
"Has he?" said Sam, not particularly interested. "I used to stay withhim," he went on, "during the holidays sometimes, but I've practicallyforgotten what the place is like inside. I remember the hall vaguely.Fireplace at one side, one
or two suits of armour standing about, asort of window-ledge near the front door.."
"Precisely, sir. It is close beside that window-ledge that the animal'sbasket is situated. If I administer a slight soporific...."
"Yes, but you haven't explained yet how I am to get into the house inthe first place."
"Quite easily, sir. I can admit you through the drawing-room windowswhile dinner is in progress."
"Fine!"
"You can then secrete yourself in the cupboard in the drawing-room.Perhaps you recollect the cupboard to which I refer, sir?"
"No, I don't remember any cupboard. As a matter of fact, when I used tostay at the house the drawing-room was barred.... Mrs. Hignett wouldn'tlet us inside it for fear we should smash her china. Is there acupboard?"
"Immediately behind the piano, sir. A nice, roomy cupboard. I wasglancing into it myself in a spirit of idle curiosity only the otherday. It contains nothing except a few knick-knacks on an upper shelf.You could lock yourself in from the interior, and be quite comfortablyseated on the floor till the household retired to bed."
"When would that be?"
"They retire quite early, sir, as a rule. By half-past ten the coast isgenerally clear. At that time I would suggest that I came down andknocked on the cupboard door to notify you that all was well."
Sam was glowing with frank approval.
"You know, you're a master-mind!" he said, enthusiastically.
"You're very kind, sir!"
"One of the lads, by Jove!" said Sam. "And not the worst of them! Idon't want to flatter you, but there's a future for you in crime, ifyou cared to go in for it."
"I am glad that you appreciate my poor efforts, sir. Then we willregard the scheme as passed and approved?"
"I should say we would! It's a bird!"
"Very good, sir."
"I'll be round at about a quarter to eight. Will that be right?"
"Admirable, sir."
"And, I say, about that soporific.... Don't overdo it. Don't go killingthe little beast."
"Oh, no, sir."
"Well," said Sam, "you can't say it's not a temptation. And you knowwhat you Napoleons of the Underworld are!"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1
If there is one thing more than another which weighs upon the mind of astory-teller as he chronicles the events which he has set out todescribe, it is the thought that the reader may be growing impatientwith him for straying from the main channel of his tale and devotinghimself to what are after all minor developments. This story, forinstance, opened with Mrs. Horace Hignett, the world-famous writer onTheosophy, going over to America to begin a lecture-tour; and no onerealises more keenly than I do that I have left Mrs. Hignett flat. Ihave thrust that great thinker into the background and concentrated myattention on the affairs of one who is both her mental and moralinferior, Samuel Marlowe. I seem at this point to see the reader--agreat brute of a fellow with beetling eyebrows and a jaw like the ramof a battleship, the sort of fellow who is full of determination and willstand no nonsense--rising to remark that he doesn't care what happenedto Samuel Marlowe and that what he wants to know is, how Mrs. Hignettmade out on her lecturing-tour. Did she go big in Buffalo? Did she have'em tearing up the seats in Schenectady? Was she a riot in Chicago anda cyclone in St. Louis? Those are the points on which he desiresinformation, or give him his money back.
I cannot supply the information. And, before you condemn me, let mehastily add that the fault is not mine but that of Mrs. Hignettherself. The fact is, she never went to Buffalo. Schenectady sawnothing of her. She did not get within a thousand miles of Chicago, nordid she penetrate to St. Louis. For the very morning after her sonEustace sailed for England in the liner _Atlantic_, she happenedto read in the paper one of those abridged passenger-lists which thejournals of New York are in the habit of printing, and got a nastyshock when she saw that, among those whose society Eustace would enjoyduring the voyage was Miss Wilhelmina Bennett, daughter of J. RufusBennett, of Bennett, Mandelbaum and Co. And within five minutes ofdigesting this information, she was at her desk writing outtelegrams cancelling all her engagements. Iron-souled as this womanwas, her fingers trembled as she wrote. She had a vision of Eustace andthe daughter of J. Rufus Bennett strolling together on moonlit decks,leaning over rails damp with sea-spray, and, in short, generallystarting the whole trouble over again.
In the height of the tourist season it is not always possible for onewho wishes to leave America to spring on to the next boat. A longmorning's telephoning to the offices of the Cunard and the White Starbrought Mrs. Hignett the depressing information that it would be a fullweek before she could sail for England. That meant that the inflammableEustace would have over two weeks to conduct an uninterrupted wooing,and Mrs. Hignett's heart sank, till suddenly she remembered that sopoor a sailor as her son was not likely to have had leisure for anystrolling on the deck during the voyage of the _Atlantic_.
Having realised this, she became calmer and went about her preparationsfor departure with an easier mind. The danger was still great, butthere was a good chance that she might be in time to intervene. Shewound up her affairs in New York and, on the following Wednesday,boarded the _Nuronia_ bound for Southampton.
The _Nuronia_ is one of the slowest of the Cunard boats. It wasbuilt at a time when delirious crowds used to swoon on the dock if anocean liner broke the record by getting across in nine days. It rolledover to Cherbourg, dallied at that picturesque port for some hours,then sauntered across the Channel and strolled into Southampton Waterin the evening of the day on which Samuel Marlowe had sat in the laneplotting with Webster, the valet. At almost the exact moment when Sam,sidling through the windows of the drawing-room, slid into the cupboardbehind the piano, Mrs. Hignett was standing at the Customs barriertelling the officials that she had nothing to declare.
Mrs. Hignett was a general who believed in forced marches. A lesserwoman might have taken the boat-train to London and proceeded toWindles at her ease on the following afternoon. Mrs. Hignett was madeof sterner stuff. Having fortified herself with a late dinner, shehired an automobile and set out on the cross-country journey. It wasonly when the car, a genuine antique, had broken down three times inthe first ten miles, that it became evident to her that it would be muchtoo late to go to Windles that night, and she directed the driver to takeher instead to the "Blue Boar" in Windlehurst, where she arrived, tiredbut thankful to have reached it at all, at about eleven o'clock.
At this point many, indeed most, women, having had a tiring journey,would have gone to bed: but the familiar Hampshire air and theknowledge that half an hour's walking would take her to her belovedhome acted on Mrs. Hignett like a restorative. One glimpse of Windlesshe felt that she must have before she retired for the night, if onlyto assure herself that it was still there. She had a cup of coffee anda sandwich brought to her by the night-porter, whom she had roused fromsleep, for bedtime is early in Windlehurst, and then informed him thatshe was going for a short walk and would ring when she returned.
Her heart leaped joyfully as she turned in at the drive gates of herhome and felt the well-remembered gravel crunching under her feet. Thesilhouette of the ruined castle against the summer sky gave her thefeeling which all returning wanderers know. And, when she steppedon to the lawn and looked at the black bulk of the house, indistinctand shadowy with its backing of trees, tears came into her eyes. Sheexperienced a rush of emotion which made her feel quite faint, andwhich lasted until, on tiptoeing nearer to the house in order to gloatmore adequately upon it, she perceived that the French windows of thedrawing-room were standing ajar. Sam had left them like this in orderto facilitate departure, if a hurried departure should by any mischancebe rendered necessary, and drawn curtains had kept the household fromnoticing the fact.
