Chapter 1

THE LITTLE NUGGET

By P. G. Wodehouse

Part One

In which the Little Nugget is introduced to the reader, and plans

are made for his future by several interested parties. In which,

also, the future Mr Peter Burns is touched upon. The whole concluding

with a momentous telephone-call.

THE LITTLE NUGGET

I

If the management of the Hotel Guelph, that London landmark, could

have been present at three o'clock one afternoon in early January

in the sitting-room of the suite which they had assigned to Mrs

Elmer Ford, late of New York, they might well have felt a little

aggrieved. Philosophers among them would possibly have meditated

on the limitations of human effort; for they had done their best

for Mrs Ford. They had housed her well. They had fed her well.

They had caused inspired servants to anticipate her every need.

Yet here she was, in the midst of all these aids to a contented

mind, exhibiting a restlessness and impatience of her surroundings

that would have been noticeable in a caged tigress or a prisoner

of the Bastille. She paced the room. She sat down, picked up a

novel, dropped it, and, rising, resumed her patrol. The clock

striking, she compared it with her watch, which she had consulted

two minutes before. She opened the locket that hung by a gold

chain from her neck, looked at its contents, and sighed. Finally,

going quickly into the bedroom, she took from a suit-case a framed

oil-painting, and returning with it to the sitting-room, placed it

on a chair, and stepped back, gazing at it hungrily. Her large

brown eyes, normally hard and imperious, were strangely softened.

Her mouth quivered.

'Ogden!' she whispered.

The picture which had inspired this exhibition of feeling would

probably not have affected the casual spectator to quite the same

degree. He would have seen merely a very faulty and amateurish

portrait of a singularly repellent little boy of about eleven, who

stared out from the canvas with an expression half stolid, half

querulous; a bulgy, overfed little boy; a little boy who looked

exactly what he was, the spoiled child of parents who had far more

money than was good for them.

As Mrs Ford gazed at the picture, and the picture stared back at

her, the telephone bell rang. She ran to it eagerly. It was the

office of the hotel, announcing a caller.

'Yes? Yes? Who?' Her voice fell, as if the name was not the one

she had expected. 'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Yes, ask Lord Mountry to

come to me here, please.'

She returned to the portrait. The look of impatience, which had

left her face as the bell sounded, was back now. She suppressed it

with an effort as her visitor entered.

Lord Mountry was a blond, pink-faced, fair-moustached young man of

about twenty-eight--a thick-set, solemn young man. He winced as he

caught sight of the picture, which fixed him with a stony eye

immediately on his entry, and quickly looked away.

'I say, it's all right, Mrs Ford.' He was of the type which wastes

no time on preliminary greetings. 'I've got him.'

'Got him!'

Mrs Ford's voice was startled.

'Stanborough, you know.'

'Oh! I--I was thinking of something else. Won't you sit down?'

Lord Mountry sat down.

'The artist, you know. You remember you said at lunch the other

day you wanted your little boy's portrait painted, as you only had

one of him, aged eleven--'

'This is Ogden, Lord Mountry. I painted this myself.'

His lordship, who had selected a chair that enabled him to present

a shoulder to the painting, and was wearing a slightly dogged look

suggestive of one who 'turns no more his head, because he knows a

frightful fiend doth close behind him tread', forced himself

round, and met his gaze with as much nonchalance as he could

summon up.

'Er, yes,' he said.

He paused.

'Fine manly little fellow--what?' he continued.

'Yes, isn't he?'

His lordship stealthily resumed his former position.

'I recommended this fellow, Stanborough, if you remember. He's a

great pal of mine, and I'd like to give him a leg up if I could.

They tell me he's a topping artist. Don't know much about it

myself. You told me to bring him round here this afternoon, you

remember, to talk things over. He's waiting downstairs.'

'Oh yes, yes. Of course, I've not forgotten. Thank you so much,

Lord Mountry.'

'Rather a good scheme occurred to me, that is, if you haven't

thought over the idea of that trip on my yacht and decided it

would bore you to death. You still feel like making one of the

party--what?'

Mrs Ford shot a swift glance at the clock.

'I'm looking forward to it,' she said.

'Well, then, why shouldn't we kill two birds with one stone?

Combine the voyage and the portrait, don't you know. You could

bring your little boy along--he'd love the trip--and I'd bring

Stanborough--what?'

This offer was not the outcome of a sudden spasm of warm-heartedness

on his lordship's part. He had pondered the matter deeply, and had

come to the conclusion that, though it had flaws, it was the best

plan. He was alive to the fact that a small boy was not an absolute

essential to the success of a yachting trip, and, since seeing

Ogden's portrait, he had realized still more clearly that the

scheme had draw-backs. But he badly wanted Stanborough to make

one of the party. Whatever Ogden might be, there was no doubt that

Billy Stanborough, that fellow of infinite jest, was the ideal

companion for a voyage. It would make just all the difference having

him. The trouble was that Stanborough flatly refused to take an

indefinite holiday, on the plea that he could not afford the time.

Upon which his lordship, seldom blessed with great ideas, had surprised

himself by producing the scheme he had just sketched out to Mrs Ford.

He looked at her expectantly, as he finished speaking, and was

surprised to see a swift cloud of distress pass over her face. He

rapidly reviewed his last speech. No, nothing to upset anyone in

that. He was puzzled.

She looked past him at the portrait. There was pain in her eyes.

'I'm afraid you don't quite understand the position of affairs,'

she said. Her voice was harsh and strained.

'Eh?'

'You see--I have not--' She stopped. 'My little boy is not--Ogden

is not living with me just now.'

'At school, eh?'

'No, not at school. Let me tell you the whole position. Mr Ford

and I did not get on very well together, and a year ago we were

divorced in Washington, on the ground of incompatibility,

and--and--'

She choked. His lordship, a young man with a shrinking horror of

the deeper emotions, whether exhibited in woman or man, writhed

silently. That was the worst of these Americans! Always getting

divorced and causing unpleasantness. How was a fellow to know? Why

hadn't whoever it was who first introduced them--he couldn't

remember who the dickens it was--told him about this? He had

supposed she was just the ordinary American woman doing Europe

with an affectionate dollar-dispensing husband in the background

somewhere.

'Er--' he said. It was all he could find to say.

'And--and the court,' said Mrs Ford, between her teeth, 'gave him

the custody of Ogden.'

Lord Mountry, pink with embarrassment, gurgled sympathetically.

'Since then I have not seen Ogden. That was why I was interested

when you mentioned your friend Mr Stanborough. It struck me that

Mr Ford could hardly object to my having a portrait of my son

painted at my own expense. Nor do I suppose that he will, when--if

the matter is put to him. But, well, you see it would be premature

to make any arrangements at present for having the picture painted

on our yacht trip.'

'I'm afraid it knocks that scheme on the head,' said Lord Mountry

mournfully.

'Not necessarily.'

'Eh?'

'I don't want to make plans yet, but--it is possible that Ogden

may be with us after all. Something may be--arranged.'

'You think you may be able to bring him along on the yacht after

all?'

'I am hoping so.'

Lord Mountry, however willing to emit sympathetic gurgles, was too

plain and straightforward a young man to approve of wilful

blindness to obvious facts.

'I don't see how you are going to override the decision of the

court. It holds good in England, I suppose?'

'I am hoping something may be--arranged.'

'Oh, same here, same here. Certainly.' Having done his duty by not

allowing plain facts to be ignored, his lordship was ready to

become sympathetic again. 'By the way, where is Ogden?'

'He is down at Mr Ford's house in the country. But--'

She was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone bell. She was

out of her seat and across the room at the receiver with what

appeared to Lord Mountry's startled gaze one bound. As she put the

instrument to her ear a wave of joy swept over her face. She gave

a little cry of delight and excitement.

'Send them right up at once,' she said, and turned to Lord Mountry

transformed.

'Lord Mountry,' she said quickly, 'please don't think me

impossibly rude if I turn you out. Some--some people are coming to

see me. I must--'

His lordship rose hurriedly.

'Of course. Of course. Certainly. Where did I put my--ah, here.'

He seized his hat, and by way of economizing effort, knocked his

stick on to the floor with the same movement. Mrs Ford watched his

bendings and gropings with growing impatience, till finally he

rose, a little flushed but with a full hand--stick, gloves, and

hat, all present and correct.

'Good-bye, then, Mrs Ford, for the present. You'll let me know if

your little boy will be able to make one of our party on the

yacht?'

'Yes, yes. Thank you ever so much. Good-bye.'

'Good-bye.'

He reached the door and opened it.

'By Jove,' he said, springing round--'Stanborough! What about

Stanborough? Shall I tell him to wait? He's down below, you know!'

'Yes, yes. Tell Mr Stanborough I'm dreadfully sorry to have to

keep him waiting, and ask him if he won't stay for a few minutes

in the Palm Room.'

Inspiration came to Lord Mountry.

'I'll give him a drink,' he said.

'Yes, yes, anything. Lord Mountry, you really must go. I know I'm

rude. I don't know what I'm saying. But--my boy is returning to

me.'

The accumulated chivalry of generations of chivalrous ancestors

acted like a spur on his lordship. He understood but dimly, yet

enough to enable him to realize that a scene was about to take

place in which he was most emphatically not 'on'. A mother's

meeting with her long-lost child, this is a sacred thing. This was

quite clear to him, so, turning like a flash, he bounded through

the doorway, and, as somebody happened to be coming in at the same

time, there was a collision, which left him breathing apologies in

his familiar attitude of stooping to pick up his hat.

