‘I don’t think we need go into that,’ she answered. Then, after a pause, ‘Is it a bargain, Mr Parker?’
More or less cowed by the influence of her personality, he answered:
‘It is a bargain.’
‘Good,’ she replied, holding out her hand, which he shook.
From her gold vanity-bag, studded with emeralds, she produced a cheque.
‘I have made it payable to self. I thought it would be the more discreet course.’
‘Thank you,’ he said as he took it.
‘Now, then,’ she said in a business-like way,
‘let us get to business. I’ve got to be introduced as somebody.’
‘Well, you can’t be introduced as a miracle: a woman from nowhere would hardly be accepted anywhere, and of course it would be impossible—even for me—to get you presented unless you were prepared to state something more definite about your parents.’
‘I don’t really care about being presented,’ she replied. ‘You see, I expect to entertain a great deal.’
‘But,’ he interrupted, ‘you must have a chaperon. You can’t live alone at 69 Pembroke Street.’
‘That’s just what I must do,’ was her answer.
‘I don’t propose to have a woman in the house.’
‘That makes it very difficult,’ he rejoined.
‘I know it’s very difficult. But you, Mr Parker, can do it.’
Vaguely he threw out, ‘If only we could get hold of some sort of story to account for you. You see, you must be accounted for. Here you are, enormously rich, aristocratic in appearance—if you will allow me to say so—and, besides that, beautiful. How on earth I’m to explain you I don’t know.’
‘I suppose I couldn’t be a member of your own family?’
‘I have no family,’ he answered, almost brusquely.
‘Oh, my dear Mr Parker, why forget your sister who married a veterinary surgeon at Chipping-Sodbury?’
‘You know that, too!’ he gasped.
‘I know that too.’
‘At any rate,’ he replied, ‘I have no family—to speak of.’
‘I can quite understand a man in your position not caring to speak of a sister who married a dog-doctor. Now, wait a minute, Mr Parker. You have got one sister whom Society knows nothing of. I notice that the papers never chronicle the fact that among those walking in the Park at Church Parade were Mr Augustus Parker and his sister-in-law, Mrs Lindo, the wife of the well-known Chipping-Sodbury vet. No one knows of Mrs Lindo. Why not invent a sister? Why not let this sister be the wife of a man who has made a large sum of money in Australia? So many people have made large sums of money in Australia. While we are about it, let us invent Mr Clive, who, of course, is now dead, and Mrs Clive, who is no longer with us, my father and mother. Why not make Mr Clive a kind of a crank? A really rich man is entitled to be somewhat of a crank. Under the terms of my poor father’s will—your brother-in-law’s will—I was to be educated by governesses in London. I was to come of age at nineteen, which age I have just reached. Then you, Mr Parker, are to introduce me to modern Babylon, as Mr Sims, the Hair-restorer King, so aptly styles the metropolis. Where is that story weak?’
Each of them took the story and found flaws. They added details to conceal the flaws. After an hour’s conversation, each felt that the genesis of Miss Clive might be placed before the world without fear of a catastrophe.
‘That’s all right,’ she said, rising at length, ‘Uncle Gussie.’
He shuddered. No one had ever dared to address him as Gussie. A Crowned Head had once alluded to him as Augustus and had ever afterwards regretted the familiarity. But Gussie! Never, never, never. However, she was so extraordinarily beautiful that he succeeded in pardoning her.
Holding her hands in his he looked straight into her eyes. There was a twitching movement of his moustache.
She drew back.
‘No, Uncle Gussie, that’s not included in the bargain.’