All the proprietor in Mrs. Hignett was roused. This, she feltindignantly, was the sort of thing she had been afraid would happen themoment her back was turned. Evidently laxity--one might almost sayanarchy--had set in directly she h
ad removed the eye of authority. Shemarched to the window and pushed it open. She had now completelyabandoned her kindly scheme of refraining from rousing the sleepinghouse and spending the night at the inn. She stepped into the drawing-roomwith the single-minded purpose of rousing Eustace out of his sleep andgiving him a good talking to for having failed to maintain her ownstandard of efficiency among the domestic staff. If there was one thingon which Mrs. Horace Hignett had always insisted it was that every windowin the house must be closed at lights-out.
She pushed the curtains apart with a rattle and, at the same moment,from the direction of the door there came a low but distinct gasp whichmade her resolute heart jump and flutter. It was too dark to seeanything distinctly, but, in the instant before it turned and fled, shecaught sight of a shadowy male figure, and knew that her worst fearshad been realised. The figure was too tall to be Eustace, and Eustace,she knew, was the only man in the house. Male figures, therefore, thatwent flitting about Windles, must be the figures of burglars.
Mrs. Hignett, bold woman though she was, stood for an instantspellbound, and for one moment of not unpardonable panic, tried to tellherself that she had been mistaken. Almost immediately, however, therecame from the direction of the hall a dull chunky sound as thoughsomething soft had been kicked, followed by a low gurgle and the noiseof staggering feet. Unless he was dancing a _pas seul_ out ofsheer lightness of heart, the nocturnal visitor must have tripped oversomething.
The latter theory was the correct one. Montagu Webster was a man who atmany a subscription ball had shaken a wicked dancing-pump, and nothingin the proper circumstances pleased him better than to exercise theskill which had become his as the result of twelve private lessons athalf-a-crown a visit: but he recognized the truth of the scripturaladage that there is a time for dancing, and that this was not it. Hisonly desire when, stealing into the drawing-room he had been confrontedthrough the curtains by a female figure, was to get back to his bedroomundetected. He supposed that one of the feminine members of thehouse-party must have been taking a stroll in the grounds, and he did notwish to stay and be compelled to make laborious explanations of hispresence there in the dark. He decided to postpone the knocking on thecupboard door, which had been the signal arranged between himself andSam, until a more suitable occasion. In the meantime he boundedsilently out into the hall, and instantaneously tripped over the portlyform of Smith, the bulldog, who, roused from a light sleep to theknowledge that something was going on, and being a dog who always likedto be in the centre of the maelstrom of events, had waddled out toinvestigate.
By the time Mrs. Hignett had pulled herself together sufficiently tofeel brave enough to venture into the hall, Webster's presence of mindand Smith's gregariousness had combined to restore that part of thehouse to its normal nocturnal condition of emptiness. Webster's staggerhad carried him almost up to the green baize door leading to theservants' staircase, and he proceeded to pass through it withoutchecking his momentum, closely followed by Smith who, now convincedthat interesting events were in progress which might possibly culminatein cake, had abandoned the idea of sleep and meant to see the thingthrough. He gambolled in Webster's wake up the stairs and along thepassage leading to the latter's room, and only paused when the door wasbrusquely shut in his face. Upon which he sat down to think the thingover. He was in no hurry. The night was before him, promising, as faras he could judge from the way it had opened, excellent entertainment.
Mrs. Hignett had listened fearfully to the uncouth noises from thehall. The burglars--she had now discovered that there were at least twoof them--appeared to be actually romping. The situation had grown beyondher handling. If this troupe of terpsichorean marauders was to bedislodged she must have assistance. It was man's work. She made a bravedash through the hall, mercifully unmolested: found the stairs: raced upthem: and fell through the doorway of her son Eustace's bedroom like aspent Marathon runner staggering past the winning-post.
2
In the moment which elapsed before either of the two could calm theiragitated brains to speech, Eustace became aware, as never before, ofthe truth of that well-known line, "Peace, perfect Peace, with lovedones far away!"
"Eustace!"
Mrs. Hignett gasped, hand on heart.
"Eustace, there are men in the house!"
This fact was just the one which Eustace had been wondering how tobreak to her.
"I know," he said uneasily.
"You know!" Mrs. Hignett stared. "Did you hear them!"
"Hear them?" said Eustace, puzzled.
"The drawing-room window was left open, and there are two burglars inthe hall."
"Oh, I say, no! That's rather rotten!" said Eustace.
"I saw and heard them. Come with me and arrest them."
"But I can't. I've sprained my ankle."
"Sprained your ankle? How very inconvenient! When did you do that?"
"This morning."
"How did it happen?"
Eustace hesitated.
"I was jumping."
"Jumping! But--oh!" Mrs. Hignett's sentence trailed off into asuppressed shriek, as the door opened.
Immediately following on Eustace's accident, Jane Hubbard hadconstituted herself his nurse. It was she who had bound up his injuredankle in a manner which the doctor on his arrival had admitted himselfunable to improve upon. She had sat with him through the longafternoon. And now, fearing lest a return of the pain might render himsleepless, she had come to bring him a selection of books to see himthrough the night.
Jane Hubbard was a girl who by nature and training was well adapted tobear shocks. She accepted the advent of Mrs. Hignett without visibleastonishment, though inwardly she was wondering who the visitor mightbe.
"Good evening," she said, placidly.
Mrs. Hignett, having rallied from her moment of weakness, glared at thenew arrival dumbly. She could not place Jane. She had the air of anurse, and yet she wore no uniform.
"Who are you?" she asked stiffly.
"Who are _you_?" countered Jane.
"I," said Mrs. Hignett portentously, "am the owner of this house, and Ishould be glad to know what you are doing in it. I am Mrs. HoraceHignett."
A charming smile spread itself over Jane's finely-cut face.
"I'm so glad to meet you," she said. "I have heard so much about you."
"Indeed?" said Mrs. Hignett. "And now I should like to hear a littleabout you."
"I've read all your books," said Jane. "I think they're wonderful."
In spite of herself, in spite of a feeling that this young woman wasstraying from the point, Mrs. Hignett could not check a slight influxof amiability. She was an authoress who received a good deal of incensefrom admirers, but she could always do with a bit more. Besides, mostof the incense came by mail. Living a quiet and retired life in thecountry, it was rarely that she got it handed to her face to face. Shemelted quite perceptibly. She did not cease to look like a basilisk,but she began to look like a basilisk who has had a good lunch.
"My favorite," said Jane, who for a week had been sitting daily in achair in the drawing-room adjoining the table on which the authoress'scomplete works were assembled, "is 'The Spreading Light.' I _do_like 'The Spreading Light!'"