The new-comers were a tall, strikingly handsome girl, with a

rather hard and cynical cast of countenance. She was leading by

the hand a small, fat boy of about fourteen years of age, whose

likeness to the portrait on the chair proclaimed his identity. He

had escaped the collision, but seemed offended by it; for, eyeing

the bending peer with cold distaste, he summed up his opinion of

him in the one word 'Chump!'

Lord Mountry rose.

'I beg your pardon,' he said for perhaps the seventh time. He was

thoroughly unstrung. Always excessively shy, he was embarrassed

now by quite a variety of causes. The world was full of eyes--Mrs

Ford's saying 'Go!' Ogden's saying 'Fool!' the portrait saying

'Idiot!' and, finally, the eyes of this wonderfully handsome girl,

large, grey, cool, amused, and contemptuous saying--so it seemed

to him in that feverish moment--'Who is this curious pink person

who cumbers the ground before me?'

'I--I beg your pardon.' he repeated.

'Ought to look where you're going,' said Ogden severely.

'Not at all,' said the girl. 'Won't you introduce me, Nesta?'

'Lord Mountry--Miss Drassilis,' said Mrs Ford.

'I'm afraid we're driving Lord Mountry away,' said the girl. Her

eyes seemed to his lordship larger, greyer, cooler, more amused,

and more contemptuous than ever. He floundered in them like an

unskilful swimmer in deep waters.

'No, no,' he stammered. 'Give you my word. Just going. Good-bye.

You won't forget to let me know about the yacht, Mrs Ford--what?

It'll be an awfully jolly party. Good-bye, good-bye, Miss

Drassilis.'

He looked at Ogden for an instant, as if undecided whether to take

the liberty of addressing him too, and then, his heart apparently

failing him, turned and bolted. From down the corridor came the

clatter of a dropped stick.

Cynthia Drassilis closed the door and smiled.

'A nervous young person!' she said. 'What was he saying about a

yacht, Nesta?'

Mrs Ford roused herself from her fascinated contemplation of

Ogden.

'Oh, nothing. Some of us are going to the south of France in his

yacht next week.'

'What a delightful idea!'

There was a certain pensive note in Cynthia's voice.

'A splendid idea!' she murmured.

Mrs Ford swooped. She descended on Ogden in a swirl and rustle of

expensive millinery, and clasped him to her.

'My boy!'

It is not given to everybody to glide neatly into a scene of tense

emotion. Ogden failed to do so. He wriggled roughly from the

embrace.

'Got a cigarette?' he said.

He was an extraordinarily unpleasant little boy. Physically the

portrait standing on the chair did him more than justice. Painted

by a mother's loving hand, it flattered him. It was bulgy. He was

more bulgy. It was sullen. He scowled. And, art having its

limitations, particularly amateur art, the portrait gave no hint

of his very repellent manner. He was an intensely sophisticated

child. He had the air of one who has seen all life has to offer,

and is now permanently bored. His speech and bearing were those of

a young man, and a distinctly unlovable young man.

Even Mrs Ford was momentarily chilled. She laughed shakily.

'How very matter-of-fact you are, darling!' she said.

Cynthia was regarding the heir to the Ford millions with her usual

steady, half-contemptuous gaze.

'He has been that all day,' she said. 'You have no notion what a

help it was to me.'

Mrs Ford turned to her effusively.

'Oh, Cynthia, dear, I haven't thanked you.'

'No,' interpolated the girl dryly.

'You're a wonder, darling. You really are. I've been repeating

that ever since I got your telegram from Eastnor.' She broke off.

'Ogden, come near me, my little son.'

He lurched towards her sullenly.

'Don't muss a fellow now,' he stipulated, before allowing himself

to be enfolded in the outstretched arms.

'Tell me, Cynthia,' resumed Mrs Ford, 'how did you do it? I was

telling Lord Mountry that I _hoped_ I might see my Ogden again

soon, but I never really hoped. It seemed too impossible that you

should succeed.'

'This Lord Mountry of yours,' said Cynthia. 'How did you get to

know him? Why have I not seen him before?'

'I met him in Paris in the fall. He has been out of London for a

long time, looking after his father, who was ill.'

'I see.'

'He has been most kind, making arrangements about getting Ogden's

portrait painted. But, bother Lord Mountry. How did we get

sidetracked on to him? Tell me how you got Ogden away.'

Cynthia yawned.

'It was extraordinarily easy, as it turned out, you see.'

'Ogden, darling,' observed Mrs Ford, 'don't go away. I want you

near me.'

'Oh, all right.'

'Then stay by me, angel-face.'

'Oh, slush!' muttered angel-face beneath his breath. 'Say, I'm

darned hungry,' he added.

It was if an electric shock had been applied to Mrs Ford. She

sprang to her feet.

'My poor child! Of course you must have some lunch. Ring the bell,

Cynthia. I'll have them send up some here.'

'I'll have _mine_ here,' said Cynthia.

'Oh, you've had no lunch either! I was forgetting that.'

'I thought you were.'

'You must both lunch here.'

'Really,' said Cynthia, 'I think it would be better if Ogden had

his downstairs in the restaurant.'

'Want to talk scandal, eh?'

'Ogden, _dearest!_' said Mrs Ford. 'Very well, Cynthia. Go,

Ogden. You will order yourself something substantial, marvel-child?'

'Bet your life,' said the son and heir tersely.

There was a brief silence as the door closed. Cynthia gazed at her

friend with a peculiar expression.

'Well, I did it, dear,' she said.

'Yes. It's splendid. You're a wonder, darling.'

'Yes,' said Cynthia.

There was another silence.

'By the way,' said Mrs Ford, 'didn't you say there was a little

thing, a small bill, that was worrying you?'

'Did I mention it? Yes, there is. It's rather pressing. In fact,

it's taking up most of the horizon at present. Here it is.'

'Is it a large sum?' Mrs Ford took the slip of paper and gave a slight

gasp. Then, coming to the bureau, she took out her cheque-book.

'It's very kind of you, Nesta,' said Cynthia. 'They were beginning

to show quite a vindictive spirit about it.'

She folded the cheque calmly and put it in her purse.

'And now tell me how you did it,' said Mrs Ford.

She dropped into a chair and leaned back, her hands behind her

head. For the first time, she seemed to enjoy perfect peace of

mind. Her eyes half closed, as if she had been making ready to

listen to some favourite music.

'Tell me from the very beginning,' she said softly.

Cynthia checked a yawn.

'Very well, dear,' she said. 'I caught the 10.20 to Eastnor, which

isn't a bad train, if you ever want to go down there. I arrived at

a quarter past twelve, and went straight up to the house--you've

never seen the house, of course? It's quite charming--and told the

butler that I wanted to see Mr Ford on business. I had taken the

precaution to find out that he was not there. He is at Droitwich.'

'Rheumatism,' murmured Mrs Ford. 'He has it sometimes.'

'The man told me he was away, and then he seemed to think that I

ought to go. I stuck like a limpet. I sent him to fetch Ogden's

tutor. His name is Broster--Reggie Broster. He is a very nice

young man. Big, broad shoulders, and such a kind face.'

'Yes, dear, yes?'

'I told him I was doing a series of drawings for a magazine of the

interiors of well-known country houses.'

'He believed you?'

'He believed everything. He's that kind of man. He believed me

when I told him that my editor particularly wanted me to sketch

the staircase. They had told me about the staircase at the inn. I

forget what it is exactly, but it's something rather special in

staircases.'

'So you got in?'

'So I got in.'

'And saw Ogden?'

'Only for a moment--then Reggie--'

'Who?'

'Mr Broster. I always think of him as Reggie. He's one of Nature's

Reggies. _Such_ a kind, honest face. Well, as I was saying,

Reggie discovered that it was time for lessons, and sent Ogden

upstairs.'

'By himself?'

'By himself! Reggie and I chatted for a while.'

Mrs Ford's eyes opened, brown and bright and hard.

'Mr Broster is not a proper tutor for my boy,' she said coldly.

'I suppose it was wrong of Reggie,' said Cynthia. 'But--I was

wearing this hat.'

'Go on.'

'Well, after a time, I said I must be starting my work. He wanted

me to start with the room we were in. I said no, I was going out

into the grounds to sketch the house from the EAST. I chose the

EAST because it happens to be nearest the railway station. I added

that I supposed he sometimes took Ogden for a little walk in the

grounds. He said yes, he did, and it was just about due. He said

possibly he might come round my way. He said Ogden would be

interested in my sketch. He seemed to think a lot of Ogden's

fondness for art.'

'Mr Broster is _not_ a proper tutor for my boy.'

'Well, he isn't your boy's tutor now, is he, dear?'

'What happened then?'

'I strolled off with my sketching things. After a while Reggie and

Ogden came up. I said I hadn't been able to work because I had

been frightened by a bull.'

'Did he believe _that_?'

'_Certainly_ he believed it. He was most kind and sympathetic.

We had a nice chat. He told me all about himself. He used to be

very good at football. He doesn't play now, but he often thinks of

the past.'

'But he must have seen that you couldn't sketch. Then what became

of your magazine commission story?'