CHAPTER XVII
A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE
PARKER’S niece became the success of the season. Very deftly the elderly gentleman had introduced her to the right people. Her beauty and talent and wealth carried all before them. She gave the most exquisite little dinners and lunches in Pembroke Street. Indeed, she received within a short time no less than three quite reasonable proposals of marriage. Parker, also, reported to her that he had been approached by several people, either on their own behalf or on behalf of their sons. But he, himself, did not appear anxious to marry her off. There was no cloud upon the sky. True, one or two old gentlemen expressed surprise that Parker had never mentioned the existence of his beautiful and affluent niece. But Parker, who acted as her press-agent, successfully disseminated the story that the two of them had concocted. Her dossier, accompanied by pictures of herself, was described in so many papers that it met with universal credence. It was a little strange, perhaps, but it was credible, and in a sceptical age it is a great satisfaction to be able to believe anything at all.
The new turn of things, however, did not particularly please Harding. He had to be at work through a great part of the day, during which Miss Clive was always in the company of swift young men at Ranelagh, Hurlingham or Sandown. Often he met her in the evenings. Indeed, he went to dances again in order to be more in her company. But he could not tell whether or not she was flirting with him.
One night, at a dance given by Lady Brinsley, the beautiful wife of the eminent Sir Septimus, in her somewhat florid house in Park Lane, the two found themselves together in the seclusion of the conservatory. Max Boulestein’s intoxicating waltz, Une Plage d’Amour, set his nerves a-quiver. Never in his life had he seen a more beautiful creature. As he bent over her he felt that he must risk his fate.
Her hands toyed with her fan, and she appeared to be trying to think of something which she wished to talk about.
‘My dear Miss Clive…’
‘Ah, I’ve got it,’ she said with a sudden movement. ‘I know what I wanted to speak to you about. Look here, George—I beg your pardon. How silly of me! Mr Harding…’ She laughed.
‘I haven’t the slightest antipathy to being called George.’
‘No, no, of course not,’ she answered, apparently taking no interest in the matter. ‘How did you get on in that Probate case the other day?’
Why, he asked himself, should she take the slightest interest in a Probate case? The idea flashed through his mind that she was, indeed, so interested in him, that even the details of his professional life appealed to her. If only that were so! But he doubted it.
‘Which case do you mean?’ he said, at length.
‘Why, Lawson and Lawson. I see that you lost the case, but I must say that I think the decision was wrong. In my own mind I am perfectly convinced that it was a case of undue influence. And I will tell you why.’
To his astonishment, this girl rattled off her views on this complicated case. She seemed, even to his acute mind, to possess an extraordinary knowledge of medical jurisprudence. Never in his Chambers, when discussing these matters with the most eminent physicians, had he been so impressed as he was by this beautiful girl’s knowledge of the subject.
‘Precisely,’ he said, ‘I entirely agree with you. We ought to have won, and we should have won, if only Clifford Oakleigh had been called as a witness. But he treated me most abominably about it. I wrote him, as a personal friend, asking him to give evidence, because I knew it was a subject in which he would have taken an interest. In fact, his views would in all probability have been very much like those that you have expressed. Still, mind you, I wired to him, I sent messengers, I called upon him. But I could get no answer. Of course, this does not interest you. You don’t know him. But he is my oldest and my dearest friend. I was very disappointed.’
She threw him a side glance.
‘Something very extraordinary has happened to him lately. What it is I can’t guess. He seems to be giving up his practice. He only attends at Harle
y Street about three days in the week, and not on any definite days. Everybody is talking about it.’
‘Yes,’ she answered, fanning herself absently,
‘I have heard it commented on. Everybody seems extraordinarily interested in him.’ With an arch movement of the eyebrows she continued, ‘I should so like to meet him.’
On the whole George was not particularly anxious that she should meet Clifford. It did not seem necessary. The more he saw of her the less anxious was he that she should meet the fascinating medical man.
‘Still,’ he added, ‘it’s rather curious that you’ve never seen your own landlord.’
‘Ah,’ she replied, ‘I’ve a perfect horror of landlords. Landlord is a dull word. There is nothing more unromantic than a landlord.’
‘Are you romantic?’ he inquired.
She tossed her head.