"It was written some years ago," said Mrs. Hignett with somethingapproaching cordiality, "and I have since revised some of the views Istate in it, but I still consider it quite a good text-book."
"Of course, I can see that 'What of the Morrow?' is more profound,"said Jane. "But I read 'The Spreading Light' first, and of course thatmakes a difference."
"I can quite see that it would," agreed Mrs. Hignett. "One's first stepacross the threshold of a new mind, one's first glimpse...."
"Yes, it makes you feel...."
"Like some watcher of the skies," said Mrs. Hignett, "when a new planetswims into his ken, or like...."
"Yes, doesn't it!" said Jane.
Eustace, who had been listening to the conversation with every muscletense, in much the same mental
attitude as that of a peaceful citizen ina Wild West saloon who holds himself in readiness to dive under a tabledirectly the shooting begins, began to relax. What he had shrinkinglyanticipated would be the biggest thing since the Dempsey-Carpentierfight seemed to be turning into a pleasant social and literary eveningnot unlike what he imagined a meeting of old Vassar alumni must be. Forthe first time since his mother had come into the room he indulged inthe luxury of a deep breath.
"But what are you doing here?" asked Mrs. Hignett, returning almostreluctantly to the main issue.
Eustace perceived that he had breathed too soon. In an unobtrusive wayhe subsided into the bed and softly pulled the sheets over his head,following the excellent tactics of the great Duke of Wellington in hisPeninsular campaign. "When in doubt," the Duke used to say, "retire anddig yourself in."
"I'm nursing dear Eustace," said Jane.
Mrs. Hignett quivered, and cast an eye on the hump in the bed-clotheswhich represented dear Eustace. A cold fear had come upon her.
"'Dear Eustace'!" she repeated mechanically.
"We're engaged," said Jane. "We got engaged this morning. That's how hesprained his ankle. When I accepted him, he tried to jump a holly-bush."
"Engaged! Eustace, is this true?"
"Yes," said a muffled voice from the interior of the bed.
"And poor Eustace is so worried," continued Jane, "about the house."She went on quickly. "He doesn't want to deprive you of it, because heknows what it means to you. So he is hoping--we are both hoping--thatyou will accept it as a present when we are married. We really shan'twant it, you know. We are going to live in London. So you will take it,won't you--to please us?"
We all of us, even the greatest of us, have our moments of weakness.Let us then not express any surprise at the sudden collapse of one ofthe world's greatest female thinkers. As the meaning of this speechsmote on Mrs. Horace Hignett's understanding, she sank weeping into achair. The ever-present fear that had haunted her had been exorcised.Windles was hers in perpetuity. The relief was too great. She sat inher chair and gulped: and Eustace, greatly encouraged, emerged slowlyfrom the bedclothes like a worm after a thunderstorm.
How long this poignant scene would have lasted, one cannot say. It is apity that it was cut short, for I should have liked to dwell upon it.But at this moment, from the regions downstairs, there suddenly burstupon the silent night such a whirlwind of sound as effectuallydissipated the tense emotion in the room. Somebody had touched off theorchestrion in the drawing-room, and that willing instrument had begunagain in the middle of a bar at the point where it had been switchedoff. Its wailing lament for the passing of Summer filled the wholehouse.
"That's too bad!" said Jane, a little annoyed. "At this time of night!"
"It's the burglars!" quavered Mrs. Hignett. In the stress of recentevents she had completely forgotten the existence of those enemies ofsociety. "They were dancing in the hall when I arrived, and now they'replaying the orchestrion!"
"Light-hearted chaps!" said Eustace, admiring the sang-froid of thecriminal world. "Full of spirits!"
"This won't do," said Jane Hubbard, shaking her head. "We can't havethis sort of thing. I'll go and fetch my gun."
"They'll murder you, dear!" panted Mrs. Hignett, clinging to her arm.
Jane Hubbard laughed.
"Murder _me_!" she said, amusedly. "I'd like to catch them at it!"
Mrs. Hignett stood staring at the door as Jane closed it safely behindher.
"Eustace," she said, solemnly, "that is a wonderful girl!"
"Yes! She once killed a panther--or a puma, I forget which--with ahat-pin!" said Eustace with enthusiasm.
"I could wish you no better wife!" said Mrs. Hignett.
She broke off with a sharp wail.... Out in the passage something like abattery of artillery had roared.
The door opened and Jane Hubbard appeared, slipping a fresh cartridgeinto the elephant-gun.
"One of them was popping about outside here," she announced. "I took ashot at him, but I'm afraid I missed. The visibility was bad. At anyrate he went away."
In this last statement she was perfectly accurate. Bream Mortimer, whohad been aroused by the orchestrion and who had come out to see whatwas the matter, had gone away at the rate of fifty miles an hour. Hehad been creeping down the passage when he found himself suddenlyconfronted by a dim figure which, without a word, had attempted to slayhim with an enormous gun. The shot had whistled past his ears and gonesinging down the corridor. This was enough for Bream. He had returnedto his room in three strides, and was now under the bed. The burglarsmight take everything in the house and welcome, so that they did notmolest his privacy. That was the way Bream looked at it. And verysensible of him, too, I consider.
"We'd better go downstairs," said Jane. "Bring the candle. Not you,Eustace, darling. Don't you stir out of bed!"
"I won't," said Eustace obediently.
3
Of all the leisured pursuits, there are few less attractive to thethinking man than sitting in a dark cupboard waiting for a house-partyto go to bed: and Sam, who had established himself in the one behindthe piano at a quarter to eight, soon began to feel as if he had beenthere for an eternity. He could dimly remember a previous existence inwhich he had not been sitting in his present position, but it seemed solong ago that it was shadowy and unreal to him. The ordeal of spendingthe evening in this retreat had not appeared formidable when he hadcontemplated it that afternoon in the lane: but, now that he wasactually undergoing it, it was extraordinary how many disadvantages ithad.
Cupboards, as a class, are badly ventilated, and this one seemed tocontain no air at all: and the warmth of the night, combined with thecupboard's natural stuffiness, had soon begun to reduce Sam to acondition of pulp. He seemed to himself to be sagging like an ice-creamin front of a fire. The darkness, too, weighed upon him. He wasabominably thirsty. Also he wanted to smoke. In addition to this, thesmall of his back tickled, and he more than suspected the cupboard ofharboring mice. Not once nor twice but many hundred times he wishedthat the ingenious Webster had thought of something simpler.
His was a position which would just have suited one of those Indianmystics who sit perfectly still for twenty years, contemplating theInfinite; but it reduced Sam to an almost imbecile state of boredom. Hetried counting sheep. He tried going over his past life in his mindfrom the earliest moment he could recollect, and thought he had neverencountered a duller series of episodes. He found a temporary solace byplaying a succession of mental golf-games over all the courses he couldremember, and he was just teeing up for the sixteenth at Muirfield, afterplaying Hoylake, St. Andrews, Westward Ho, Hanger Hill, Mid-Surrey,Walton Heath, Garden City, and the Engineers' Club at Roslyn, L. I.,when the light ceased to shine through the crack under the door,and he awoke with a sense of dull incredulity to the realisation thatthe occupants of the drawing-room had called it a day and that hisvigil was over.
