“Good morning, Dick,” said Elizabeth. “Where did they pick you up? I
told them to try——”
“Forsyth,” said Pembury sternly, “I don’t remember instructing you——”
“One minute,” cried Forsyth. “One minute. My hands are clean. I haven’t
moved in the matter. I never found the lady. She found me.”
“But——”
“It’s perfectly true,” said Elizabeth. “I only heard last night. Of
course, it’s my own fault. I really must read the papers: but they’re so
frightfully dull—usually.”
“Who told you?” said Pembury.
“Hilton, of course. But observe how astute I am. A fool would have
rushed to you. The woman of the world goes to a lawyer.”
“Why does she do that?”
“Because,” said Elizabeth, “it’s Saturday, and lawyers are closed at
one. By the time I’d had it out with you, the lawyers would have been
closed. As it is, we’re in just nice time. My statement’s being typed
now.”
“I won’t have you called,” said Pembury.
“Quite sure?” said Lady Elizabeth.
“Positive. That’s flat. You can’t be called without my consent, and,
short of pressin’ me to death, you won’t get that.”
“But, Dick——”
“My dear, it’s no earthly. I’m absolutely resolved. I not only won’t
call you, but I won’t have you near the Court.”
He flung himself into a chair and crossed his legs.
“Now, Dick, just listen. Put yourself in my place. Supposing I was
charged with something I hadn’t done. And everything——”
“Dot,” said Pembury, “it’s not the slightest good. You know as well as I
do that it’s a question of sex. What’s sauce for the goose may be sauce
for the gander—but it can’t always be served. For people to know that
we were dining ’ld be bad enough, but what about the beer?”
“Well, what about it?” said Dot. “What’s the matter with the truth?
Remembering my affection for the beverage, you were considerate
enough——”
“My dear girl,” said Pembury, “it’s out of the question. You can’t
parade intimate nursery incidents in a Court of Law. Possibly, if we
were brother and sister——”
“We are, practically. As I was telling Mr. Forsyth——”
“Well, it’s not the moment to advertise it. Forsyth knows that as well
as I do. Of course, he’s out to pull me out of the muck, but I’m not
takin’ any. Either I get out myself, or I stay where I am. _I won’t have
you called._ More. Unless you give me your word not only to hold your
tongue but not to come within a mile of the Joy Shop till it’s all over,
I’ll—I’ll plead ‘Guilty.’”
Forsyth shifted in his chair.
Lady Elizabeth raised her delicate eyebrows.
“Well, there you are,” she said. “If you will cut your own little
throat, I can’t stop you. Only, I can’t marry a man who’s been convicted
of drunkenness.” Pembury leaped to his feet. “I can’t, really. You see,
I’m funny like that. It’s—it’s against my principles.”
“Dot!” shouted Pembury. “Dot! What on earth d’you mean? You’re engaged
to——”
“Finish, my dear, finish. I’ve turned him down. You’ll see it in _The
Times_ on Monday. I just couldn’t stick the swine. If we could have
lived apart, I might have managed it. But together—no thanks. Charing
opened my eyes. I was happy enough there, until he came. Then everything
crashed. Better is a cold tub, where love is, than a tiled bathroom and
hatred therewith. Don’t you agree, Mr. Forsyth?”
“Dot! Dot, my darling, is this a have?”
Pembury had her hands and was gazing into her eyes. The man was
transfigured, blazing.
“No,” said Elizabeth. “It isn’t. It’s ordinary, natural love. Don’t go,
Mr. Forsyth. I’ld rather like you to stay. I say it’s ordinary love.
I’ve loved you for years, Dick. But when you never spoke, at last I came
to the conclusion that you didn’t care for me—that way. And so—I
turned elsewhere. Not to another man, because there was no other man and
never could be. So I turned to money, instead. I told you I was
degenerate. . . . And then, when on Sunday night you showed your
hand—the hand you’d never played, the hand I’d been waiting for you to
play for such a long, long time—I didn’t know what to do. You see,
things had gone rather far. . . . And then—Sir Hilton Shutter very
kindly showed me the way.”
A door closed. Forsyth had disobeyed.
“But, Dot, my darling, we’ll be awfully poor.”
“D’you think I care? I only worshipped riches because I hadn’t got you.
Luxury was the god I set up in your place. I tried to drown my love in a
butt of Malmsey. But, you see, it couldn’t be done. Malmsey’s sickening
stuff. I’ld much sooner drink beer. And now about this old trial. I’m to
be in attendance, in case——”
“Oh, damn the trial,” said Pembury, taking her in his arms. “I haven’t
kissed your blessed mouth since——”
“August the seventh, 1914,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve got it down in a
diary. ‘He kissed my lips.’”
“My sweet, my sweet. . . .”
The girl just clung to him.
After a moment or two she lifted a radiant face.
“I think I shall have to marry you, whether you’re convicted or not. You
see, you’re not only my Best Man—you’re so much the very best man I
ever saw.”
