Freddie Stickney owed his presence in the Friocksheim house-party to
qualities other than those which make a welcome guest. He was a mean
little man, with a skin which invariably proved itself impenetrable to
ordinary social pin-pricks; and this thickness of hide enabled him to
thrust himself into positions wherein an average individual would have
felt too keenly that he was an intruder. He had invited himself,
knowing Rollo Dangerfield’s dislike for hurting people’s feelings and
counting on that quality to avoid a refusal; and, having arrived, he
proposed to stay for just as long as it suited him to do so. Not that
he had any special interest in the Dangerfields. He had angled for
three other invitations before turning to Friocksheim as a last
resource. However, he was quite prepared to make the most of it, now
that he had fixed the thing up. “Even the best of us,” he reflected
philosophically, “even the best of us have to put up with the
second-best at times.” And in this kindly spirit he had come down from
town.
Freddie’s lack of popularity was due to certain peculiarities in his
mind. An acquaintance of his, hard put to it to account for the
matter, had explained it thus: “Freddie’s got a certain acuteness.
Give him a fact, and he’ll worry at it and draw inferences from it.
And the funny thing is that every inference he draws tends to
discredit somebody or something. And yet he doesn’t do it out of
malice. It’s just Freddie’s way. He’s got that kind of mind—can’t help
making people uncomfortable.”
On the afternoon of the day after Rollo Dangerfield had shown the
Talisman to his guests, Freddie was lounging on a seat in the garden
when one of these inference-bearing facts crossed his mind.
“Why,” he said to himself, “now that Westenhanger’s gone to town, we
shall be thirteen at table to-night. That’s very thoughtless of the
Dangerfields. Out of thirteen people there’s certain to be at least
one person who’s superstitious. That’ll be most uncomfortable for
everybody. I think I’d better mention it before we sit down.”
As it chanced he had not to wait so long before announcing his
discovery. Before he had finished a mental analysis of the probable
distribution of superstition among his fellow-guests, Mrs. Dangerfield
came into view, armed with gloves and scissors. Freddie rose and
joined her.
“Going to cut some flowers?” he inquired. “May I help?”
Mrs. Dangerfield refused his assistance; but Freddie was not to be
shaken off.
“Friend of mine once suffered badly. Tore his finger with a thorn,
then let some dirt into it. Careless fellow he was, poor chap. It
suppurated, swelled up, they had to take the finger off at last.”
Mrs. Dangerfield deliberately put on her gardening gloves.
“I don’t think I shall run much risk in these, Mr. Stickney.”
“No? Perhaps not. Still, one never can tell, you know. A single prick
from a rose-thorn would be enough.”
Mrs. Dangerfield laughed.
“You must be a terribly thoughtful person to live with.”
Freddie considered this for a moment.
“No. Just a knack I have of seeing a thing and knowing how it happens.
That reminds me—we shall be thirteen at table to-night. Don’t mind
myself, of course—and I’m sure you don’t mind either—but some of the
people might, you know. It’s awkward.”
“I shouldn’t trouble about it, Mr. Stickney. As a matter of fact, I
remembered it yesterday and rang up Mrs. Tuxford. She and the doctor
will dine with us to-night. So no one’s feelings will be ruffled. And
of course we never have a full party at lunch. Is your mind relieved?”
Mrs. Dangerfield did not like Freddie Stickney.
“But what about breakfast to-morrow?” pursued the indefatigable
inquirer. “They might happen to turn up all at the same time.”
“Mrs. Brent always breakfasts in her own room,” said Mrs. Dangerfield,
who was tired of the subject. “I’m sorry. I have some orders to give
to this gardener.”
Dismissed in this summary fashion Freddie Stickney wandered about the
grounds until it was time to go into the house and dress. He was
feeling rather bored. Friocksheim might be cheaper than the Continent,
but undeniably it was slow. Nothing happened at Friocksheim. These
people seemed to have no interest in scandal. He began to wish that
something would turn up to liven things a little. He had had hopes of
Morchard at first. The mottle-faced fellow seemed to be keen on the
girls; and anything might turn up. But none of the girls seemed
interested in Morchard. Nor did they seem fascinated by Freddie
himself. A slow place, decidedly slow. He was thoughtful while he
dressed. If the Dangerfield circle was going to turn out so boring he
might be forced to leave earlier than he had intended; but that would
mean paying hotel bills somewhere, and Freddie’s frugal mind could
hardly bring itself to consider that prospect except as a last resort.
After dinner the party split up. Douglas Fairmile, complaining
bitterly of the heat and clamouring for fresh air, easily persuaded
Cynthia to follow him out into the gardens. Old Dangerfield impressed
Freddie Stickney to make up a bridge four with Nina Lindale and the
doctor’s wife. As they sat down Mrs. Tuxford put in a plea for small
stakes.
“What do you call ‘small stakes?’” demanded Freddie. “As low as ten
bob a hundred? They’re playing their usual points at the other table,
I think.”