But was it? Once more alert, Sam became cautious. True, the lightseemed to be off, but did that mean anything in a country-house, wherepeople had the habit of going and strolling about the garden at allhours? Probably they were still popping about all over the place. At anyrate, it was not worth risking coming out of his lair. He remembered thatWebster had promised to come and knock an all-clear signal on the door.It would be safer to wait for that.
But the moments went by, and there was no knock. Sam began to growimpatient. The last few minutes of waiting in a cupboard are always thehardest. Time seemed to stretch out again interminably. Once he thoughthe heard foot-steps, but that led to nothing. Eventually, havingstrained his ears and finding everything still, he decided to take achance. He fished in his pocket for the key, cautiously unlocked thedoor, opened it by slow inches, and peered out.
The room was in blackness. The house was still. All was well. With thefeeling of a life-prisoner emerging from the Bastille, he began tocrawl stiffly forward: and it was just then that the first of thedisturbing events occurred which were t
o make this night memorable tohim. Something like a rattlesnake suddenly went off with a whirr, andhis head, jerking up, collided with the piano. It was only thecuckoo-clock, which now, having cleared its throat as was its custombefore striking, proceeded to cuck eleven times in rapid successionbefore subsiding with another rattle: but to Sam it sounded like the endof the world.
He sat in the darkness, massaging his bruised skull. His hours ofimprisonment in the cupboard had had a bad effect on his nervoussystem, and he vacillated between tears of weakness and a militantdesire to get at the cuckoo-clock with a hatchet. He felt that it haddone it on purpose and was now chuckling to itself in fancied security.For quite a minute he raged silently, and any cuckoo-clock which hadstrayed within his reach would have had a bad time of it. Then hisattention was diverted.
So concentrated was Sam on his private vendetta with the clock that noordinary happening would have had the power to distract him. Whatoccurred now was by no means ordinary, and it distracted him like anelectric shock. As he sat on the floor, passing a tender hand over theegg-shaped bump which had already begun to manifest itself beneath hishair, something cold and wet touched his face, and paralysed him socompletely both physically and mentally that he did not move a musclebut just congealed where he sat into a solid block of ice. He feltvaguely that this was the end. His heart stopped beating and he simplycould not imagine it ever starting again, and, if your heart refuses tobeat, what hope is there for you?
At this moment something heavy and solid struck him squarely in thechest, rolling him over. Something gurgled asthmatically in thedarkness. Something began to lick his eyes, ears, and chin in a sort ofecstasy: and, clutching out, he found his arms full of totallyunexpected bulldog.
"Get out!" whispered Sam tensely, recovering his faculties with a jerk."Go away!"
Smith took the opportunity of his lips having opened to lick the roofof his mouth. Smith's attitude in the matter was that providence in itsall-seeing wisdom had sent him a human being at a moment when he hadreluctantly been compelled to reconcile himself to a total absence ofsuch indispensable adjuncts to a good time, and that now the revelsmight commence. He had just trotted downstairs in rather a disconsolateframe of mind after waiting with no result in front of Webster'sbedroom door, and it was a real treat to him to meet a man, especiallyone seated in such a jolly and sociable manner on the floor. He welcomedSam like a long-lost friend.
Between Smith and the humans who provided him with dog-biscuits andoccasionally with sweet cakes there had always existed a state ofmisunderstanding which no words could remove. The position of thehumans was quite clear. They had elected Smith to his present positionon a straight watch-dog ticket. They expected him to be one of thosedogs who rouse the house and save the spoons. They looked to him to pinburglars by the leg and hold on till the police arrived. Smith simplycould not grasp such an attitude of mind. He regarded Windles not as aprivate house but as a social club, and was utterly unable to see anydifference between the human beings he knew and the strangers whodropped in for a late chat after the place was locked up. He had nointention of biting Sam. The idea never entered his head. At thepresent moment what he felt about Sam was that he was one of the bestfellows he had ever met and that he loved him like a brother.
Sam, in his unnerved state, could not bring himself to share theseamiable sentiments. He was thinking bitterly that Webster might havehad the intelligence to warn him of bulldogs on the premises. It wasjust the sort of woollen-headed thing fellows did, forgetting factslike that. He scrambled stiffly to his feet and tried to pierce thedarkness that hemmed him in. He ignored Smith, who snuffled sportivelyabout his ankles, and made for the slightly less black oblong which hetook to be the door leading into the hall. He moved warily, but notwarily enough to prevent him cannoning into and almost upsetting asmall table with a vase on it. The table rocked and the vase jumped,and the first bit of luck that had come to Sam that night was when hereached out at a venture and caught it just as it was about to bound onto the carpet.
He stood there, shaking. The narrowness of the escape turned him cold.If he had been an instant later, there would have been a crash loudenough to wake a dozen sleeping houses. This sort of thing could not goon. He must have light. It might be a risk: there might be a chance ofsomebody upstairs seeing it and coming down to investigate: but it wasa risk that must be taken. He declined to go on stumbling about in thisdarkness any longer. He groped his way with infinite care to the door,on the wall adjoining which, he presumed, the electric-light switchwould be.
It was nearly ten years since he had last been inside Windles, and itnever occurred to him that in this progressive age even a woman likehis aunt Adeline, of whom he could believe almost anything, would stillbe using candles and oil-lamps as a means of illumination. His onlydoubt was whether the switch was where it was in most houses, near thedoor.
It is odd to reflect that, as his searching fingers touched the knob, adelicious feeling of relief came to Samuel Marlowe. This misguidedyoung man actually felt at that moment that his troubles were over. Hepositively smiled as he placed a thumb on the knob and shoved.
He shoved strongly and sharply, and instantaneously there leaped at himout of the darkness a blare of music which appeared to his disorderedmind quite solid. It seemed to wrap itself round him. It was all overthe place. In a single instant the world had become one vast bellow ofTosti's "Goodbye."
How long he stood there, frozen, he did not know: nor can one say howlong he would have stood there had nothing further come to invite hisnotice elsewhere. But, suddenly, drowning even the impromptu concert,there came from somewhere upstairs the roar of a gun, and, when he heardthat, Sam's rigid limbs relaxed and a violent activity descended uponhim. He bounded out into the hall, looking to right and to left for ahiding-place. One of the suits of armour which had been familiar to himin his boyhood loomed up in front of him, and with the sight came therecollection of how, when a mere child on his first visit to Windles,playing hide and seek with his cousin Eustace, he had concealed himselfinside this very suit and had not only baffled Eustace through a longsummer evening but had wound up by almost scaring him into a decline bybooing at him through the vizor of the helmet. Happy days, happy days!He leaped at the suit of armour. The helmet was a tight fit, but hemanaged to get his head into it at last, and the body of the thing wasquite roomy.