'Well, somehow the sketch seemed to get shelved. I didn't even

have to start it. We were having our chat, you see. Reggie was

telling me how good he had been at football when he was at Oxford,

and he wanted me to see a newspaper clipping of a Varsity match he

had played in. I said I'd love to see it. He said it was in his

suit-case in the house. So I promised to look after Ogden while he

fetched it. I sent him off to get it just in time for us to catch

the train. Off he went, and here we are. And now, won't you order

that lunch you mentioned? I'm starving.'

Mrs Ford rose. Half-way to the telephone she stopped suddenly.

'My dear child! It has only just struck me! We must leave here at

once. He will have followed you. He will guess that Ogden has been

kidnapped.'

Cynthia smiled.

'Believe me, it takes Reggie quite a long time to guess anything.

Besides, there are no trains for hours. We are quite safe.'

'Are you sure?'

'Absolutely. I made certain of that before I left.'

Mrs Ford kissed her impulsively.

'Oh, Cynthia, you really are wonderful!'

She started back with a cry as the bell rang sharply.

'For goodness' sake, Nesta,' said Cynthia, with irritation, 'do

keep control of yourself. There's nothing to be frightened about.

I tell you Mr Broster can't possibly have got here in the time,

even if he knew where to go to, which I don't see how he could.

It's probably Ogden.'

The colour came back into Mrs Ford's cheeks.

'Why, of course.'

Cynthia opened the door.

'Come in, darling,' said Mrs Ford fondly. And a wiry little man

with grey hair and spectacles entered.

'Good afternoon, Mrs Ford,' he said. 'I have come to take Ogden

back.'

II

There are some situations in life so unexpected, so trying, that,

as far as concerns our opinion of those subjected to them, we

agree, as it were, not to count them; we refuse to allow the

victim's behaviour in circumstances so exacting to weigh with us

in our estimate of his or her character. We permit the great

general, confronted suddenly with a mad bull, to turn and run,

without forfeiting his reputation for courage. The bishop who,

stepping on a concealed slide in winter, entertains passers-by

with momentary rag-time steps, loses none of his dignity once the

performance is concluded.

In the same way we must condone the behaviour of Cynthia Drassilis

on opening the door of Mrs Ford's sitting-room and admitting, not

Ogden, but this total stranger, who accompanied his entry with the

remarkable speech recorded at the close of the last section.

She was a girl who prided herself on her carefully blase' and

supercilious attitude towards life; but this changeling was too

much for her. She released the handle, tottered back, and, having

uttered a discordant squeak of amazement, stood staring, eyes and

mouth wide open.

On Mrs Ford the apparition had a different effect. The rather

foolish smile of welcome vanished from her face as if wiped away

with a sponge. Her eyes, fixed and frightened like those of a

trapped animal, glared at the intruder. She took a step forward,

choking.

'What--what do you mean by daring to enter my room?' she cried.

The man held his ground, unmoved. His bearing was a curious blend

of diffidence and aggressiveness. He was determined, but

apologetic. A hired assassin of the Middle Ages, resolved to do

his job loyally, yet conscious of causing inconvenience to his

victim, might have looked the same.

'I am sorry,' he said, 'but I must ask you to let me have the boy,

Mrs Ford.'

Cynthia was herself again now. She raked the intruder with the

cool stare which had so disconcerted Lord Mountry.

'Who is this gentleman?' she asked languidly.

The intruder was made of tougher stuff than his lordship. He met

her eye with quiet firmness.

'My name is Mennick,' he said. 'I am Mr Elmer Ford's private

secretary.'

'What do you want?' said Mrs Ford.

'I have already explained what I want, Mrs Ford. I want Ogden.'

Cynthia raised her eyebrows.

'What _does_ he mean, Nesta? Ogden is not here.'

Mr Mennick produced from his breast-pocket a telegraph form, and

in his quiet, business-like way proceeded to straighten it out.

'I have here,' he said, 'a telegram from Mr Broster, Ogden's

tutor. It was one of the conditions of his engagement that if ever

he was not certain of Ogden's whereabouts he should let me know at

once. He tells me that early this afternoon he left Ogden in the

company of a strange young lady'--Mr Mennick's spectacles flashed

for a moment at Cynthia--'and that, when he returned, both of them

had disappeared. He made inquiries and discovered that this young

lady caught the 1.15 express to London, Ogden with her. On receipt

of this information I at once wired to Mr Ford for instructions. I

have his reply'--he fished for and produced a second telegram--'here.'

'I still fail to see what brings you here,' said Mrs Ford. 'Owing

to the gross carelessness of his father's employees, my son

appears to have been kidnapped. That is no reason--'

'I will read Mr Ford's telegram,' proceeded Mr Mennick unmoved.

'It is rather long. I think Mr Ford is somewhat annoyed. "The boy

has obviously been stolen by some hireling of his mother's." I am

reading Mr Ford's actual words,' he said, addressing Cynthia with

that touch of diffidence which had marked his manner since his

entrance.

'Don't apologize,' said Cynthia, with a short laugh. 'You're not

responsible for Mr Ford's rudeness.'

Mr Mennick bowed.

'He continued: "Remove him from her illegal restraint. If

necessary call in police and employ force."'

'Charming!' said Mrs Ford.

'Practical,' said Mr Mennick. 'There is more. "Before doing

anything else sack that fool of a tutor, then go to Agency and

have them recommend good private school for boy. On no account

engage another tutor. They make me tired. Fix all this today. Send

Ogden back to Eastnor with Mrs Sheridan. She will stay there with

him till further notice." That is Mr Ford's message.'

Mr Mennick folded both documents carefully and replaced them in

his pocket.

Mrs Ford looked at the clock.

'And now, would you mind going, Mr Mennick?'

'I am sorry to appear discourteous, Mrs Ford, but I cannot go

without Ogden.'

'I shall telephone to the office to send up a porter to remove

you.'

'I shall take advantage of his presence to ask him to fetch a

policeman.'

In the excitement of combat the veneer of apologetic diffidence

was beginning to wear off Mr Mennick. He spoke irritably. Cynthia

appealed to his reason with the air of a bored princess descending

to argument with a groom.

'Can't you see for yourself that he's not here?' she said. 'Do you

think we are hiding him?'

'Perhaps you would like to search my bedroom?' said Mrs Ford,

flinging the door open.

Mr Mennick remained uncrushed.

'Quite unnecessary, Mrs Ford. I take it, from the fact that he

does not appear to be in this suite, that he is downstairs making

a late luncheon in the restaurant.'

'I shall telephone--'

'And tell them to send him up. Believe me, Mrs Ford, it is the

only thing to do. You have my deepest sympathy, but I am employed

by Mr Ford and must act solely in his interests. The law is on my

side. I am here to fetch Ogden away, and I am going to have him.'

'You shan't!'

'I may add that, when I came up here, I left Mrs Sheridan--she is

a fellow-secretary of mine. You may remember Mr Ford mentioning

her in his telegram--I left her to search the restaurant and

grill-room, with instructions to bring Ogden, if found, to me in

this room.'

The door-bell rang. He went to the door and opened it.

'Come in, Mrs Sheridan. Ah!'

A girl in a plain, neat blue dress entered the room. She was a

small, graceful girl of about twenty-five, pretty and brisk, with

the air of one accustomed to look after herself in a difficult

world. Her eyes were clear and steady, her mouth sensitive but

firm, her chin the chin of one who has met trouble and faced it

bravely. A little soldier.

She was shepherding Ogden before her, a gorged but still sullen

Ogden. He sighted Mr Mennick and stopped.

'Hello!' he said. 'What have you blown in for?'

'He was just in the middle of his lunch,' said the girl. 'I

thought you wouldn't mind if I let him finish.'

'Say, what's it all about, anyway?' demanded Ogden crossly. 'Can't

a fellow have a bit of grub in peace? You give me a pain.'

Mr Mennick explained.

'Your father wishes you to return to Eastnor, Ogden.'

'Oh, all right. I guess I'd better go, then. Good-bye, ma.'

Mrs Ford choked.

'Kiss me, Ogden.'

Ogden submitted to the embrace in sulky silence. The others

comported themselves each after his or her own fashion. Mr Mennick

fingered his chin uncomfortably. Cynthia turned to the table and

picked up an illustrated paper. Mrs Sheridan's eyes filled with

tears. She took a half-step towards Mrs Ford, as if about to

speak, then drew back.

'Come, Ogden,' said Mr Mennick gruffly. Necessary, this Hired

Assassin work, but painful--devilish painful. He breathed a sigh

of relief as he passed into the corridor with his prize.

At the door Mrs Sheridan hesitated, stopped, and turned.

'I'm sorry,' she said impulsively.

Mrs Ford turned away without speaking, and went into the bedroom.

Cynthia laid down her paper.

'One moment, Mrs Sheridan.'

The girl had turned to go. She stopped.

'Can you give me a minute? Come in and shut the door. Won't you

sit down? Very well. You seemed sorry for Mrs Ford just now.'

'I am very sorry for Mrs Ford. Very sorry. I hate to see her

suffering. I wish Mr Mennick had not brought me into this.'

'Nesta's mad about that boy,' said Cynthia. 'Heaven knows why.

_I_ never saw such a repulsive child in my life. However,

there it is. I am sorry for you. I gathered from what Mr Mennick

said that you were to have a good deal of Ogden's society for some

time to come. How do you feel about it?'

