Charles nodded.
“I give you Egbert. But as to the rest, it’s the very purest conjecture.” He laughed. “You ask me when I’m going to the police. What do you suppose they would make of those surmises of yours? Pullen is secretary of a criminal conspiracy because Lady Perringham didn’t lose her pearls whilst he buttled for her. You see? William Cole has been in prison; therefore he is Number Twenty-seven, with a roving commission to murder inconvenient heiresses. Good Lord! You ask why I don’t go to the police! What sort of fool should I look if I did? I saw hats, overcoats, a muffler, a mask, and a shirt-front. I should be making a prize ass of myself, and you know it.”
He laughed again. He was fighting desperately for Margaret, and fighting in the dark. They were lovers no more, and friends no more; but the instinct to fight for her survived both love and friendship; it rose up in him hard and stark. He plunged on:
“What beats me is why they should have pitched on my house as a rendezvous.”
“Oh-” said Miss Silver mildly, “I think I can explain that. It is a point I was about to mention. You have a caretaker called Lattery. He is a married man. Do you happen to know Mrs. Lattery’s maiden name?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It was Pullen,” said Miss Silver,-“Eliza Pullen.”
Charles exclaimed.
“Pullen!”
“Pullen the butler is her brother. It would be easy for him to find out just when the house would be empty; and a big empty house would make a very good meeting place. Your house offers peculiar advantages. Thorney Lane is not much frequented, and the alley-way by which access may be had to the garden is very dark and lonely.”
Charles whistled.
Miss Silver waited a moment. Then she said,
“Yes, Mr. Moray. To continue-On the night of October 3rd Miss Langton was in your house, and it would help me very much if you would be frank about this. I know that you were once engaged, and if Miss Langton’s visit was, if I may say so, a personal one, it would of course alter the whole situation-No, Mr. Moray-a moment. I will say nothing that is not necessary; but if Miss Langton had come there to meet you, it would account for a good deal-it would account for your reticence and for your desire to keep the matter out of the hands of the police. It is even possible that Miss Langton was seen by Pullen or one of the others, and that this increases your apprehension on her account-it would be very natural, and, if I may say so, very pardonable.”
She smiled a little deprecating smile. Charles met it with a blank expression.
“And if Miss Langton had come to see me, would there have been anything very strange or compromising in that? She has been free of the house since she was a child. I have known her since she was ten years old, Miss Silver. Will you say there was any reason why we should not have met? Wouldn’t it be perfectly natural in the circumstances?”
“Oh, yes,” said Miss Silver. Then she coughed. “You really tell lies very badly, Mr. Moray.”
“Do I?”
“Oh, very badly indeed. It would have been better if you had been frank with me-much better. You see, you have told me what I wanted to know. I was not quite sure about Miss Langton.”
Charles pushed back his chair.
“I think we won’t discuss Miss Langton.”
Miss Silver sighed.
“That is foolish of you. You see, I know now that you saw her with Grey Mask, because if you had not done so, you would certainly have denied my suggestion that she came to the house to meet you.”
“Miss Silver!”
Miss Silver shook her head mournfully.
“You would have been very angry indeed if you had not thought I was offering you a way of escape. You know that.”
“Miss Silver!”
“Mr. Moray, have you ever asked Miss Langton for an explanation of what you saw?”
Charles was silent. He felt a sort of horrified fear of this gentle nondescript person.
“Mr. Moray, I am most earnestly anxious to help you. Have you asked Miss Langton for an explanation?”
“Yes,” said Charles, “I have.”
“Did she give you one?”
“No.”
“None at all?”
“No.”
“Will you now tell me where you saw Miss Langton, and in what circumstances?”
“She came into the room, walked up to the table, and put down a package. She said something, and Grey Mask said something. I couldn’t hear what they said. She only stayed a moment. I didn’t see her face.”
“But you were in no doubt as to her identity?”
“No.”
“I see,” said Miss Silver. “Just one more question. Was she announced in any way?”
Charles did not answer. He heard Jaffray’s voice, a little husky, pitched in a Cockney whisper: “Number Twenty-six is ’ere, guvnor.”
Miss Silver asked another question:
“The men had numbers. Was Miss Langton designated by a number?”
Charles was silent.
Miss Silver was silent for a moment too. Then she said very gently,
“I see that she was, Mr. Moray. It must have been a great shock to you. I think it is probable that these people have been blackmailing her. I have come across indications of this sort of thing before. The man you call Grey Mask works by means of blackmail-only instead of money he demands service. That is his method. You see, it gives him a hold over his tools-they are bound to obey.”
Charles lifted his head.
“In Miss Langton’s case there could be no question of blackmail. There could be nothing-”
“There is often something that no one dreams of. Think, Mr. Moray! Go back four years. She broke her engagement a week before her wedding day. Does a girl do that for nothing? Did she ever tell you why she did it?”
Charles Moray turned abruptly and walked out of the room. The door shut behind him. The outer door shut behind him.
Mis Silver put away the brown exercise-book and took up her knitting.