"Thank heaven!" said Sam.
He was not comfortable, but comfort just then was not his primary need.
Smith, the bulldog, well satisfied with the way things had happened,sat down, wheezing slightly, to await developments.
4
He had not long to wait. In a few minutes the hall had filled upnicely. There was Mr. Mortimer in his shirt-sleeves, Mr. Bennett in hispyjamas and a dressing-gown, Mrs. Hignett in a travelling costume, JaneHubbard with her elephant-gun, and Billie in a dinner dress. Smithwelcomed them all impartially.
Somebody lit a lamp, and Mrs. Hignett stared speechlessly at the mob.
"Mr. Bennett! Mr. Mortimer!"
"Mrs. Hignett! What are you doing here?"
Mrs. Hignett drew herself up stiffly.
"What an odd question, Mr. Mortimer! I am in my own house!"
"But you rented it to me for the summer. At least, your son did."
"Eustace let you Windles for the summer!" said Mrs. Hignett,incredulously.
Jane Hubbard returned from the drawing-room, where she had beenswitching off the orchestrion.
"Let us talk all that over cosily to-morrow," she said. "The point nowis that there are burglars in the house."
"Burglars!" cried Mr. Bennett aghast. "I thought it was you playingthat infernal instrument, Mortimer."
"What on earth should I play it for at this time of night?" said Mr.Mortimer irritably.
It appeared only too evident that the two old friends were again on theverge of one of their distressing fallings-out: but Jane Hubbardintervened once more. This practical-minded girl disliked theintroducing of side-issues i
nto the conversation. She was there to talkabout burglars, and she intended to do so.
"For goodness sake stop it!" she said, almost petulantly for oneusually so superior to emotion. "There'll be lots of time forquarrelling to-morrow. Just now we've got to catch these...."
"I'm not quarrelling," said Mr. Bennett.
"Yes, you are," said Mr. Mortimer.
"I'm not!"
"You are!"
"Don't argue!"
"I'm not arguing!"
"You are!"
"I'm not!"
Jane Hubbard had practically every noble quality which a woman canpossess with the exception of patience. A patient woman would havestood by, shrinking from interrupting the dialogue. Jane Hubbard'srobuster course was to raise the elephant-gun, point it at the frontdoor, and pull the trigger.
"I thought that would stop you," she said complacently, as the echoesdied away and Mr. Bennett had finished leaping into the air. Sheinserted a fresh cartridge, and sloped arms. "Now, the question is...."
"You made me bite my tongue!" said Mr. Bennett, deeply aggrieved.
"Serves you right!" said Jane placidly. "Now, the question is, have thefellows got away or are they hiding somewhere in the house? I thinkthey're still in the house."
"The police!" exclaimed Mr. Bennett, forgetting his lacerated tongueand his other grievances. "We must summon the police!"
"Obviously!" said Mrs. Hignett, withdrawing her fascinated gaze fromthe ragged hole in the front door, the cost of repairing which she hadbeen mentally assessing. "We must send for the police at once."
"We don't really need them, you know," said Jane. "If you'll all go tobed and just leave me to potter round with my gun...."
"And blow the whole house to pieces!" said Mrs. Hignett tartly. She hadbegun to revise her original estimate of this girl. To her, Windles wassacred, and anyone who went about shooting holes in it forfeited heresteem.
"Shall I go for the police?" said Billie. "I could bring them back inten minutes in the car."
"Certainly not!" said Mr. Bennett. "My daughter gadding about all overthe countryside in an automobile at this time of night!"
"If you think I ought not to go alone, I could take Bream."
"Where _is_ Bream?" said Mr. Mortimer.
The odd fact that Bream was not among those present suddenly presenteditself to the company.
"Where can he be?" said Billie.
Jane Hubbard laughed the wholesome, indulgent laugh of one who isbroad-minded enough to see the humor of the situation even when thejoke is at her expense.
"What a silly girl I am!" she said. "I do believe that was Bream I shotat upstairs. How foolish of me making a mistake like that!"
"You shot my only son!" cried Mr. Mortimer.
"I shot _at_ him," said Jane. "My belief is that I missed him.Though how I came to do it beats me. I don't suppose I've missed asitter like that since I was a child in the nursery. Of course," sheproceeded, looking on the reasonable side, "the visibility wasn't good,and I fired from the hip, but it's no use saying I oughtn't at least tohave winged him, because I ought." She shook her head with a touch ofself-reproach. "I shall be chaffed about this if it comes out," shesaid regretfully.
"The poor boy must be in his room," said Mr. Mortimer.
"Under the bed, if you ask me," said Jane, blowing on the barrel of hergun and polishing it with the side of her hand. "_He's_ all right!Leave him alone, and the housemaid will sweep him up in the morning."
"Oh, he can't be!" cried Billie, revolted.
A girl of high spirit, it seemed to her repellent that the man she wasengaged to marry should be displaying such a craven spirit. At thatmoment she despised and hated Bream Mortimer. I think she was wrong,mind you. It is not my place to criticise the little group of peoplewhose simple annals I am relating--my position is merely that of areporter--: but personally I think highly of Bream's sturdy common-sense.If somebody loosed off an elephant gun at me in a dark corridor, I wouldclimb on to the roof and pull it up after me. Still, rightly or wrongly,that was how Billie felt: and it flashed across her mind that SamuelMarlowe, scoundrel though he was, would not have behaved like this. Andfor a moment a certain wistfulness added itself to the varied emotionsthen engaging her mind.
"I'll go and look, if you like," said Jane agreeably. "You amuseyourselves somehow till I come back."
She ran easily up the stairs, three at a time. Mr. Mortimer turned toMr. Bennett.
"It's all very well your saying Wilhelmina mustn't go, but, if shedoesn't, how can we get the police? The house isn't on the 'phone, andnobody else can drive the car."
"That's true," said Mr. Bennett, wavering.
"I'm going," said Billie resolutely. It occurred to her, as it hasoccurred to so many women before her, how helpless men are in a crisis.The temporary withdrawal of Jane Hubbard had had the effect which theremoval of a rudder has on a boat. "It's the only thing to do. I shallbe back in no time."
She stepped firmly to the coat-rack, and began to put on hermotoring-cloak. And just then Jane Hubbard came downstairs, shepherdingbefore her a pale and glassy-eyed Bream.
"Right under the bed," she announced cheerfully, "making a noise like apiece of fluff in order to deceive burglars."
Billie cast a scornful look at her fiancee. Absolutely unjustified, inmy opinion, but nevertheless she cast it. But it had no effect at all.Terror had stunned Bream Mortimer's perceptions. His was what thedoctors call a penumbral mental condition. He was in a sort of trance.
"Bream," said Billie, "I want you to come in the car with me to fetchthe police."
"All right," said Bream.
"Get your coat."
"All right," said Bream.
"And cap."
"All right," said Bream.