Mrs Sheridan moved towards the door.

'I must be going,' she said. 'Mr Mennick will be waiting for me.'

'One moment. Tell me, don't you think, after what you saw just

now, that Mrs Ford is the proper person to have charge of Ogden?

You see how devoted she is to him?'

'May I be quite frank with you?'

'Please.'

'Well, then, I think that Mrs Ford's influence is the worst

possible for Ogden. I am sorry for her, but that does not alter my

opinion. It is entirely owing to Mrs Ford that Ogden is what he

is. She spoiled him, indulged him in every way, never checked

him--till he has become--well, what you yourself called him,

repulsive.'

Cynthia laughed.

'Oh well,' she said, 'I only talked that mother's love stuff

because you looked the sort of girl who would like it. We can drop

all that now, and come down to business.'

'I don't understand you.'

'You will. I don't know if you think that I kidnapped Ogden from

sheer affection for Mrs Ford. I like Nesta, but not as much as

that. No. I'm one of the Get-Rich-Quick-Wallingfords, and I'm

looking out for myself all the time. There's no one else to do it

for me. I've a beastly home. My father's dead. My mother's a cat.

So--'

'Please stop,' said Mrs Sheridan. I don't know why you are telling

me all this.'

'Yes, you do. I don't know what salary Mr Ford pays you, but I

don't suppose it's anything princely. Why don't you come over to

us? Mrs Ford would give you the earth if you smuggled Ogden back

to her.'

'You seem to be trying to bribe me,' said Mrs Sheridan.

'In this case,' said Cynthia, 'appearances aren't deceptive. I

am.'

'Good afternoon.'

'Don't be a little fool.'

The door slammed.

'Come back!' cried Cynthia. She took a step as if to follow, but

gave up the idea with a laugh. She sat down and began to read her

illustrated paper again. Presently the bedroom door opened. Mrs

Ford came in. She touched her eyes with a handkerchief as she

entered. Cynthia looked up.

'I'm very sorry, Nesta,' she said.

Mrs Ford went to the window and looked out.

'I'm not going to break down, if that's what you mean,' she said.

'I don't care. And, anyhow, it shows that it _can_ be done.'

Cynthia turned a page of her paper.

'I've just been trying my hand at bribery and corruption.'

'What do you mean?'

'Oh, I promised and vowed many things in your name to that

secretary person, the female one--not Mennick--if she would help

us. Nothing doing. I told her to let us have Ogden as soon as

possible, C.O.D., and she withered me with a glance and went.'

Mrs Ford shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

'Oh, let her go. I'm sick of amateurs.'

'Thank you, dear,' said Cynthia.

'Oh, I know you did your best. For an amateur you did wonderfully

well. But amateurs never really succeed. There were a dozen little

easy precautions which we neglected to take. What we want is a

professional; a man whose business is kidnapping; the sort of man

who kidnaps as a matter of course; someone like Smooth Sam

Fisher.'

'My dear Nesta! Who? I don't think I know the gentleman.'

'He tried to kidnap Ogden in 1906, when we were in New York. At

least, the police put it down to him, though they could prove

nothing. Then there was a horrible man, the police said he was

called Buck MacGinnis. He tried in 1907. That was in Chicago.'

'Good gracious! Kidnapping Ogden seems to be as popular as

football. And I thought I was a pioneer!'

Something approaching pride came into Mrs Ford's voice.

'I don't suppose there's a child in America,' she said, 'who has

had to be so carefully guarded. Why, the kidnappers had a special

name for him--they called him "The Little Nugget". For years we

never allowed him out of our sight without a detective to watch

him.'

'Well, Mr Ford seems to have changed all that now. I saw no

detectives. I suppose he thinks they aren't necessary in England.

Or perhaps he relied on Mr Broster. Poor Reggie!'

'It was criminally careless of him. This will be a lesson to him.

He will be more careful in future how he leaves Ogden at the mercy

of anybody who cares to come along and snap him up.'

'Which, incidentally, does not make your chance of getting him

away any lighter.'

'Oh, I've given up hope now,' said Mrs Ford resignedly.

'_I_ haven't,' said Cynthia.

There was something in her voice which made her companion turn

sharply and look at her. Mrs Ford might affect to be resigned, but

she was a woman of determination, and if the recent reverse had

left her bruised, it had by no means crushed her.

'Cynthia! What do you mean? What are you hinting?'

'You despise amateurs, Nesta, but, for all that, it seems that

your professionals who kidnap as a matter of course and all the

rest of it have not been a bit more successful. It was not my want

of experience that made me fail. It was my sex. This is man's

work. If I had been a man, I should at least have had brute force

to fall back upon when Mr Mennick arrived.'

Mrs Ford nodded.

'Yes, but--'

'And,' continued Cynthia, 'as all these Smooth Sam Fishers of

yours have failed too, it is obvious that the only way to kidnap

Ogden is from within. We must have some man working for us in the

enemy's camp.'

'Which is impossible,' said Mrs Ford dejectedly.

'Not at all.'

'You know a man?'

'I know _the_ man.'

'Cynthia! What do you mean? Who is he?'

'His name is Peter Burns.'

Mrs Ford shook her head.

'I don't know him.'

'I'll introduce you. You'll like him.'

'But, Cynthia, how do you know he would be willing to help us?'

'He would do it for me,' Cynthia paused. 'You see,' she went on,

'we are engaged to be married.'

'My dear Cynthia! Why did you not tell me? When did it happen?'

'Last night at the Fletchers' dance.'

Mrs Ford's eyes opened.

'Last night! Were you at a dance last night? And two railway

journeys today! You must be tired to death.'

'Oh, I'm all right, thanks. I suppose I shall be a wreck and not

fit to be seen tomorrow, but just at present I feel as if nothing

could tire me. It's the effect of being engaged, perhaps.'

'Tell me about him.'

'Well, he's rich, and good-looking, and amiable'--Cynthia ticked

off these qualities on her fingers--'and I think he's brave, and

he's certainly not so stupid as Mr Broster.'

'And you're very much in love with him?'

'I like him. There's no harm in Peter.'

'You certainly aren't wildly enthusiastic!'

'Oh, we shall hit it off quite well together. I needn't pose to

_you_, Nesta, thank goodness! That's one reason why I'm fond

of you. You know how I am situated. I've got to marry some one

rich, and Peter's quite the nicest rich man I've ever met. He's

really wonderfully unselfish. I can't understand it. With his

money, you would expect him to be a perfect horror.'

A thought seemed to strike Mrs Ford.

'But, if he's so rich--' she began. 'I forget what I was going to

say,' she broke off.

'Dear Nesta, I know what you were going to say. If he's so rich,

why should he be marrying me, when he could take his pick of half

London? Well, I'll tell you. He's marrying me for one reason,

because he's sorry for me: for another, because I had the sense to

make him. He didn't think he was going to marry anyone. A few

years ago he had a disappointment. A girl jilted him. She must

have been a fool. He thought he was going to live the rest of his

life alone with his broken heart. I didn't mean to allow that.

It's taken a long time--over two years, from start to finish--but

I've done it. He's a sentimentalist. I worked on his sympathy, and

last night I made him propose to me at the Fletchers' dance.'

Mrs Ford had not listened to these confidences unmoved. Several

times she had tried to interrupt, but had been brushed aside. Now

she spoke sharply.

'You know I was not going to say anything of the kind. And I don't

think you should speak in this horrible, cynical way of--of--'

She stopped, flushing. There were moments when she hated Cynthia.

These occurred for the most part when the latter, as now, stirred

her to an exhibition of honest feeling which she looked on as

rather unbecoming. Mrs Ford had spent twenty years trying to

forget that her husband had married her from behind the counter of

a general store in an Illinois village, and these lapses into the

uncultivated genuineness of her girlhood made her uncomfortable.

'I wasn't going to say anything of the kind,' she repeated.

Cynthia was all smiling good-humour.

'I know. I was only teasing you. "Stringing", they call it in your

country, don't they?'

Mrs Ford was mollified.

'I'm sorry, Cynthia. I didn't mean to snap at you. All the

same ...' She hesitated. What she wanted to ask smacked so

dreadfully of Mechanicsville, Illinois. Yet she put the question

bravely, for she was somehow feeling quite troubled about this

unknown Mr Burns. 'Aren't you really fond of him at all, Cynthia?'

Cynthia beamed.

'Of course I am! He's a dear. Nothing would make me give him up.

I'm devoted to old Peter. I only told you all that about him

because it shows you how kind-hearted he is. He'll do anything for

me. Well, shall I sound him about Ogden?'

The magic word took Mrs Ford's mind off the matrimonial future of

Mr Burns, and brought him into prominence in his capacity of

knight-errant. She laughed happily. The contemplation of Mr Burns

as knight-errant healed the sting of defeat. The affair of Mr

Mennick began to appear in the light of a mere skirmish.

'You take my breath away!' she said. 'How do you propose that Mr

Burns shall help us?'

'It's perfectly simple. You heard Mr Mennick read that telegram.

Ogden is to be sent to a private school. Peter shall go there

too.'

'But how? I don't understand. We don't know which school Mr

Mennick will choose.'

'We can very soon find out.'

'But how can Mr Burns go there?'