CHAPTER XXV
Having posted a letter to Stephanie on Monday, Greta wrote another on Tuesday:
My dear, I keep on meeting young men. It’s really too thrilling. I must tell you about it. Oh, Stephanie, it is such fun not being at school, and having men simply glaring because you’ve just been polite to someone else. I think Charles must have a most awful temper really, because he glared in the most frightful way you ever saw. I’ve never seen anyone glare like it before, except on the films when they’re just going to murder somebody, or the girl has been carried away by Bad Pete or someone like that. Of course Sheikhs glare nearly the whole time. I think Charles is awfully like a Sheikh really. He would look frightfully handsome in that sort of long nightgown thing they wear and the thrilling thing over their heads that looks like a sheet tied round and round with a twisty, knotty kind of rope. It would suit Charles like anything- only of course Archie is taller. But he wouldn’t make nearly such a good Sheikh, because he’s got rather a funny sort of face and he laughs a lot-and of course Sheikhs don’t. Charles was a Sheikh about Ambrose Kimberley. I’d only just finished my letter to you yesterday, and was putting on my hat to go out and post it, when the bell rang. And when I opened the door, there was a most awfully good-looking man standing there.
And he asked if Margaret was in, and I said she wasn’t ever in till half-past six, and sometimes later. And he said wasn’t that frightfully dull for me? And I said, yes, it was. He was frightfully nice. I think he is a little bit taller than Archie really, and he had the most lovely dark eyes and chestnut hair, and if he had been a girl, he would have had a lovely complexion. And he said might he go and post my letter with me, so we did. And then he said it was such a fine day, wouldn’t I come for a walk? So we walked as far as Kensington High Street, and we looked at the shops. All the skirts are quite full. Ambrose Kimberley was frightfully nice. He said he didn’t often meet a girl like me. And when I said why didn’t he, he said “Because there aren’
t any more.” He said a lot of other things too. It is frightfully nice to have people saying things like that and being most awfully admiring and respectful. He said, wouldn’t I have lunch and go to the pictures with him? But I couldn’t, because Charles was coming to take me out. He wasn’t at all pleased about Charles, but I stood firm. I had one fright whilst I was out. I thought I saw Pullen across the road. He’s Papa’s butler, you know, and I don’t want anyone to know where I am, and if it was Pullen, he’d tell Egbert-and I most particularly don’t want Egbert to know. I do hope it wasn’t Pullen.
When I got back to the flat, Charles was there in a most awful temper. He had seen Ambrose say good-bye to me at the corner, and he was ramping and tramping up and down like a tiger. His eyebrows were all twisty, and he sort of barked at me and said, “Who was that?” And I wouldn’t tell him at first, not till we got up to the flat, and then he put on a most frightfully severe sort of voice, and lectured me like anything, and reminded me about Mr. Percy Smith, which was mean-only you don’t know about him, and it’s too long to tell-besides I don’t want to-and I promised Margaret. Charles really made me cry, and then he was sorry and said I mustn’t. Madame’s scoldings were pretty fierce, but Charles was worse, only he said he was sorry afterwards, and of course Madame never did that. And he took me out to lunch, and we went to Hindhead in his car and had tea in Guildford, and didn’t get back till after Margaret did. I don’t think Margaret likes Charles to like me so much. She doesn’t say anything. I think she doesn’t like Charles very much really, though she’s known him for simply ages. We’re dining with Mr. Pelham to-morrow. It’s frightfully difficult to call him Freddy. We’re dining at his house, and we’re going on to the theatre-instead of Saturday. Mr. Pelham came round last night and fixed it up. Charles is coming too. I don’t know about Archie.
CHAPTER XXVI
Margaret came home a little earlier than usual. Business had been slack and she had got away punctually-a thing which did not very often happen. Greta came in full of conversation, full of Ambrose Kimberley, full of Charles and their run to Hindhead.
“Where is Charles?” asked Margaret.
“He wouldn’t come in. But he’s coming to-morrow, and he’s going to teach me to drive his car. He did teach me a little bit to-day, only every time I met something I was so frightened I just threw the wheel at him, and he says his nerves won’t stand the strain for more than about a quarter of an hour at a time. I said I didn’t mind going on a bit, and he said it was frightfully brave of me.”
Greta was looking alarmingly pretty. She glowed and shone in the little room. She made Margaret feel dingy and drab and old, with that dreadful sense of age which is only possible when one is under five-and-twenty. Everything had gone by her-home, friends, leisure, looks. She did not say to herself that she had lost Charles Moray; but perhaps this one loss included all the others.
She cleared away supper, made up the fire, and sat down with idle hands. Grey Greta prattled on about Archie, about Charles, about whether Archie was better looking than Charles, or Charles better looking than Archie, or whether Ambrose Kimberley wasn’t better looking than either of them, and did Margaret like blue eyes or grey ones best, or did she prefer brown?
“Yours are brown, so you ought to marry someone with blue eyes, oughtn’t you?”-Greta’s voice was earnest-“or grey ones. Archie has blue eyes-hasn’t he? Of course they show a lot because of his not having very bushy eyelashes. Now Charles-what colour would you say Charles’ eyes were?”
“Grey.”