He followed Billie in a docile manner out through the front door, and theymade their way to the garage at the back of the house, both silent. Theonly difference between their respective silences was that Billie's wasthoughtful, while Bream's was just the silence of a man who has unhitchedhis brain and is getting along as well as he can without it.
In the hall they had left, Jane Hubbard once more took command ofaffairs.
"Well, that's something done," she said, scratching Smith's broad backwith the muzzle of her weapon. "Something accomplished, something done,has earned a night's repose. Not that we're going to get it yet. Ithink those fellows are hiding somewhere, and we ought to search thehouse and rout them out. It's a pity Smith isn't a bloodhound. I likeyou personally, Smithy, but you're about as much practical use in asituation like this as a cold in the head. You're a good cake-hound,but as a watch-dog you don't finish in the first ten."
The cake-hound, charmed at the compliment, frisked about her feet likea young elephant.
"The first thing to do," continued Jane, "is to go through theground-floor rooms...." She paused to strike a match against the suitof armour nearest to her, a proceeding which elicited a sharp cry ofprotest from Mrs. Hignett, and lit a cigarette. "I'll go first, as I'vegot a gun...." She blew a cloud of smoke. "I shall want somebody with meto carry a light, and...."
"Tchoo!"
"What?" said Jane.
"I didn't speak," said Mr. Mortimer. "Who am I to speak?" he went onbitterly. "Who am I that it should be supposed that I have anythingsensible to suggest?"
"Somebody spoke," said Jane. "I...."
"Achoo!"
"Do you feel a draught, Mr. Bennett?" cried Jane sharply, wheelinground on him.
"There _is_ a draught," began Mr. Bennett.
"Well, finish sneezing and I'll go on."
"I didn't sneeze!"
"Somebody sneezed."
"It seemed to come from just behind you," said Mrs. Hignett nervously.
"It couldn't have come from just behind me," said Jane, "because thereisn't anything behind me from which it could have...." She stoppedsuddenly, in her eyes the light of understanding, on her face the setexpression which was wont to come to it on the eve of action. "Oh!"
shesaid in a different voice, a voice which was cold and tense andsinister. "Oh, I see!" She raised her gun, and placed a muscularforefinger on the trigger. "Come out of that!" she said. "Come out ofthat suit of armour and let's have a look at you!"
"I can explain everything," said a muffled voice through the vizor ofthe helmet. "I can--achoo." The smoke of the cigarette tickled Sam'snostrils again, and he suspended his remarks.
"I shall count three," said Jane Hubbard. "One--two--"
"I'm coming! I'm coming!" said Sam petulantly.
"You'd better!" said Jane.
"I can't get this dashed helmet off!"
"If you don't come quick, I'll blow it off."
Sam stepped out into the hall, a picturesque figure which combined thecostumes of two widely separated centuries. Modern as far as the neck,he slipped back at that point to the Middle Ages.
"Hands up!" commanded Jane Hubbard.
"My hands _are_ up!" retorted Sam querulously, as he wrenched athis unbecoming head-wear.
"Never mind trying to raise your hat," said Jane. "If you've lost thecombination, we'll dispense with the formalities. What we're anxious tohear is what you're doing in the house at this time of night, and whoyour pals are. Come along, my lad, make a clean breast of it andperhaps you'll get off easier. Are you a gang?"
"Do I look like a gang?"
"If you ask me what you look like...."
"My name is Marlowe ... Samuel Marlowe...."
"Alias what?"
"Alias nothing! I say my name is Samuel Marlowe...."
An explosive roar burst from Mr. Bennett. "The scoundrel! I know him! Iforbade him the house, and...."
"And by what right did you forbid people my house, Mr. Bennett?" saidMrs. Hignett with acerbity.
"I've rented the house, Mortimer and I rented it from your son...."
"Yes, yes, yes," said Jane Hubbard. "Never mind about that. So you knowthis fellow, do you?"
"I don't know him!"
"You said you did."
"I refuse to know him!" went on Mr. Bennett. "I won't know him! Idecline to have anything to do with him!"
"But you identify him?"
"If he says he's Samuel Marlowe," assented Mr. Bennett grudgingly, "Isuppose he is. I can't imagine anybody saying he was Samuel Marlowe ifhe didn't know it could be proved against him."
"_Are_ you my nephew Samuel?" said Mrs. Hignett.
"Yes," said Sam.
"Well, what are you doing in my house?"
"It's _my_ house," said Mr. Bennett, "for the summer, HenryMortimer's and mine. Isn't that right, Henry?"
"Dead right," said Mr. Mortimer.
"There!" said Mr. Bennett. "You hear? And when Henry Mortimer says athing, it's so. There's nobody's word I'd take before HenryMortimer's."
"When Rufus Bennett makes an assertion," said Mr. Mortimer, highlyflattered by these kind words, "you can bank on it, Rufus Bennett'sword is his bond. Rufus Bennett is a white man!"
The two old friends clasped hands with a good deal of feeling.
"I am not disputing Mr. Bennett's claim to belong to the Caucasianrace," said Mrs. Hignett, "I merely maintain that this house is...."
"Yes, yes, yes, yes!" interrupted Jane. "You can thresh all that outsome other time. The point is, if this fellow is your nephew, I don'tsee what we can do. We'll have to let him go."
"I came to this house," said Sam, raising his vizor to facilitatespeech, "to make a social call...."
"At this hour of the night!" snapped Mrs. Hignett. "You always werean inconsiderate boy, Samuel."
"I came to enquire after poor Eustace's ankle. I've only just heardthat the poor chap was ill."
"He's getting along quite well," said Jane, melting. "If I had knownyou were so fond of Eustace...."
"All right, is he?" said Sam.
"Well, not quite all right, but he's going on very nicely."
"Fine!"
"Eustace and I are engaged, you know!"
"No, really? Splendid! I can't see you very distinctly--how thoseJohnnies in the old days ever contrived to put up a scrap with things likethis on their heads beats me--but you sound a good sort. I hope you'llbe very happy."
"Thank you ever so much, Mr. Marlowe. I'm sure we shall."
"Eustace is one of the best."
"How nice of you to say so."
"All this," interrupted Mrs. Hignett, who had been a chafing auditor ofthis interchange of courtesies, "is beside the point. Why did you dancein the hall, Samuel, and play the orchestrion?"
"Yes," said Mr. Bennett, reminded of his grievance, "waking people up."
"Scaring us all to death!" complained Mr. Mortimer.
"I remember you as a boy, Samuel," said Mrs. Hignett, "lamentablylacking in consideration for others and concentrated only on yourselfish pleasures. You seem to have altered very little."
"Don't ballyrag the poor man," said Jane Hubbard. "Be human! Lend him acan-opener!"
"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Hignett. "I never liked himand I dislike him now. He has got himself into this trouble through hisown wrong-headedness."
"It's not his fault his head's the wrong size," said Jane.
"He must get himself out as best he can," said Mrs. Hignett.