'Nothing easier. He will be a young man who has been left a little

money and wants to start a school of his own. He goes to Ogden's

man and suggests that he pay a small premium to come to him for a

term as an extra-assistant-master, to learn the business. Mr Man

will jump at him. He will be getting the bargain of his life.

Peter didn't get much of a degree at Oxford, but I believe he was

wonderful at games. From a private-school point of view he's a

treasure.'

'But--would he do it?'

'I think I can persuade him.'

Mrs Ford kissed her with an enthusiasm which hitherto she had

reserved for Ogden.

'My darling girl,' she cried, 'if you knew how happy you have made

me!'

'I do,' said Cynthia definitely. 'And now you can do the same for

me.'

'Anything, anything! You must have some more hats.'

'I don't want any more hats. I want to go with you on Lord

Mountry's yacht to the Riviera.'

'Of course,' said Mrs Ford after a slight pause, 'it isn't my

party, you know, dear.'

'No. But you can work me in, darling.'

'It's quite a small party. Very quiet.'

'Crowds bore me. I enjoy quiet.'

Mrs Ford capitulated.

'I fancy you are doing me a very good turn,' she said. 'You must

certainly come on the yacht.'

'I'll tell Peter to come straight round here now,' said Cynthia

simply. She went to the telephone.

Part Two

In which other interested parties, notably one Buck MacGinnis and

a trade rival, Smooth Sam Fisher, make other plans for the Nugget's

future. Of stirring times at a private school for young gentlemen.

Of stratagems, spoils, and alarms by night. Of journeys ending in

lovers' meetings. The whole related by Mr Peter Burns, gentleman

of leisure, who forfeits that leisure in a good cause.

Peter Burns's Narrative

Chapter 1

I

I am strongly of the opinion that, after the age of twenty-one, a

man ought not to be out of bed and awake at four in the morning.

The hour breeds thought. At twenty-one, life being all future, it

may be examined with impunity. But, at thirty, having become an

uncomfortable mixture of future and past, it is a thing to be

looked at only when the sun is high and the world full of warmth

and optimism.

This thought came to me as I returned to my rooms after the

Fletchers' ball. The dawn was breaking as I let myself in. The air

was heavy with the peculiar desolation of a London winter morning.

The houses looked dead and untenanted. A cart rumbled past, and

across the grey street a dingy black cat, moving furtively along

the pavement, gave an additional touch of forlornness to the

scene.

I shivered. I was tired and hungry, and the reaction after the

emotions of the night had left me dispirited.

I was engaged to be married. An hour back I had proposed to

Cynthia Drassilis. And I can honestly say that it had come as a

great surprise to me.

Why had I done it? Did I love her? It was so difficult to analyse

love: and perhaps the mere fact that I was attempting the task was

an answer to the question. Certainly I had never tried to do so

five years ago when I had loved Audrey Blake. I had let myself be

carried on from day to day in a sort of trance, content to be

utterly happy, without dissecting my happiness. But I was five

years younger then, and Audrey was--Audrey.

I must explain Audrey, for she in her turn explains Cynthia.

I have no illusions regarding my character when I first met Audrey

Blake. Nature had given me the soul of a pig, and circumstances

had conspired to carry on Nature's work. I loved comfort, and I

could afford to have it. From the moment I came of age and

relieved my trustees of the care of my money, I wrapped myself in

comfort as in a garment. I wallowed in egoism. In fact, if,

between my twenty-first and my twenty-fifth birthdays, I had one

unselfish thought, or did one genuinely unselfish action, my

memory is a blank on the point.

It was at the height of this period that I became engaged to

Audrey. Now that I can understand her better and see myself,

impartially, as I was in those days, I can realize how indescribably

offensive I must have been. My love was real, but that did not

prevent its patronizing complacency being an insult. I was King

Cophetua. If I did not actually say in so many words, 'This

beggar-maid shall be my queen', I said it plainly and often in my

manner. She was the daughter of a dissolute, evil-tempered artist

whom I had met at a Bohemian club. He made a living by painting

an occasional picture, illustrating an occasional magazine-story,

but mainly by doing advertisement work. A proprietor of a patent

Infants' Food, not satisfied with the bare statement that Baby

Cried For It, would feel it necessary to push the fact home to the

public through the medium of Art, and Mr Blake would be commissioned

to draw the picture. A good many specimens of his work in this vein

were to be found in the back pages of the magazines.

A man may make a living by these means, but it is one that

inclines him to jump at a wealthy son-in-law. Mr Blake jumped at

me. It was one of his last acts on this earth. A week after he

had--as I now suspect--bullied Audrey into accepting me, he died

of pneumonia.

His death had several results. It postponed the wedding: it

stirred me to a very crescendo of patronage, for with the removal

of the bread-winner the only flaw in my Cophetua pose had

vanished: and it gave Audrey a great deal more scope than she had

hitherto been granted for the exercise of free will in the choice

of a husband.

This last aspect of the matter was speedily brought to my notice,

which till then it had escaped, by a letter from her, handed to me

one night at the club, where I was sipping coffee and musing on

the excellence of life in this best of all possible worlds.

It was brief and to the point. She had been married that morning.

To say that that moment was a turning point in my life would be to

use a ridiculously inadequate phrase. It dynamited my life. In a

sense it killed me. The man I had been died that night, regretted,

I imagine, by few. Whatever I am today, I am certainly not the

complacent spectator of life that I had been before that night.

I crushed the letter in my hand, and sat staring at it, my pigsty

in ruins about my ears, face to face with the fact that, even in a

best of all possible worlds, money will not buy everything.

I remember, as I sat there, a man, a club acquaintance, a bore

from whom I had fled many a time, came and settled down beside me

and began to talk. He was a small man, but he possessed a voice to

which one had to listen. He talked and talked and talked. How I

loathed him, as I sat trying to think through his stream of words.

I see now that he saved me. He forced me out of myself. But at the

time he oppressed me. I was raw and bleeding. I was struggling to

grasp the incredible. I had taken Audrey's unalterable affection

for granted. She was the natural complement to my scheme of

comfort. I wanted her; I had chosen and was satisfied with her,

therefore all was well. And now I had to adjust my mind to the

impossible fact that I had lost her.

Her letter was a mirror in which I saw myself. She said little,

but I understood, and my self-satisfaction was in ribbons--and

something deeper than self-satisfaction. I saw now that I loved

her as I had not dreamed myself capable of loving.

And all the while this man talked and talked.

I have a theory that speech, persevered in, is more efficacious in

times of trouble than silent sympathy. Up to a certain point it

maddens almost beyond endurance; but, that point past, it soothes.

At least, it was so in my case. Gradually I found myself hating

him less. Soon I began to listen, then to answer. Before I left

the club that night, the first mad frenzy, in which I could have

been capable of anything, had gone from me, and I walked home,

feeling curiously weak and helpless, but calm, to begin the new

life.

Three years passed before I met Cynthia. I spent those years

wandering in many countries. At last, as one is apt to do, I

drifted back to London, and settled down again to a life which,

superficially, was much the same as the one I had led in the days

before I knew Audrey. My old circle in London had been wide, and I

found it easy to pick up dropped threads. I made new friends,

among them Cynthia Drassilis.

I liked Cynthia, and I was sorry for her. I think that, about that

time I met her, I was sorry for most people. The shock of Audrey's

departure had had that effect upon me. It is always the bad nigger

who gets religion most strongly at the camp-meeting, and in my

case 'getting religion' had taken the form of suppression of self.

I never have been able to do things by halves, or even with a

decent moderation. As an egoist I had been thorough in my egoism;

and now, fate having bludgeoned that vice out of me, I found

myself possessed of an almost morbid sympathy with the troubles of

other people.

I was extremely sorry for Cynthia Drassilis. Meeting her mother

frequently, I could hardly fail to be. Mrs Drassilis was a

representative of a type I disliked. She was a widow, who had been

left with what she considered insufficient means, and her outlook

on life was a compound of greed and querulousness. Sloane Square

and South Kensington are full of women in her situation. Their

position resembles that of the Ancient Mariner. 'Water, water

everywhere, and not a drop to drink.' For 'water' in their case

substitute 'money'. Mrs Drassilis was connected with money on all

sides, but could only obtain it in rare and minute quantities. Any

one of a dozen relations-in-law could, if they had wished, have

trebled her annual income without feeling it. But they did not so

wish. They disapproved of Mrs Drassilis. In their opinion the Hon.

Hugo Drassilis had married beneath him--not so far beneath him as

to make the thing a horror to be avoided in conversation and

thought, but far enough to render them coldly polite to his wife

during his lifetime and almost icy to his widow after his death.

Hugo's eldest brother, the Earl of Westbourne, had never liked the

obviously beautiful, but equally obviously second-rate, daughter

of a provincial solicitor whom Hugo had suddenly presented to the

family one memorable summer as his bride. He considered that, by

doubling the income derived from Hugo's life-insurance and

inviting Cynthia to the family seat once a year during her

childhood, he had done all that could be expected of him in the

matter.

He had not. Mrs Drassilis expected a great deal more of him, the

non-receipt of which had spoiled her temper, her looks, and the

peace of mind of all who had anything much to do with her.

It used to irritate me when I overheard people, as I occasionally

have done, speak of Cynthia as hard. I never found her so myself,

though heaven knows she had enough to make her so, to me she was

always a sympathetic, charming friend.