He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, and noted that Mrs. Caistor
Scorton and Morchard were playing against Eric Dangerfield and Eileen.
The doctor’s wife, a shy-looking girl, seemed taken aback by Freddie’s
ideas.
“I simply can’t afford to play for anything higher than a shilling a
hundred,” she said, ignoring Freddie’s ill-suppressed astonishment at
the figure. “I’m sorry, but there it is.”
Rollo Dangerfield winced under Freddie’s tactlessness. He knew that
the doctor’s practice was a very small one; and he admired the girl
for having the grit to keep the stakes down.
“Quite right,” he interjected, swiftly, before Freddie could say
anything further, “I agree with you, Mrs. Tuxford. A shilling a
hundred suits well enough if one’s keen on the game for its own sake.
I’d much rather play with people who want to win a rubber than with
other people who only want to win a sovereign.”
“I’m quite pleased to play for a shilling a hundred,” said Nina
Lindale.
Freddie could take a hint as well as most people. His eyes opened a
little wider, but nothing else showed whether he was pleased or
displeased. As the game began, the doctor came across the room and
glanced at his wife’s hand.
Mrs. Brent, feeling the thunderous closeness of the night, had made
her way to a chair beside one of the deep windows; and leaning back in
it she tried to persuade herself that she felt a breath of cooler air.
Wraxall and Mrs. Dangerfield followed her, and they were joined almost
immediately by the doctor. Helga Dangerfield circled round the two
tables, halting for a moment or two to scan the cards. Then, saying
she had some letters to write, she left the room.
“The storm must be coming to-night,” Mrs. Brent asserted, as a faint
puff of sultry air momentarily stirred the curtain beside her. “It’s
been banking up all day; and I’m sure it can’t keep off much longer. I
can feel all my nerves atwitch.”
Wraxall bent forward in his chair and scanned the heavy clouds.
“I’m not up in your weather-signs,” he said, “but it does seem to me
that there’s a shake-up coming. I should certainly judge we’d have
rain soon. I should say we’re in for a regular water-spout if those
clouds burst overhead. It will be wet.”
The doctor was examining Mrs. Brent’s face with an interest more
friendly than professional.
“Nerves?” he asked kindly.
She nodded.
“A dose of bromide? Quieten them, and give you a chance to get to
sleep. I can take my car down and make it up for you in ten minutes,
if you’d like it.”
Mrs. Brent thanked him with a smile; but she nodded dissent to his
suggestion.
“No,” she answered, “I don’t believe in running away from things. I
loathe thunder; but I’m not so feeble as all that. I’d much rather
take it as it comes.”
The doctor was about to say something when she stopped him with a
gesture and bent forward to the window, listening intensely.
“What bird was that?” she asked.
“I heard nothing,” said the doctor.
“Listen!” she motioned for silence, and they sat with ears strained.
“There! Didn’t you hear it?”
“No, nothing,” said the American.
“There it is again!” Mrs. Brent held up her hand for a moment. “It’s
stopped now. Didn’t you hear it, Anne?”
Mrs. Dangerfield shook her head.
“You always forget that the rest of us aren’t gifted with super-normal
hearing, you know.”
“Well, I heard it quite distinctly. It’s down yonder in the trees near
the Pool, I think.”
“Nobody else heard it, at any rate,” said the doctor. “You must have
remarkably sharp ears, Mrs. Brent. Now I begin to see why you dislike
thunder so much. It must be a perfect torture to a person with your
acute hearing. I withdraw my suggestion about a sedative. Nothing
short of morphia would keep you asleep in a storm, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I haven’t come to that yet,” Mrs. Brent retorted. “And I prefer
to keep what nerves I have, rather than wreck them further with drugs.
One can always stand a thing if one makes up one’s mind to it.”
“One thing I won’t stand,” said Mrs. Dangerfield, “and that’s the heat
in this room. Let’s go outside and see if we can’t find a cooler spot
to sit.”
The doctor rose and followed her as she crossed the room; but Mrs.
Brent seemed to reject the idea. She remained in her chair and
Wraxall, after rising, sat down again. For a time Mrs. Brent remained
silent, gazing out at the inky sky; but at last she turned to the
American.
“Well, Mr. Wraxall,” she demanded in a low voice which could not reach
the bridge players. “Are you still confident of getting what you
want?”
The American’s face betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
“I couldn’t say. No, it’s too early yet to say. I’ll admit that it’s a
stiffer thing than I expected. It’s certainly stiffer than I supposed.
But I haven’t tried to get it yet. I think I’ll wait till I have
tried, before I say what I think. But I thank you for what you told
me. I take that kindly of you. If you’d said nothing I’d have made a
mistake, likely enough. I hadn’t quite a grip of the situation; I’ll
say that frankly.”
Mrs. Brent scanned his imperturbable features for a moment and then
changed the subject.
