“Must be some mistake,” he muttered, wiping his brow. Then he turned to
the page. “All right. I’ll come.”
He bowed an apology to Sarah and followed his executioner out of the
room. . . .
Of the two, Sarah was, if possible, the more dumbfounded.
Upon the very first evening she had made up her mind that Miss June
Townshend was non-existent. She could have sworn that Pardoner had
invented the lady, to be a foil to George Fulke. Gleefully, she had
decided to turn the foil into a lash to be laid mischievously about her
fiancé’s shoulders. The laborious drafting of the letter to June had
afforded her the highest gratification, and her searching
cross-examinations of Virgil upon his associations with the lady had
never failed to bear her most refreshing fruit. Now, without a word of
warning, the Palace of Fun had fallen, and out of the ruins were
sticking some extremely ill-favoured truths. The very least of these was
suggesting that the edifice had been erected upon a foundation of
distasteful fact.
It was while she was staring at Virgil’s empty place, considering these
things, that for the first time she realized something which was still
more to the point. This was that with her future husband she was most
heartily in love. . . .
Pardoner walked down the hall, thinking furiously. Arrived at the box,
he took the spare receiver and told the page to speak for him.
“Say you can’t find me,” he said, “and ask her to leave a message.”
The boy did so.
A voice, which was anything but gentle, replied:
“All right, I’ll come round.”
Virgil blenched.
“Say I’m not living here, and you don’t know my address.”
“Then why you ask me to leave a message,” flashed Miss Townshend.
“Er—on the chance,” stammered the page.
“Well, ’ere it is—on the chance,” said Jane. “I’ll be round in ’alf an
hour.”
The receiver was slammed into place.
Virgil and the page stared at one another in dismay.
Then the former said an extremely unpleasant word under his breath and
erupted violently from the box. . .
Miss Vulliamy greeted him with a cold smile.
“Get on all right?” she said acidly.
“We must leave at once,” said Virgil. “Go on to the Berkeley, or my
rooms, or somewhere. We can’t stay here. She says she’s coming at
once—may be here any moment.”
“Then why go?” said Sarah.
“Well, we can’t be here when she comes. You don’t want a scene, do you?
Screams and yells in the hall, and all that sort of thing?” He mopped
the sweat from his face. “It’s all that blinking letter you made me
write,” he added savagely. “I might have known——”
“But, of course, you must see her,” said Sarah, rising. “I’ll go, if you
like: but you must stay. Poor, wretched girl, you can’t——”
“Stay?” cried Virgil. “You’re mad. I don’t want to be blackmailed.”
“But you said that June——”
“It—it _isn’t_ June,” wailed Pardoner. “I mean, it can’t be. It—it
isn’t her voice. It’s an impostor—that’s the word—impostor, Sarah.
Someone or other’s got hold of that blasted letter, and now they’re
trying it on.”
“But it must be June,” said Sarah. “The telephone’s very deceptive.
Sometimes those very soft voices——”
“I tell you it’s _not_,” raged Virgil. “_June doesn’t drop her ‘h’s’._”
With a bright red spot upon either cheek, Miss Vulliamy preceded him to
the door.
While she was getting her cloak, Pardoner gave the porter instructions
too definite to be mistaken. These he reinforced with two pounds.
Then a taxi was summoned, and a moment later the two were flying up
Brook Street. . . .
Pardoner entered that cab with the determined intention of telling Miss
Vulliamy the truth. He meant to humble himself. He intended to apologize
for his reception of his amazing luck. He meant to ask her to do her
best to love and to confess there and then that “if the Will went west
to-morrow morning, I’ld beg and humbly pray you to become my wife.”
Fate ruled otherwise.
The tone in which his fiancée cut short his opening sentence with a
request to be taken home, would have silenced anyone. After a second
effort, which was met by the lady with a true flash of temper, Pardoner
told the cabman to drive to Rutland Gate.
The journey was completed without a word.
Arrived at the house, Sarah was handed out with her head in the air.
Virgil’s offer to ring or use her latchkey might not have been made. His
presence was ignored utterly. My lady let herself in, and closed the
door behind her exactly as if she were alone. The broad white step
without, might have been empty. Then she went to her room and burst into
tears.
Virgil repaired to a Club and ordered a brandy and soda. This he imbibed
in the library, where no one may speak, cursing all women with a deep
and bitter curse. . . .
After a perfectly poisonous hour and a half, he went to bed.
Upon the following morning he received two several communications.
The first was from the hall-porter at Claridge’s and made his hair rise.
The second was from Sarah and desired him to meet her at noon at
Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
Pardoner agreed, but went early, proposing to have Forsyth to himself
for a valuable quarter of an hour. Miss Vulliamy went early also, with
the same idea. They met on the doorstep and, as Forsyth was engaged,
spent an awkward ten minutes in the same waiting-room. . . .
At last they were shown into the presence.
The solicitor, who had been hoping to congratulate them as lovers, was
much disappointed. Still, his hopes were not dashed, and, wisely making
no attempt to thaw the atmosphere, begged to be told the nature of the
trouble.
Virgil stammered the facts. He was careful to tell nothing but the
truth. But for Sarah’s presence, he would have gone further, and told
the whole truth . . . but for Sarah’s presence . . .
Forsyth heard him out gravely. Then he rang for a clerk.
“Get me on to Claridge’s,” he said.
In silence the three awaited the connection.
Presently a bell throbbed.
Forsyth picked up the receiver.
“Is that Claridge’s? Put me on to the hall-porter. . . . Hullo! . . .
This is Forsyth and Co., solicitors. . . . Yes, Mr. Forsyth. . . . I
understand a lady calling herself ‘Miss Townshend,’ has been asking for
Mr. Pardoner. . . . Yes? . . . Sitting in the hall now, is she? Good.
Tell her that he will be there to see her at three o’clock. . . .
Right. . . . Good-bye.”
“But, look here,” said Virgil, “I’m not going to——”
“Yes, you are,” said Forsyth. “You’re going to be in the lounge. Two of
my clerks are going to be there also. One of these is going to take your
name in vain. He’s going to meet the lady and say he’s you. Of course,
it may not come off, but it’s worth trying. If it does, we’ve got her
cold. There’s the evidence of a spare clerk and the hall-porter, to say
she took John Snooks for Virgil Pardoner. You must be there yourself, to
have a look at her. If, having seen her, you’ve anything more to say,
say it to the spare clerk. And to-night you must leave for Lincolnshire.
The real Miss Townshend must know the facts of the case, and we
obviously can’t trust the post. If all goes well, she won’t be needed,
but if there’s any hitch, she’ll have to be produced.”
Pardoner broke into a sweat.