Ours was a friendship almost untouched by sex. Our minds fitted so

smoothly into one another that I had no inclination to fall in

love. I knew her too well. I had no discoveries to make about her.

Her honest, simple soul had always been open to me to read. There

was none of that curiosity, that sense of something beyond that

makes for love. We had reached a point of comradeship beyond which

neither of us desired to pass.

Yet at the Fletchers' ball I asked Cynthia to marry me, and she

consented.

* * * * *

Looking back, I can see that, though the determining cause was Mr

Tankerville Gifford, it was Audrey who was responsible. She had

made me human, capable of sympathy, and it was sympathy,

primarily, that led me to say what I said that night.

But the immediate cause was certainly young Mr Gifford.

I arrived at Marlow Square, where I was to pick up Cynthia and her

mother, a little late, and found Mrs Drassilis, florid and

overdressed, in the drawing-room with a sleek-haired, pale young

man known to me as Tankerville Gifford--to his intimates, of whom

I was not one, and in the personal paragraphs of the coloured

sporting weeklies, as 'Tanky'. I had seen him frequently at

restaurants. Once, at the Empire, somebody had introduced me to

him; but, as he had not been sober at the moment, he had missed

any intellectual pleasure my acquaintanceship might have afforded

him. Like everybody else who moves about in London, I knew all

about him. To sum him up, he was a most unspeakable little cad,

and, if the drawing-room had not been Mrs Drassilis's, I should

have wondered at finding him in it.

Mrs Drassilis introduced us.

'I think we have already met,' I said.

He stared glassily.

'Don't remember.'

I was not surprised.

At this moment Cynthia came in. Out of the corner of my eye I

observed a look of fuddled displeasure come into Tanky's face at

her frank pleasure at seeing me.

I had never seen her looking better. She is a tall girl, who

carries herself magnificently. The simplicity of her dress gained

an added dignity from comparison with the rank glitter of her

mother's. She wore unrelieved black, a colour which set off to

wonderful advantage the clear white of her skin and her pale-gold

hair.

'You're late, Peter,' she said, looking at the clock.

'I know. I'm sorry.'

'Better be pushing, what?' suggested Tanky.

'My cab's waiting.'

'Will you ring the bell, Mr Gifford?' said Mrs Drassilis. 'I will

tell Parker to whistle for another.'

'Take me in yours,' I heard a voice whisper in my ear.

I looked at Cynthia. Her expression had not changed. Then I looked

at Tanky Gifford, and I understood. I had seen that stuffed-fish

look on his face before--on the occasion when I had been

introduced to him at the Empire.

'If you and Mr Gifford will take my cab,' I said to Mrs Drassilis,

'we will follow.'

Mrs Drassilis blocked the motion. I imagine that the sharp note in

her voice was lost on Tanky, but it rang out like a clarion to me.

'I am in no hurry,' she said. 'Mr Gifford, will you take Cynthia?

I will follow with Mr Burns. You will meet Parker on the stairs.

Tell him to call another cab.'

As the door closed behind them, she turned on me like a many-coloured

snake.

'How can you be so extraordinarily tactless, Peter?' she cried.

'You're a perfect fool. Have you no eyes?'

'I'm sorry,' I said.

'He's devoted to her.'

'I'm sorry.'

'What do you mean?'

'Sorry for her.'

She seemed to draw herself together inside her dress. Her eyes

glittered. My mouth felt very dry, and my heart was beginning to

thump. We were both furiously angry. It was a moment that had been

coming for years, and we both knew it. For my part I was glad that

it had come. On subjects on which one feels deeply it is a relief

to speak one's mind.

'Oh!' she said at last. Her voice quivered. She was clutching at

her self-control as it slipped from her. 'Oh! And what is my

daughter to you, Mr Burns!'

'A great friend.'

'And I suppose you think it friendly to try to spoil her chances?'

'If Mr Gifford is a sample of them--yes.'

'What do you mean?'

She choked.

'I see. I understand. I am going to put a stop to this once and

for all. Do you hear? I have noticed it for a long time. Because I

have given you the run of the house, and allowed you to come in

and out as you pleased, like a tame cat, you presume--'

'Presume--' I prompted.

'You come here and stand in Cynthia's way. You trade on the fact

that you have known us all this time to monopolize her attention.

You spoil her chances. You--'

The invaluable Parker entered to say that the cab was at the door.

We drove to the Fletchers' house in silence. The spell had been

broken. Neither of us could recapture that first, fine, careless

rapture which had carried us through the opening stages of the

conflict, and discussion of the subject on a less exalted plane

was impossible. It was that blessed period of calm, the rest

between rounds, and we observed it to the full.

When I reached the ballroom a waltz was just finishing. Cynthia, a

statue in black, was dancing with Tanky Gifford. They were

opposite me when the music stopped, and she caught sight of me

over his shoulder.

She disengaged herself and moved quickly towards me.

'Take me away,' she said under her breath. 'Anywhere. Quick.'

It was no time to consider the etiquette of the ballroom. Tanky,

startled at his sudden loneliness, seemed by his expression to be

endeavouring to bring his mind to bear on the matter. A couple

making for the door cut us off from him, and following them, we

passed out.

Neither of us spoke till we had reached the little room where I

had meditated.

She sat down. She was looking pale and tired.

'Oh, dear!' she said.

I understood. I seemed to see that journey in the cab, those

dances, those terrible between-dances ...

It was very sudden.

I took her hand. She turned to me with a tired smile. There were

tears in her eyes ...

I heard myself speaking ...

She was looking at me, her eyes shining. All the weariness seemed

to have gone out of them.

I looked at her.

There was something missing. I had felt it when I was speaking. To

me my voice had had no ring of conviction. And then I saw what it

was. There was no mystery. We knew each other too well. Friendship

kills love.

She put my thought into words.

'We have always been brother and sister,' she said doubtfully.

'Till tonight.'

'You have changed tonight? You really want me?'

Did I? I tried to put the question to myself and answer it

honestly. Yes, in a sense, I had changed tonight. There was an

added appreciation of her fineness, a quickening of that blend of

admiration and pity which I had always felt for her. I wanted with

all my heart to help her, to take her away from her dreadful

surroundings, to make her happy. But did I want her in the sense

in which she had used the word? Did I want her as I had wanted

Audrey Blake? I winced away from the question. Audrey belonged to

the dead past, but it hurt to think of her.

Was it merely because I was five years older now than when I had

wanted Audrey that the fire had gone out of me?

I shut my mind against my doubts.

'I have changed tonight,' I said.

And I bent down and kissed her.

I was conscious of being defiant against somebody. And then I knew

that the somebody was myself.

I poured myself out a cup of hot coffee from the flask which

Smith, my man, had filled against my return. It put life into me.

The oppression lifted.

And yet there remained something that made for uneasiness, a sort

of foreboding at the back of my mind.

I had taken a step in the dark, and I was afraid for Cynthia. I

had undertaken to give her happiness. Was I certain that I could

succeed? The glow of chivalry had left me, and I began to doubt.

Audrey had taken from me something that I could not recover--poetry

was as near as I could get to a definition of it. Yes, poetry.

With Cynthia my feet would always be on the solid earth. To the

end of the chapter we should be friends and nothing more.

I found myself pitying Cynthia intensely. I saw her future a

series of years of intolerable dullness. She was too good to be

tied for life to a battered hulk like myself.

I drank more coffee and my mood changed. Even in the grey of a

winter morning a man of thirty, in excellent health, cannot pose

to himself for long as a piece of human junk, especially if he

comforts himself with hot coffee.

My mind resumed its balance. I laughed at myself as a sentimental

fraud. Of course I could make her happy. No man and woman had ever

been more admirably suited to each other. As for that first

disaster, which I had been magnifying into a life-tragedy, what of

it? An incident of my boyhood. A ridiculous episode which--I rose

with the intention of doing so at once--I should now proceed to

eliminate from my life.

I went quickly to my desk, unlocked it, and took out a photograph.

And then--undoubtedly four o'clock in the morning is no time for a

man to try to be single-minded and decisive--I wavered. I had

intended to tear the thing in pieces without a glance, and fling

it into the wastepaper-basket. But I took the glance and I

hesitated.

The girl in the photograph was small and slight, and she looked

straight out of the picture with large eyes that met and

challenged mine. How well I remembered them, those Irish-blue eyes

under their expressive, rather heavy brows. How exactly the

photographer had caught that half-wistful, half-impudent look, the

chin tilted, the mouth curving into a smile.

In a wave all my doubts had surged back upon me. Was this mere

sentimentalism, a four-in-the-morning tribute to the pathos of the

flying years, or did she really fill my soul and stand guard over

it so that no successor could enter in and usurp her place?

I had no answer, unless the fact that I replaced the photograph in

its drawer was one. I felt that this thing could not be decided

now. It was more difficult than I had thought.

All my gloom had returned by the time I was in bed. Hours seemed

to pass while I tossed restlessly aching for sleep.

When I woke my last coherent thought was still clear in my mind.

It was a passionate vow that, come what might, if those Irish eyes

were to haunt me till my death, I would play the game loyally with

Cynthia.

II

The telephone bell rang just as I was getting ready to call at

Marlow Square and inform Mrs Drassilis of the position of affairs.