‘Good Heavens, no! I believe that some men are easier to get on with than others, and some women are harder to get on with than others. I believe that with a little tact it is possible for almost any man to get on reasonably with almost any woman.’
‘Then you think,’ he asked, ‘that “getting on” is the apex of happiness?’
‘I do.’
‘And love? What of love?’
‘Oh, love,’ she answered, ‘is a term invented to account for the idiotic actions of people who are as a rule sane.’
‘You don’t think it would be possible that you should ever commit any actions that might warrant the use of that term?’
She looked at him frankly.
‘I like you better than anybody else in the world, and I…’ (and here came the surprise) ‘always have.’
The blood surged to his cheeks. A little disconcerted he was, perhaps, at the lack of modesty in her statement. But she was totally unlike anybody else. She had given him the hint, and really, when all was said and done, it seemed a very sensible thing to do. He held out his hands towards her.
‘Miriam,’ he said, ‘I worship you. Will you be my wife?’
She looked straight in his eyes. A smile played about her face.
‘No,’ she answered very firmly. ‘Not that.’
‘But you said…’
‘I know.’
‘You said you liked me better than anybody else in the world.’
‘So I do.’
‘But surely, liking…to that extent…borders on love?’
‘I admit it,’ she laughed. It seemed to him that she was playing a comedy. ‘It does border on love.’
‘But,’ he persisted, ‘how do you know that it is not past the border? If you have never been in love, you don’t know what love is like. Many people say that it’s very disappointing.’
He waited for her to speak.
She searched his face with her eyes and then said:
‘Do you find it disappointing?’
‘Oh, no,’ he replied, ‘I don’t. Very far from it. I liked it enormously until just now. I thought it was the finest thing in the world until just now, when you refused to marry me.’
Her eyes were full of mischief.
‘I don’t think you have ever proposed in your life before.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘You propose so awkwardly.’
‘No,’ he answered, ‘I have never proposed…marriage before.’
‘Is it wise,’ she queried, ‘for you to alter your habits, well, in middle life?’
Her question completely mystified him.
At that moment Frederick Robinson came into the conservatory, nodded to Harding, and went up to Miriam.
‘My dance, I think, Miss Clive?’
She nodded an affirmative. And then with complete nonchalance she turned to the K.C. with a smile of pure friendliness that was not in itself a denial of love.
‘When shall I see you again?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘I must see you again soon.’
Hastily she replied:
‘Oh, we’re dining together tomorrow night.’
‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘I’m dining with Clifford Oakleigh. You’ve made a mistake.’
‘So I have,’ she answered. ‘Good-night.’
‘A very curious mistake to make,’ he reflected,
‘to think that you’re dining with a person you don’t know. Confound it, she is a wonderfully fascinating girl. Rough luck to have to dance with Frederick Robinson!’
CHAPTER XVIII
JOHNSON AND BARLOW
THE long table at the Gridiron Club was full. At one end sat Harding, on his face an unmistakable expression of gloom. On either side of him were Sir Algernon Spiers and Frederick Robinson, the latter unnecessarily talkative.
‘By the by,’ said the architect, who had just finished his supper of devilled bones and whisky and Perrier, ‘it’s an extraordinary thing that disappearance of your clerk’s daughter, Harding. Is there any news at all?’
‘Nothing of importance,’ replied the barrister, shortly. ‘The case is in the hands of Inspector Johnson.’
‘Then nothing will come of it,’ commented Robinson, toying with his inverted eyebrow of a moustache. ‘Johnson is no earthly good. Did I ever tell you chaps how he dealt with an affair of mine when I lost an opal pin?’
‘Yes,’ snapped Harding, who did not want to hear the story.
‘I’m sure I never told you.’
‘From your assumption I assume we are in for the worst,’ replied Sir Algernon.
Several men in the middle of the table urged Robinson to tell the story. They were men with whom the architect was not personally popular.