“I thought they were. I said so in my letter to Stephanie, but afterwards I thought perhaps they weren’t. His eyelashes being so black makes it sort of confusing. You’re sure they’re grey?”
Margaret looked into the fire.
“Quite sure.”
She saw Charles’ eyes looking into hers, looking smilingly, teasingly, earnestly; looking love-all gone-all past-all dead-never to come again.
Greta went on in her soft childish voice.
“I do like dark eyes-in a man. Don’t you? No, you wouldn’t, because yours are dark. Margaret, have you ever been engaged?”
Margaret got up.
“What a lot of questions!”
“It must be such fun,” said Greta. “I should like to be engaged a lot of times before I got married, because you can’t ever go back and get engaged again-can you?”
Margaret’s eyes stung.
“No, you can’t go back.”
“So you might just as well be engaged to plenty of people while you can. Do you think Charles would be nice to be engaged to?”
“Quite,” said Margaret. She was standing with her back to Greta arranging the music in a little stand.
“That’s what I thought. I don’t think I should mind being engaged to Charles. You see, he’s got a car, and he could teach me to drive, and I think that’s rather important-isn’t it?”
“‘Essential,” said Margaret, in an odd dry voice.
“Of course I think he’d be simply terrifying to be married to. Don’t you?”
Margaret lifted the parcel which she had brought from her old home on the night she first met Margot Standing. She held it stiffly at arm’s length. She spoke a little stiffly too:
“Has he asked you to marry him?”
Greta giggled.
“Oh, not yet. Archie hasn’t either. I want to have lots of fun first. Florence, one of the girls at school, says her sister has been engaged fifteen times. She’s a simply frightfully pretty girl called Rose Lefevre, and she says Rose always says it’s a great mistake to let them rush you, because really the most amusing time is just before. Rose says they get uppish almost at once after you’ve said ‘Yes.’ And she says if they’re like that when they’re engaged, what will they be like when you’re married to them? That’s why she doesn’t ever stay engaged very long. She says about three weeks is enough really. But Florence says once it was only three days-only then there was a row, and her father said he wouldn’t have it and Rose was a scandal. But she’s been engaged a lot more times since. Which do you think would be most fun to be engaged to-Archie, or Charles?”
Margaret came over to the table. She put her parcel down on it and began to remove the paper wrapping.
“I shouldn’t get engaged to either until you’re quite sure.”
“Oh, but I want to be engaged! I want to have a ring and write and tell all the girls. I don’t want to wait. You see I could easily be not engaged if I didn’t like it-couldn’t I? You didn’t say if you were ever engaged. I expect you must have been. What sort of ring did you have? I just can’t make up my mind about the ring. Sometimes I think a sapphire, and sometimes I think all diamonds. I don’t think fair girls ought to wear rubies. Do you?”
Margaret folded up the paper which she had taken off the parcel. It crackled a good deal. She put it away in the bottom drawer of an old walnut bureau before she spoke. Then she said,
“Wait till you’ve quite made up your mind.”
“Oh!” said Greta; it was a quick, sudden exclamation. She jumped up, ran to the table, and caught with both hands at the desk which Margaret had just unpacked.
“Margaret! Where did you get it from?”
Margaret turned in astonishment. Greta was flushed and excited.
“Margaret, where did you get it?”
“It’s mine-it was my mother’s.”
“Oh!” said Greta. She looked down at the desk. “It’s- it’s-do you know I thought it was mine-I did really. And it gave me a most frightful start, because I couldn’t think how you’d got it.”
Margaret came up to the table. The desk stood between her and Greta. It was covered in green morocco with a little diagonal pattern stamped on it; the corners were worn shabby; there was a brass handle over a sunk brass plate; and between the plate and the front of the desk were the initials E.M.B. in faded gold.
Greta touched the leather.
“I thought it was mine! It’s-exactly like mine.”
“All these old desks are alike.”
“They don’t all have the same initials on them. Mine-no, how silly of me!-mine has M.E.B. on it-not E.M.B. -but it’s awfully, awfully like this one.” She slid her finger to and fro over the initials. “Is this your mother? What was her name?”
“Mary Esther Brandon.”
Greta gave a little shriek.
“Esther Brandon? Margaret-not really! Oh, Margaret, how thrilling! Weren’t you frightfully, frightfully surprised when you asked me what my name was, and I said it was Esther Brandon? Margaret-is that why you brought me home? Oh, Margaret, do you think we’re relations?”
Margaret had a most curious sense of shock. Greta, with both hands on the desk, leaning towards her, talking nineteen to the dozen-asking if they were relations. She felt afraid. She said quickly,
“You told me you called yourself Esther Brandon because you found a bit of a torn letter with my mother’s signature. It may have been written to your father or mother.”
“It was signed Esther Brandon.”
“That was my mother’s name before she married my father.”
“You said Mary Esther.”
“She never used the Mary.”
“But it was her initial-she was M.E.B.?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But that’s what there was on my desk-there was M.E.B. in gold. This is E.M.B.” she prodded the E with a little vicious dig. “This is E, Margaret-E.M.B. It’s mine that’s M.E.B.-not yours.”
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