Cynthia, I imagined, would have broken the news already, which

would mitigate the embarrassment of the interview to some extent;

but the recollection of my last night's encounter with Mrs

Drassilis prevented me from looking forward with any joy to the

prospect of meeting her again.

Cynthia's voice greeted me as I unhooked the receiver.

'Hullo, Peter! Is that you? I want you to come round here at

once.'

'I was just starting,' I said.

'I don't mean Marlow Square. I'm not there. I'm at the Guelph. Ask

for Mrs Ford's suite. It's very important. I'll tell you all about

it when you get here. Come as soon as you can.'

My rooms were conveniently situated for visits to the Hotel

Guelph. A walk of a couple of minutes took me there. Mrs Ford's

suite was on the third floor. I rang the bell and Cynthia opened

the door to me.

'Come in,' she said. 'You're a dear to be so quick.'

'My rooms are only just round the corner.' She shut the door, and

for the first time we looked at one another. I could not say that

I was nervous, but there was certainly, to me, a something strange

in the atmosphere. Last night seemed a long way off and somehow a

little unreal. I suppose I must have shown this in my manner, for

she suddenly broke what had amounted to a distinct pause by giving

a little laugh. 'Peter,' she said, 'you're embarrassed.' I denied

the charge warmly, but without real conviction. I was embarrassed.

'Then you ought to be,' she said. 'Last night, when I was looking

my very best in a lovely dress, you asked me to marry you. Now you

see me again in cold blood, and you're wondering how you can back

out of it without hurting my feelings.'

I smiled. She did not. I ceased to smile. She was looking at me in

a very peculiar manner.

'Peter,' she said, 'are you sure?'

'My dear old Cynthia,' I said, 'what's the matter with you?'

'You are sure?' she persisted.

'Absolutely, entirely sure.' I had a vision of two large eyes

looking at me out of a photograph. It came and went in a flash.

I kissed Cynthia.

'What quantities of hair you have,' I said. 'It's a shame to cover

it up.' She was not responsive. 'You're in a very queer mood

today, Cynthia,' I went on. 'What's the matter?'

'I've been thinking.'

'Out with it. Something has gone wrong.' An idea flashed upon me.

'Er--has your mother--is your mother very angry about--'

'Mother's delighted. She always liked you, Peter.'

I had the self-restraint to check a grin.

'Then what is it?' I said. 'Tired after the dance?'

'Nothing as simple as that.'

'Tell me.'

'It's so difficult to put it into words.'

'Try.'

She was playing with the papers on the table, her face turned

away. For a moment she did not speak.

'I've been worrying myself, Peter,' she said at last. 'You are so

chivalrous and unselfish. You're quixotic. It's that that is

troubling me. Are you marrying me just because you're sorry for

me? Don't speak. I can tell you now if you will just let me say

straight out what's in my mind. We have known each other for two

years now. You know all about me. You know how--how unhappy I am

at home. Are you marrying me just because you pity me and want to

take me out of all that?'

'My dear girl!'

'You haven't answered my question.'

'I answered it two minutes ago when you asked me if--'

'You do love me?'

'Yes.'

All this time she had been keeping her face averted, but now she

turned and looked into my eyes with an abrupt intensity which, I

confess, startled me. Her words startled me more.

'Peter, do you love me as much as you loved Audrey Blake?'

In the instant which divided her words from my reply my mind flew

hither and thither, trying to recall an occasion when I could have

mentioned Audrey to her. I was convinced that I had not done so. I

never mentioned Audrey to anyone.

There is a grain of superstition in the most level-headed man. I

am not particularly level-headed, and I have more than a grain in

me. I was shaken. Ever since I had asked Cynthia to marry me, it

seemed as if the ghost of Audrey had come back into my life.

'Good Lord!' I cried. 'What do you know of Audrey Blake?'

She turned her face away again.

'Her name seems to affect you very strongly,' she said quietly.

I recovered myself.

'If you ask an old soldier,' I said, 'he will tell you that a

wound, long after it has healed, is apt to give you an occasional

twinge.'

'Not if it has really healed.'

'Yes, when it has really healed--when you can hardly remember how

you were fool enough to get it.'

She said nothing.

'How did you hear about--it?' I asked.

'When I first met you, or soon after, a friend of yours--we

happened to be talking about you--told me that you had been engaged

to be married to a girl named Audrey Blake. He was to have been

your best man, he said, but one day you wrote and told him there

would be no wedding, and then you disappeared; and nobody saw you

again for three years.'

'Yes,' I said: 'that is all quite true.'

'It seems to have been a serious affair, Peter. I mean--the sort

of thing a man would find it hard to forget.'

I tried to smile, but I knew that I was not doing it well. It was

hurting me extraordinarily, this discussion of Audrey.

'A man would find it almost impossible,' I said, 'unless he had a

remarkably poor memory.'

'I didn't mean that. You know what I mean by forget.'

'Yes,' I said, 'I do.'

She came quickly to me and took me by the shoulders, looking into

my face.

'Peter, can you honestly say you have forgotten her--in the sense

I mean?'

'Yes,' I said.

Again that feeling swept over me--that curious sensation of being

defiant against myself.

'She does not stand between us?'

'No,' I said.

I could feel the effort behind the word. It was as if some

subconscious part of me were working to keep it back.

'Peter!'

There was a soft smile on her face; as she raised it to mine I put

my arms around her.

She drew away with a little laugh. Her whole manner had changed.

She was a different being from the girl who had looked so gravely

into my eyes a moment before.

'Oh, my dear boy, how terribly muscular you are! You've crushed

me. I expect you used to be splendid at football, like Mr

Broster.'

I did not reply at once. I cannot wrap up the deeper emotions and

put them back on their shelf directly I have no further immediate

use for them. I slowly adjusted myself to the new key of the

conversation.

'Who's Broster?' I asked at length.

'He used to be tutor to'--she turned me round and pointed--'to

_that_.'

I had seen a picture standing on one of the chairs when I entered

the room but had taken no particular notice of it. I now gave it a

closer glance. It was a portrait, very crudely done, of a

singularly repulsive child of about ten or eleven years old.

_Was_ he, poor chap! Well, we all have our troubles, don't

we! Who _is_ this young thug! Not a friend of yours, I hope?'

'That is Ogden, Mrs Ford's son. It's a tragedy--'

'Perhaps it doesn't do him justice. Does he really squint like

that, or is it just the artist's imagination?'

'Don't make fun of it. It's the loss of that boy that is breaking

Nesta's heart.'

I was shocked.

'Is he dead? I'm awfully sorry. I wouldn't for the world--'

'No, no. He is alive and well. But he is dead to her. The court

gave him into the custody of his father.'

'The court?'

'Mrs Ford was the wife of Elmer Ford, the American millionaire.

They were divorced a year ago.'

'I see.'

Cynthia was gazing at the portrait.

'This boy is quite a celebrity in his way,' she said. 'They call

him "The Little Nugget" in America.'

'Oh! Why is that?'

'It's a nickname the kidnappers have for him. Ever so many

attempts have been made to steal him.'

She stopped and looked at me oddly.

'I made one today, Peter,' she said. I went down to the country,

where the boy was, and kidnapped him.'

'Cynthia! What on earth do you mean?'

'Don't you understand? I did it for Nesta's sake. She was breaking

her heart about not being able to see him, so I slipped down and

stole him away, and brought him back here.'

I do not know if I was looking as amazed as I felt. I hope not,

for I felt as if my brain were giving way. The perfect calmness

with which she spoke of this extraordinary freak added to my

confusion.

'You're joking!'

'No; I stole him.'

'But, good heavens! The law! It's a penal offence, you know!'

'Well, I did it. Men like Elmer Ford aren't fit to have charge of

a child. You don't know him, but he's just an unscrupulous

financier, without a thought above money. To think of a boy

growing up in that tainted atmosphere--at his most impressionable

age. It means death to any good there is in him.'

My mind was still grappling feebly with the legal aspect of the

affair.

'But, Cynthia, kidnapping's kidnapping, you know! The law doesn't

take any notice of motives. If you're caught--'

She cut through my babble.

'Would you have been afraid to do it, Peter?'

'Well--' I began. I had not considered the point before.

'I don't believe you would. If I asked you to do it for my sake--'

'But, Cynthia, kidnapping, you know! It's such an infernally low-down

game.'

'I played it. Do you despise _me_?'

I perspired. I could think of no other reply.

'Peter,' she said, 'I understand your scruples. I know exactly how

you feel. But can't you see that this is quite different from the

sort of kidnapping you naturally look on as horrible? It's just

taking a boy away from surroundings that must harm him, back to

his mother, who worships him. It's not wrong. It's splendid.'

She paused.

'You _will_ do it for me, Peter?' she said.

'I don't understand,' I said feebly. 'It's done. You've kidnapped

him yourself.'

'They tracked him and took him back. And now I want _you_ to

try.' She came closer to me. 'Peter, don't you see what it will

mean to me if you agree to try? I'm only human, I can't help, at

the bottom of my heart, still being a little jealous of this

Audrey Blake. No, don't say anything. Words can't cure me; but if

you do this thing for me, I shall be satisfied. I shall _know_.'

She was close beside me, holding my arm and looking into my face.