‘I’ll tell you the story,’ said Robinson, ‘not in order to give you the slightest satisfaction but because my experience of Johnson will prove to our friend Harding that the mere fact that he has undertaken the case makes it absolutely hopeless. No, don’t go, my dear Harding, I’m doing this for your own good.’
The members of the Gridiron prepared to listen to the philanthropic exercise which the novelist was taking for the benefit of the barrister.
In a somewhat staccato voice Robinson spoke.
‘To me this opal was a precious thing, not so much on account of its intrinsic and artistic value as by reason of its general utility. For the recognised province of the opal is to ensure the efficacy of prayer; and if it is surrounded with diamonds the wearer has the additional advantage of being invisible in pitched battles. So an opal-and-diamond pin is a particularly handy asset for a man who is religiously minded and doesn’t get on very well with his own sister.
‘But my sister never liked the pin. Alice hated the opal, called it the clown among precious stones. She hated it for itself alone. Also, she doubted its powers in the prayer line. Further, she maintained that whether I were invisible or not in pitched battles, nobody was likely to hire me for military purposes. Indeed, I am one of Nature’s non-combatants.
‘Alice left for Monte Carlo on the Monday morning. Immediately after her departure I returned from the station to my house in Albemarle Street.
‘My idea was to put on the pin. I had no particular occasion for the offering of prayer. My sister had gone, and the world looked sunny for me. Nor was there any pressing need for invisibility. Still, I had a wish to wear the jewel. What was the good of keeping a thirty-guinea opal tie-pin eating its head off in my jewel-case? No good. If Alice didn’t like it, I shouldn’t wear it in her presence. It is well to yield to one’s sister with regard to small matters.
‘In my bedroom I found a window-cleaner—that is, his feet were in the room, the major portion of him was out of doors.
‘The opal pin was not in the jewel-case. All my other pins, rings and studs were there, but the opal was gone!
‘On close inspection, the window-cleaner turned out to be larger than I had at first thought. In fact, he was one of the largest window-cleaners that I had ever met. I realised that, without my diamonds, I was visible to the naked eye. Without my opal, any prayer for signal success in a contest with that large
man would not do me any real good.
‘I had only myself to rely on. True, the amethyst that I wore in a ring would drive away the fumes of wine; but it wouldn’t drive away an irritated window-cleaner accused of theft.
‘So I sent the butler round to Vine Street police-station to state the case and to bring back an inspector.
‘As my message was urgent, Inspector Johnson came punctually—the next day. With him was a sort of assistant—P. Barlow.
‘Johnson said he was a detective-inspector.
‘I told him that I didn’t want a man who only inspected detectives. I wanted a man who could overhaul window-cleaners and make them confess their guilt.
‘Johnson said he would overhaul the window-cleaner immediately. If he made any confession of guilt Barlow would take it down in writing, alter it, overhaul it, and use it against him at the trial. That sounded well.
‘But the window-cleaner spoilt it all. He had left.
‘P. Barlow said this was a suspicious circumstance.
‘Johnson said not.
‘He pointed out that window-cleaners were engaged by the job, like hansom cabs, not by the week, like seaside lodgings.
‘I took to Johnson at once. He was a shrewd man who had evidently seen much of life. At his request I told him the story of my loss. P. Barlow took it down in writing—all wrong; read it over in a clear voice, and said, “Everything points to one thing.”
‘Johnson said not.
‘Then he added: “I don’t want you, sir, to go away with the idea that I have formed an opinion. I may or may not have formed an opinion. But I can tell you something. Your pin is, beyond all question, missing.”
‘That of course was so.
‘“Further,” he said, “I favour the theory that the pin has been stolen by one person.”
‘“Indeed! Which one?” I asked intelligently.
‘“When I say ‘one person’, I do not specify any particular person. But I mean the theft is not the work of a syndicate—a gang of Continental thieves, for example.”
‘Johnson always talked sound sense. He did not theorise. The obvious was good enough for him.
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