"Very well," said Sam with bitter dignity. "Then I will not trespassfurther on your hospitality, Aunt Adeline. I have no doubt the localblacksmith will be able to get this damned thing off me. I shall go tohim now. I will let you have the helmet back by parcel-post at theearliest possible opportunity. Good night!" He walked coldly to thefront door. "And there are people," he remarked sardonically, "who saythat blood is thicker than water! I'll bet they never had any aunts!"
5
Billie, meanwhile, with Bream trotting docilely at her heels, hadreached the garage and started the car. Like all cars which have beenspending a considerable time in secluded inaction, it did not startreadily. At each application of Billie's foot on the self-starter, itemitted a tinny and reproachful sound and then seemed to go to sleepagain. Eventually, however, the engines began to revolve and themachine moved reluctantly out into the drive.
"The battery must be run down," said Billie.
"All right," said Bream.
Billie cast a glance of contempt at him out of the corner of her eyes.She hardly knew why she had spoken to him except that, as allautomobilists are aware, the impulse to say rude things about theirbattery is almost irresistible. To an automobilist the art ofconversation consists in rapping out scathing remarks either about thebattery or the oiling-system.
Billie switched on the head-lights and turned the car down the darkdrive. She was feeling thoroughly upset. Her idealistic nature hadreceived a painful shock on the discovery of the yellow streak inBream. To call it a yellow streak was to understate the facts. It was agreat belt of saffron encircling his whole soul. That she, WilhelminaBennett, who had gone through the world seeking a Galahad, shouldfinish her career as the wife of a man who hid under beds simplybecause people shot at him with elephant guns was abhorrent to her.Why, Samuel Marlowe would have perished rather than do such a thing.You might say what you liked about Samuel Marlowe--and, of course, hishabit of playing practical jokes put him beyond the pale--but nobodycould question his courage. Look at the way he had dived overboard thattime in the harbour at New York! Billie found herself thinking hardabout Samuel Marlowe.
There are only a few makes of car in which you can think hard aboutanything except the actual driving without stalling the engines, andMr. Bennett's Twin-Six Complex was not one of them. It stopped as if ithad been waiting for the signal. The noise of the engine died away. Thewheels ceased to revolve. The automobile did everything except liedown. It was a particularly pig-headed car and right from the start ithad been unable to see the sense in this midnight expedition. It seemednow to have the idea that if it just lay low and did nothing, presentlyit would be taken back to its cosy garage.
Billie trod on the self-starter. Nothing happened.
"You'
ll have to get down and crank her," she said curtly.
"All right," said Bream.
"Well, go on," said Billie impatiently.
"Eh?"
"Get out and crank her."
Bream emerged for an instant from his trance.
"All right," he said.
The art of cranking a car is one that is not given to all men. Some ofour greatest and wisest stand helpless before the task. It is a jobtowards the consummation of which a noble soul and a fine brain helpnot at all. A man may have all the other gifts and yet be unable toaccomplish a task the fellow at the garage does with one quiet quickflick of the wrist without even bothering to remove his chewing gum.This being so, it was not only unkind but foolish of Billie to growimpatient as Bream's repeated efforts failed of their object. It waswrong of her to click her tongue, and certainly she ought not to havetold Bream that he was not fit to churn butter. But women are anemotional sex and must be forgiven much in moments of mental stress.
"Give it a good sharp twist," she said.
"All right," said Bream.
"Here, let me do it," cried Billie.
She jumped down and snatched the thingummy from his hand. With bentbrows and set teeth she wrenched it round. The engine gave a faintprotesting mutter, like a dog that has been disturbed in its sleep, andwas still once more.
"May I help?"
It was not Bream who spoke but a strange voice--a sepulchral voice,the sort of voice someone would have used in one of Edgar Allen Poe'scheerful little tales if he had been buried alive and were speakingfrom the family vault. Coming suddenly out of the night it affectedBream painfully. He uttered a sharp exclamation and gave a bound which,if he had been a Russian dancer, would probably have caused themanagement to raise his salary. He was in no frame of mind to bear upunder sudden sepulchral voices.
Billie, on the other hand, was pleased. The high-spirited girl was justbeginning to fear that she was unequal to the task which she had chidedBream for being unable to perform and this was mortifying her.
"Oh, would you mind? Thank you so much. The self-starter has gonewrong."
Into the glare of the head-lights there stepped a strange figure,strange, that is to say, in these tame modern times. In the Middle Ageshe would have excited no comment at all. Passers-by would simply havesaid to themselves, "Ah, another of those knights off after thedragons!" and would have gone on their way with a civil greeting. Butin the present age it is always somewhat startling to see a helmetedhead pop up in front of your automobile. At any rate, it startledBream. I will go further. It gave Bream the shock of a lifetime. He hadhad shocks already that night, but none to be compared with this. Orperhaps it was that this shock, coming on top of those shocks, affectedhim more disastrously than it would have done if it had been the firstof the series instead of the last. One may express the thing briefly bysaying that, as far as Bream was concerned, Sam's unconventionalappearance put the lid on it. He did not hesitate. He did not pause tomake comments or ask questions. With a single cat-like screech whichtook years off the lives of the abruptly wakened birds roosting in theneighbouring trees, he dashed away towards the house and, reaching hisroom, locked the door and pushed the bed, the chest of drawers, twochairs, the towel stand, and three pairs of boots against it. Only thendid he feel comparatively safe.
Out on the drive Billie was staring at the man in armour who had now,with a masterful wrench which informed the car right away that he wouldstand no nonsense, set the engine going again.
"Why--why," she stammered, "why are you wearing that thing on yourhead?"
"Because I can't get it off."
Hollow as the voice was, Billie recognised it.
"S--Mr. Marlowe!" she exclaimed.
"Get in," said Sam. He had seated himself at the steering wheel. "Wherecan I take you?"
"Go away!" said Billie.
"Get in!"
"I don't want to talk to you."
"I want to talk to _you!_ Get in!"
"I won't."
Sam bent over the side of the car, put his hands under her arms, liftedher like a kitten and deposited her on the seat beside him. Thenthrowing in the clutch, he drove at an ever increasing speed down thedrive and out into the silent road. Strange creatures of the night cameand went in the golden glow of the head-lights.
6
"Put me down," said Billie.
"You'd get hurt if I did, travelling at this pace."
"What are you going to do?"
"Drive about till you promise to marry me."
"You'll have to drive a long time."
"Right ho!" said Sam.
The car took a corner and purred down a lane. Billie reached out a handand grabbed at the steering wheel. "Of course, if you _want_ tosmash up in a ditch!" said Sam, righting the car with a wrench.
"You're a brute!" said Billie.
"Cave-man stuff," explained Sam, "I ought to have tried it before."
"I don't know what you expect to gain by this."
"That's all right," said Sam, "I know what I'm about."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"I thought you would be."
"I'm not going to talk to you."
"All right. Lean back and doze off. We've the whole night before us."
"What do you mean?" cried Billie, sitting up with a jerk.
"Have you ever been to Scotland?"
"What do you mean?"
"I thought we might push up there. We've got to go somewhere and, oddlyenough, I've never been to Scotland."