That sense of the unreality of things which had haunted me since

that moment at the dance came over me with renewed intensity. Life

had ceased to be a rather grey, orderly business in which day

succeeded day calmly and without event. Its steady stream had

broken up into rapids, and I was being whirled away on them.

'Will you do it, Peter? Say you will.'

A voice, presumably mine, answered 'Yes'.

'My dear old boy!'

She pushed me into a chair, and, sitting on the arm of it, laid

her hand on mine and became of a sudden wondrously business-like.

'Listen,' she said, 'I'll tell you what we have arranged.'

It was borne in upon me, as she began to do so, that she appeared

from the very beginning to have been extremely confident that that

essential part of her plans, my consent to the scheme, could be

relied upon as something of a certainty. Women have these

intuitions.

III

Looking back, I think I can fix the point at which this insane

venture I had undertaken ceased to be a distorted dream, from

which I vaguely hoped that I might shortly waken, and took shape

as a reality of the immediate future. That moment came when I met

Mr Arnold Abney by appointment at his club.

Till then the whole enterprise had been visionary. I gathered from

Cynthia that the boy Ogden was shortly to be sent to a preparatory

school, and that I was to insinuate myself into this school and,

watching my opportunity, to remove him; but it seemed to me that

the obstacles to this comparatively lucid scheme were insuperable.

In the first place, how were we to discover which of England's

million preparatory schools Mr Ford, or Mr Mennick for him, would

choose? Secondly, the plot which was to carry me triumphantly into

this school when--or if--found, struck me as extremely thin. I

was to pose, Cynthia told me, as a young man of private means,

anxious to learn the business, with a view to setting up a school

of his own. The objection to that was, I held, that I obviously

did not want to do anything of the sort. I had not the appearance

of a man with such an ambition. I had none of the conversation of

such a man.

I put it to Cynthia.

'They would find me out in a day,' I assured her. 'A man who wants

to set up a school has got to be a pretty brainy sort of fellow. I

don't know anything.'

'You got your degree.'

'A degree. At any rate, I've forgotten all I knew.'

'That doesn't matter. You have the money. Anybody with money can

start a school, even if he doesn't know a thing. Nobody would

think it strange.'

It struck me as a monstrous slur on our educational system, but

reflection told me it was true. The proprietor of a preparatory

school, if he is a man of wealth, need not be able to teach, any

more than an impresario need be able to write plays.

'Well, we'll pass that for the moment,' I said. 'Here's the real

difficulty. How are you going to find out the school Mr Ford has

chosen?'

'I have found it out already--or Nesta has. She set a detective to

work. It was perfectly easy. Ogden's going to Mr Abney's. Sanstead

House is the name of the place. It's in Hampshire somewhere. Quite

a small school, but full of little dukes and earls and things.

Lord Mountry's younger brother, Augustus Beckford, is there.'

I had known Lord Mountry and his family well some years ago. I

remembered Augustus dimly.

'Mountry? Do you know him? He was up at Oxford with me.'

She seemed interested.

'What kind of a man is he?' she asked.

'Oh, quite a good sort. Rather an ass. I haven't seen him for

years.'

'He's a friend of Nesta's. I've only met him once. He is going to

be your reference.'

'My what?'

'You will need a reference. At least, I suppose you will. And,

anyhow, if you say you know Lord Mountry it will make it simpler

for you with Mr Abney, the brother being at the school.'

'Does Mountry know about this business? Have you told him why I

want to go to Abney's?'

'Nesta told him. He thought it was very sporting of you. He will

tell Mr Abney anything we like. By the way, Peter, you will have

to pay a premium or something, I suppose. But Nesta will look

after all expenses, of course.'

On this point I made my only stand of the afternoon.

'No,' I said; 'it's very kind of her, but this is going to be

entirely an amateur performance. I'm doing this for you, and I'll

stand the racket. Good heavens! Fancy taking money for a job of

this kind!'

She looked at me rather oddly.

'That is very sweet of you, Peter,' she said, after a slight

pause. 'Now let's get to work.'

And together we composed the letter which led to my sitting, two

days later, in stately conference at his club with Mr Arnold

Abney, M.A., of Sanstead House, Hampshire.

Mr Abney proved to be a long, suave, benevolent man with an Oxford

manner, a high forehead, thin white hands, a cooing intonation,

and a general air of hushed importance, as of one in constant

communication with the Great. There was in his bearing something

of the family solicitor in whom dukes confide, and something of

the private chaplain at the Castle.

He gave me the key-note to his character in the first minute of

our acquaintanceship. We had seated ourselves at a table in the

smoking-room when an elderly gentleman shuffled past, giving a nod

in transit. My companion sprang to his feet almost convulsively,

returned the salutation, and subsided slowly into his chair again.

'The Duke of Devizes,' he said in an undertone. 'A most able man.

Most able. His nephew, Lord Ronald Stokeshaye, was one of my

pupils. A charming boy.'

I gathered that the old feudal spirit still glowed to some extent

in Mr Abney's bosom.

We came to business.

'So you wish to be one of us, Mr Burns, to enter the scholastic

profession?'

I tried to look as if I did.

'Well, in certain circumstances, the circumstances in which

I--ah--myself, I may say, am situated, there is no more delightful

occupation. The work is interesting. There is the constant

fascination of seeing these fresh young lives develop--and of

helping them to develop--under one's eyes; in any case, I may say,

there is the exceptional interest of being in a position to mould

the growing minds of lads who will some day take their place among

the country's hereditary legislators, that little knot of devoted

men who, despite the vulgar attacks of loudmouthed demagogues,

still do their share, and more, in the guidance of England's

fortunes. Yes.'

He paused. I said I thought so, too.

'You are an Oxford man, Mr Burns, I think you told me? Ah, I have

your letter here. Just so. You were at--ah, yes. A fine college.

The Dean is a lifelong friend of mine. Perhaps you knew my late

pupil, Lord Rollo?--no, he would have been since your time. A

delightful boy. Quite delightful ... And you took your degree?

Exactly. _And_ represented the university at both cricket and

Rugby football? Excellent. _Mens sana in_--ah--_corpore_, in fact,

_sano_, yes!'

He folded the letter carefully and replaced it in his pocket.

'Your primary object in coming to me, Mr Burns, is, I gather, to

learn the--ah--the ropes, the business? You have had little or no

previous experience of school-mastering?'

'None whatever.'

'Then your best plan would undoubtedly be to consider yourself and

work for a time simply as an ordinary assistant-master. You would

thus get a sound knowledge of the intricacies of the profession

which would stand you in good stead when you decide to set up your

own school. School-mastering is a profession, which cannot be

taught adequately except in practice. "Only those who--ah--brave

its dangers comprehend its mystery." Yes, I would certainly

recommend you to begin at the foot of the ladder and go, at least

for a time, through the mill.'

'Certainly,' I said. 'Of course.'

My ready acquiescence pleased him. I could see that he was

relieved. I think he had expected me to jib at the prospect of

actual work.

'As it happens,' he said, 'my classical master left me at the end

of last term. I was about to go to the Agency for a successor when

your letter arrived. Would you consider--'

I had to think this over. Feeling kindly disposed towards Mr

Arnold Abney, I wished to do him as little harm as possible. I was

going to rob him of a boy, who, while no moulding of his growing

mind could make him into a hereditary legislator, did undoubtedly

represent a portion of Mr Abney's annual income; and I did not

want to increase my offence by being a useless assistant-master.

Then I reflected that, if I was no Jowett, at least I knew enough

Latin and Greek to teach the rudiments of those languages to small

boys. My conscience was satisfied.

'I should be delighted,' I said.

'Excellent. Then let us consider that as--ah--settled,' said Mr

Abney.

There was a pause. My companion began to fiddle a little

uncomfortably with an ash-tray. I wondered what was the matter,

and then it came to me. We were about to become sordid. The

discussion of terms was upon us.

And as I realized this, I saw simultaneously how I could throw one

more sop to my exigent conscience. After all, the whole thing was

really a question of hard cash. By kidnapping Ogden I should be

taking money from Mr Abney. By paying my premium I should be

giving it back to him.

I considered the circumstances. Ogden was now about thirteen years

old. The preparatory-school age limit may be estimated roughly at

fourteen. That is to say, in any event Sanstead House could only

harbour him for one year. Mr Abney's fees I had to guess at. To be

on the safe side, I fixed my premium at an outside figure, and,

getting to the point at once, I named it.

It was entirely satisfactory. My mental arithmetic had done me

credit. Mr Abney beamed upon me. Over tea and muffins we became

very friendly. In half an hour I heard more of the theory of

school-mastering than I had dreamed existed.

We said good-bye at the club front door. He smiled down at me

benevolently from the top of the steps.

'Good-bye, Mr Burns, good-bye,' he said. 'We shall meet

at--ah--Philippi.'

When I reached my rooms, I rang for Smith.

'Smith,' I said, 'I want you to get some books for me first thing

tomorrow. You had better take a note of them.'

He moistened his pencil.

'A Latin Grammar.'

'Yes, sir.'

'A Greek Grammar.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Brodley Arnold's Easy Prose Sentences.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And Caesar's Gallic Wars.'

'What name, sir?'

'Caesar.'

'Thank you, sir. Anything else, sir?'

'No, that will be all.'

'Very good, sir.'

He shimmered from the room.

Thank goodness, Smith always has thought me mad, and is consequently

never surprised at anything I ask him to do.