* * * * *
On Monday, those sections of the Press which had been hoping to be able
to announce _Sensational Developments_ under the heading WELL-KNOWN
VISCOUNT CHARGED were more than satisfied.
Before the case was called on, the Magistrate left the Bench, and
Quaritch and his opponent were summoned behind the scenes. This was
unusual. By the time the three reappeared excitement was running high.
The Magistrate’s clerk nodded, and the case was called on.
Pembury stepped into the dock, and the Magistrate cleared his throat.
“Mr. Shorthorn,” he said. The Solicitor to the Police rose to his feet
and bowed. “I have decided, before proceeding with this case, to tell
you that I have formed a very definite opinion.
“The position in which I stand is one of peculiar difficulty. If the
charge was less grave, if the social position of the defendant was less
considerable, if all the circumstances did not combine, rightly or
wrongly, to attract to this case a good deal of attention, my path would
be plain and easy to follow. As it is, I have thought proper to consult
the Chief Magistrate and I may say that he agrees with me that the
course which I am about to take is the only one which is at once
convenient and just.
“By the merest accident, I am in possession of information which has a
direct and powerful bearing upon this charge. That information would
become evidence, if I could be put into the box.”
He paused.
Except for the noise of breathing and the flick of a reporter’s page,
the Court, which was crammed with people, was still as death.
In a retired waiting-room Lady Elizabeth sat fretfully straining her
ears, continually crossing and recrossing two sweet pretty legs and
striving desperately to possess a mutinous spirit.
The Magistrate proceeded.
“In view of what I have said, Mr. Shorthorn, would you prefer that
another Magistrate should deal with this case?”
“I am more than content, sir, that you should deal with it.”
Mr. Shorthorn resumed his seat.
“And you, Mr. Quaritch?”
Treasury Counsel smiled whimsically.
“The best, sir,” he said, “is good enough for me.”
An attempt at applause, which succeeded the roar of laughter, was
instantly suppressed.
“Very well, then. On the evening of the defendant’s arrest I was dining
out. Though he is probably unaware of the fact, I patronized the same
restaurant as he did and, what is more, I sat at the next table.”
Everyone’s gaze shifted to the accused. The latter stood like a rock.
“And I observed—if I may say so, with surprise—that he drank nothing
but water.”
A nervous ripple of laughter ran through the Court.
“I see that my words were equivocal. I should say that my surprise was
provoked not by his personal failure to drink wine—for I do not know
his habits and I never set eyes on him before—but by the spectacle of
anyone of his age who to-day considers water fit for internal use.”
The Court laughed tremulously.
“The results of my observation do not end there. We are told that the
collision occurred at ten-twenty-five. As luck will have it, I saw the
defendant leave. I did not notice the time, for there was, of course, no
reason at all why I should: but, recalling my own movements, I am
satisfied that he finally left that restaurant not earlier than
ten-fifteen. He was then unquestionably sober.
“The opinion I have formed is that in no circumstances is it possible
for a man who is sober at ten-fifteen, who for the last two hours has
touched no alcohol, to be drunk at ten-twenty-five.”
That upon the evening in question the learned Magistrate’s watch was ten
minutes fast was not his fault. The man was scrupulous.
The case for the prosecution died there and then.
The prosecution was withdrawn, apologies were offered, the defendant
left the dock, applause was suppressed.
Mr. Quaritch knew his job.
He rose to his feet.
“If, sir, I may complete the solution of this matter by disclosing what
happened in the ten minutes of time during which my client was under
observation neither by the judiciary nor the executive, I must confess
that he seized the opportunity to consume a small glass of beer.”
The Court roared its merriment.
“Possibly, the discovery of a small bottle of Bass—grim relic of some
picnic—was responsible for his lapse from grace. Upon that point I have
no instructions. It follows that at the time of the collision he
indubitably smelt of liquor, and, while personally I should become
uneasy if to smell of liquor were to be regarded as the peculiar
privilege of drunkards, it was presumably his indignant recognition of
that mocking perfume which provoked the constable, whose name, I
observe, is Worthington, to . . .”
The rest of the sentence was lost in an explosion of delight—which the
defendant missed.
In a retired waiting-room, cheek against cheek, Pembury and Lady
Elizabeth let the world slip. . . .
And, as I have said, certain sections of the Press were perfectly
satisfied. Could they have perused one document, reposing in Counsel’s
Brief, I imagine their satisfaction would have melted like snow upon the
hearth. The very first words would have fused it—_THE LADY ELIZABETH
CRECY will say_. . . . As it was, they were perfectly satisfied. And,
when they were able to announce the lady’s engagement to _the hero of a
recent cause célèbre_, they could have thrown up their hats.
It was generally admitted that Lady Elizabeth was to marry by far the
best man. Harry Fairie, of Castle Charing, put it much more strongly.