Billie regarded him blankly.
"Are you crazy?"
"I'm crazy about you. If you knew what I've gone through to-night foryour sake you'd be more sympathetic. I love you," said Sam swerving toavoid a rabbit. "And what's more, you know it."
"I don't care."
"You will!" said Sam confidently. "How about North Wales? I've heardpeople speak well of North Wales. Shall we head for North Wales?"
"I'm engaged to Bream Mortimer."
"Oh no, that's all off," Sam assured her.
"It's not!"
"Right off!" said Sam firmly. "You could never bring yourself to marrya man who dashed away like that and deserted you in your hour of need.Why, for all he knew, I might have tried to murder you. And he ranaway! No, no, we eliminate Bream Mortimer once and for all. He won'tdo!"
This was so exactly what Billie was feeling herself that she could notbring herself to dispute it.
"Anyway, I hate _you_!" she said, giving the conversation anotherturn.
"Why? In the name of goodness, why?"
"How dared you make a fool of me in your father's office that morning?"
"It was a sudden inspiration. I had to do something to make you thinkwell of me, and I thought it might meet the case if I saved you from alunatic with a pistol. It wasn't my fault that you found out."
"I shall never forgive you!"
"Why not Cornwall?" said Sam. "The Riviera of England! Let's go toCornwall. I beg your pardon. What were you saying?"
"I said I should never forgive you and I won't."
"Well, I hope you're fond of motoring," said Sam, "because we're goingon till you do."
"Very well! Go on, then!"
"I intend to. Of course, it's all right now while it's dark. But haveyou considered what is going to happen when the sun gets up? We shallhave a sort of triumphal procession. How the small boys will laugh whenthey see a man in a helmet go by in a car! I shan't notice them myselfbecause it's a little difficult to notice anything from inside thisthing, but I'm afraid it will be rather unpleasant for you ... I knowwhat we'll do. We'll go to London and drive up and down Piccadilly!That will be fun!"
There was a long silence.
"Is my helmet on straight?" said Sam.
Billie made no reply. She was looking before her down the hedge-borderedroad. Always a girl of sudden impulse, she had just made a curiousdiscovery, to wit, that she was enjoying herself. There was somethingso novel and exhilarating about this midnight
ride that imperceptiblyher dismay and resentment had ebbed away. She found herself strugglingwith a desire to laugh.
"Lochinvar!" said Sam suddenly. "That's the name of the chap I've beentrying to think of! Did you ever read about Lochinvar? 'YoungLochinvar' the poet calls him rather familiarly. He did just what I'mdoing now, and everybody thought very highly of him. I suppose in thosedays a helmet was just an ordinary part of what the well-dressed manshould wear. Odd how fashions change!"
Till now dignity and wrath combined had kept Billie from making anyenquiries into a matter which had excited in her a quite painfulcuriosity. In her new mood she resisted the impulse no longer.
"_Why_ are you wearing that thing?"
"I told you. Purely and simply because I can't get it off. You don'tsuppose I'm trying to set a new style in gents' headwear, do you?"
"But why did you ever put it on?"
"Well, it was this way. After I came out of the cupboard in thedrawing-room...."
"What!"
"Didn't I tell you about that? Oh yes, I was sitting in the cupboard inthe drawing-room from dinner-time onwards. After that I came out andstarted cannoning about among Aunt Adeline's china, so I thought I'dbetter switch the light on. Unfortunately I switched on some sort ofmusical instrument instead. And then somebody started shooting. So,what with one thing and another, I thought it would be best to hidesomewhere. I hid in one of the suits of armour in the hall."
"Were you inside there all the time we were...?"
"Yes. I say, that was funny about Bream, wasn't it? Getting under thebed, I mean."
"Don't let's talk about Bream."
"That's the right spirit! I like to see it! All right, we won't. Let'sget back to the main issue. Will you marry me?"
"But why did you come to the house at all?"
"To see you."
"To see me! At that time of night?"
"Well, perhaps not actually to see you." Sam was a little perplexed fora moment. Something told him that it would be injudicious to reveal histrue motive and thereby risk disturbing the harmony which he felt hadbegun to exist between them. "To be near you! To be in the same housewith you!" he went on vehemently feeling that he had struck the rightnote. "You don't know the anguish I went through after I read thatletter of yours. I was mad! I was ... well, to return to the point,will you marry me?"
Billie sat looking straight before her. The car, now on the main road,moved smoothly on.
"Will you marry me?"
Billie rested her hand on her chin and searched the darkness withthoughtful eyes.
"Will you marry me?"
The car raced on.
"Will you marry me?" said Sam. "Will you marry me? Will you marry me?"
"Oh, don't talk like a parrot," cried Billie. "It reminds me of Bream."
"But will you?"
"Yes," said Billie.
Sam brought the car to a standstill with a jerk, probably very bad forthe tires.
"Did you say 'yes'?"
"Yes!"
"Darling!" said Sam, leaning towards her, "Oh, curse this helmet!"
"Why?"
"Well, I rather wanted to kiss you and it hampers me."
"Let me try and get it off. Bend down!"
"Ouch!" said Sam.
"It's coming. There! How helpless men are!"
"We need a woman's tender care," said Sam depositing the helmet on thefloor of the car, and rubbing his smarting ears. "Billie!"
"Sam!"
"You angel!"
"You're rather a darling after all," said Billie. "But you want keepingin order," she added severely.
"You will do that when we're married. When we're married!" he repeatedluxuriously. "How splendid it sounds!"
"The only trouble is," said Billie, "father won't hear of it."
"No, he won't. Not till it is all over," said Sam.
He started the car again.
"What are you going to do?" said Billie. "Where are you going?"
"To London," said Sam. "It may be news to you but the old lawyer likemyself knows that, by going to Doctors' Commons or the Court of Archesor somewhere or by routing the Archbishop of Canterbury out of bed orsomething, you can get a special license and be married almost beforeyou know where you are. My scheme--roughly--is to dig this speciallicense out of whoever keeps such things, have a bit of breakfast, andthen get married at our leisure before lunch at a registrar's."
"Oh, not a registrar's!" said Billie.
"No?"
"I should hate a registrar's."
"Very well, angel. Just as you say. We'll go to a church. There aremillions of churches in London. I've seen them all over the place." Hemused for a moment. "Yes, you're quite right," he said. "A church isthe thing. It'll please Webster."
"Webster?"
"Yes, he's rather keen on the church bells never having rung out soblithe a peal before. And we must consider Webster's feelings. Afterall, he brought us together."
"Webster? How?"
"Oh, I'll tell you all about that some other time," said Sam. "Just forthe moment I want to sit quite still and think. Are you comfortable?Fine! Then off we go."
The birds in the trees fringing the road stirred and twittered grumpilyas the noise of the engine disturbed their slumbers. But, if they hadknown it, they were in luck. At any rate, the worst had not befallenthem, for Sam was too happy to sing.
THE END
Three Men and a Maid Page 15
