"Lady Dene wishes to see you, Miss."
"Sure the Archbishop of Canterbury isn't with her, Johnnie dear?"
asked Gladys Norman sweetly, without looking up from the cleaning
of her typewriter. In her own mind she was satisfied that this was
a little joke inspired by Thompson.
"No, Miss, she's alone," replied the literal William Johnson.
"Show her Ladyship in," she said, still playing for safety. "Da----
sh!" she muttered as, having inadvertently touched the release, the
carriage slid to the left, pinching her finger in its course.
William Johnson departed, his head half turned over his right
shoulder in admiration of one who could hear with such unconcern
that a real lady had called to see her.
As her door opened for a second time, Gladys Norman assiduously kept
her eyes fixed upon her machine.
"No, Johnnie," she remarked, still without looking up. "It's no good.
Lady Denes don't call upon typists at 9.30 a.m., so buzz off, little
beanlet. I'm----"
"But this Lady Dene does."
Gladys Norman jumped to her feet, knocking over the benzine bottle
and dropping her brush into the vitals of the machine.
Before her stood a fair-haired girl, her violet eyes brimming with
mischievous laughter, whilst in her arms she carried a mass of red
roses.
"I'm so sorry," faltered Gladys Norman, biting her lower lip, and
conscious of her heightened colour and the violet-stained gloves
that had once been white. "I thought Johnnie was playing a joke."
Lady Dene nodded brightly, whilst Gladys Norman stooped to pick up
the benzine bottle, then with a motion of her head indicated to
William Johnson that his presence was no longer required.
Reluctantly the lad turned, and a moment later the door closed
slowly behind him.
"I want you to help me," said Lady Dene, dropping the roses on to
the leaf of Gladys Norman's typing-table. "These are for Mr. Sage."
"For the Chief?" cried Gladys Norman in astonishment. Then she
laughed. The idea of a riot of red roses in Malcolm Sage's room
struck her as funny.
"You see," said Lady Dene, "this is the birthday of the Malcolm Sage
Bureau, and I'm going to decorate his room."
"I don't----" began Gladys Norman hesitatingly, when Lady Dene
interrupted her.
"It's all right," she cried, "I'll take all the responsibility."
"But we've got no vases," objected Gladys Norman.
"My chauffeur has some in the car, and there are heaps more roses,"
she added.
"More?" cried Gladys Norman aghast.
"Heaps," repeated Lady Dene, dimpling with laughter at the
consternation on Gladys Norman's face. "Ah! here they are," as the
door opened and a mass of white roses appeared, with a florid face
peering over the top.
"Put them down there, Smithson," said Lady Dene, indicating a spot
in front of Gladys Norman's table. "Now fetch the vases and the rest
of the roses."
"The rest!" exclaimed Gladys Norman.
Lady Dene laughed. She was thoroughly enjoying the girl's
bewilderment.
"He's not come yet?" she interrogated.
The girl shook her head.
"He won't be here for half-an-hour yet," she said. "He had to go
down into the city."
"That will just give us time," cried Lady Dene, stooping and picking
up an armful of the white roses. "You bring the red ones," she cried
over her shoulder, as she passed through Malcolm Sage's door, just
as Smithson entered with several purple vases.
Picking up the red roses, Gladys Norman followed the others into
Malcolm Sage's room. Her feelings were those of someone constrained
to commit sacrilege against her will.
"Now get some water, Smithson."
"Water, my Lady?" repeated Smithson, looking about him vaguely, as
Moses might have done in the wilderness.
"Yes; ask the lad. Be quick," cried Lady Dene, with deft fingers
beginning to arrange the roses in the vases. "Oh! please help me,"
she cried, turning to Gladys Norman, who had stood watching her as
if fascinated.
"But----" she began, when Lady Dene interrupted her.
"Quick!" cried Lady Dene excitedly, "or he'll be here before we've
finished."
Then, convinced that it was the work of Kismet, or the devil, Gladys
Norman threw herself into the task of arranging the flowers.
When Thompson arrived some ten minutes later, he stood at the door
of Malcolm Sage's room "listening with his mouth," as Gladys Norman
had expressed it. When he had regained the power of speech, he
uttered two words.
"Jumping Je-hosh-o-phat!"; but into them he precipitated all the
emotion of his being.
"Go away, Tommy, we're busy," cried Gladys Norman over her shoulder.
"Do you hear; go away," she repeated, stamping her foot angrily as
he made no movement to obey, and Thompson slid away and closed the
door, convinced that in the course of the next half-hour there would
be the very deuce to pay.
He knew the Chief better than Gladys, he told himself, and if there
were one thing calculated to bring out all the sternness in his
nature it was flippancy, and what could be more flippant than
decorating the room of a great detective with huge bowls and vases
of red and white roses.
Regardless of Thompson's forebodings, Lady Dene smiled to herself as
she put the finishing touches to the last vase, whilst Gladys Norman
gathered up the litter of leaves and stalks that lay on the floor,
throwing them into the fireplace. She then removed the last spots of
water from Malcolm Sage's table.
Lady Dene took from her bag a small leather-case, which she opened
and placed in the centre of the table opposite Malcolm Sage's chair.
It was a platinum ring of antique workmanship, with a carbuchon of
lapis lazuli.
"Oh, how lovely!" cried Gladys Norman, as she gazed at the ring's
exquisite workmanship.
Presently, the two girls stepped back to gaze at their handiwork. In
a few minutes they had transformed an austere, business-man's room
into what looked like a miniature rose-show. From every point red
and white roses seemed to nod their fragrant heads.
"I----" began Gladys Norman, then she stopped suddenly, arrested by
a slight sound behind her. She span round on her heel. Malcolm Sage
stood in the doorway, with Thompson and William Johnson a few feet
behind him.
Slowly and deliberately he looked round the room; then his eyes
rested on Lady Dene.
"How do you do, Lady Dene," he said quietly, extending his hand.
For a moment she was conscious of an unaccustomed sensation of fear.
"You're not cross?" she interrogated, looking up at him quizzically,
her head a little on one side. "You see, it's the Bureau's birthday,
and----" She stopped suddenly.
Malcolm Sage had dropped her hand and walked over to his table.
Picking up the ring he examined it intently, then turned to Lady
Dene, interrogation in his eyes.
"It's from my husband and me," she said simply. "You have such
lovely hands, and--and we should like you to wear it."
Without a word he removed the ring from the case and put it on the
third finger of his right hand, which he then extended to Lady Dene,
who took it with a little laugh of happiness.
"You're not really cross," she said, looking up at him a little
anxiously.
"To me they stand for so much, Lady Dene," he said gravely, "that I
am not even speculating as to their probable effect upon the faith
of my clients."
And Malcolm Sage smiled.
It was that smile Gladys Norman saw as she closed the door behind
her, and which Thompson resolutely refused to believe.