“Rather a contrast between those two bridge-tables over there. Mrs.
Tuxford plays well; but she kept the stakes down. The play at the
other table seems to me little better than gambling. I’ve heard
‘Re-double’ twice in the last round or two; and Miss Cressage isn’t
half as good at bridge as Mrs. Tuxford.”
Wraxall looked at her with a faint admiration showing on his face.
“You don’t miss much, Mrs. Brent. That’s a fact. I’ve been watching
them play, but it hadn’t struck me. You’re quite right. But I suppose
they can stand it.”
“I suppose so. No business of mine,” retorted Mrs. Brent, shortly.
She turned slightly round in her chair, however, and studied the faces
of the players at Eileen’s table. Things were going very badly for the
girl. She was the worst of the four, and in addition, her nerve was
going, and her play was growing more and more reckless. That night she
had sat down with the pleasant feeling that in an hour or two she
would have won something more towards the payment of these bills which
still hung over her. But somehow, this evening, things were different.
Instead of Conway Westenhanger, she had Eric Dangerfield as a partner;
and without quite realising what the change meant she had found that
the games did not run so smoothly as they had done on the night
before. Once or twice she had miscalculated, and her partner had left
her to fend for herself. A run of bad cards had eaten still further
into her nerve.
And then, suddenly, she had realised how much she had already lost;
and she had begun to play more wildly in the hope of recouping
herself. The gains of the previous evening were gone by now, and she
was steadily running up a score against herself. She began to feel the
heat of the night; and her play became more erratic.
Mrs. Brent studied her face for a round or two without comment. Then
she turned to the American with an expression which might almost have
been an ill-concealed sneer.
“If either of us was a philanthropist, Mr. Wraxall, I think we could
find a field for our talents by persuading that girl to stop before
she makes matters worse. She’s making a fool of herself.”
“I judge so from her looks. I don’t play bridge. It seems to me to
lack the complete psychological satisfaction that poker gives. And it
hasn’t the swiftness of faro. It’s too slow and not brainy enough. I
regard it as a dud game.”
Mrs. Brent turned her back to the bridge-table.
“Well, if we worried ourselves about other people’s troubles we should
have a full life of it,” she said. “As I told you the other night, I’m
not a professing philanthropist.”
The American made no direct reply.
“You’ve got a headache?” he asked.
“Frightful. It’s the storm, I think.”
“I judged so from your eyes. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go off and
leave you. You won’t be anxious to talk when you feel that way.”
Mrs. Brent gloomily acquiesced. Wraxall rose from his chair and left
the room. As soon as he had gone she turned again slightly and resumed
her study of Eileen Cressage’s face. The girl was evidently slipping
into desperation; and her play had degenerated into mere gambling on
long chances. Once or twice she won heavily; but the run of luck was
persistently against her. Mrs. Brent shifted her attention to Eric
Dangerfield’s face; and from it she could learn that he was growing
uneasy. Once or twice he endeavoured to take the play out of his
partner’s hands; but he had nothing like the skill of Conway
Westenhanger. More often than not, his attempts at rescue ended in
worse disaster. Occasionally he glanced at the score and knitted his
brows; but his play continued steady. He had not lost his nerve, like
the girl.
After a final disastrous round, the bridge-party completed the rubber
and came to a close. Mrs. Brent saw Eileen Cressage lean over and
watch Morchard as he added up the long array of figures; and the
girl’s perturbation at the sight of the scoring-block was written
plainly in her face. Morchard was slow in arithmetic; and as he
laboriously totted up column after column, the distress deepened and
the girl went whiter. At last he jotted down the total and worked out
the cash equivalent.
“That’s—let’s see—two hundred and six pounds eighteen, isn’t it?” he
said, putting down the scoring-block and pencil.
“What did you say? I didn’t quite catch,” said Eileen. Two hundred
pounds! She knew they had been losing steadily; but this was far
beyond her worst anticipations. She couldn’t possibly pay that, even
if she were given a year to do it. What had persuaded her to play at
all? She felt her throat dry and mechanically moistened her lips.
“Two hundred and six pounds eighteen, I make it,” repeated Morchard.
“Not bad, partner.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton glanced keenly at the girl’s face.
“Well!” she said, shortly, pushing her chair back slightly as though
to show that the time had come to settle.
Eileen pulled herself together with an effort.
“I’m afraid I haven’t enough money to pay just now,” she said. “I
suppose you won’t mind letting it stand over for a little?”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton brought her eyes back to Eileen’s face. Her thin
lips were compressed for a moment; and when she spoke, her voice was
hard:
“I always settle my own bridge-debts immediately; and I expect other
people to do the same.”
Eileen flushed. After all, she had had fair warning. Mrs. Caistor
Scorton had said the same thing the night before, when she had been
the loser.
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t as much money as that on hand.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton reflected for a moment.
“Well, you can give me a cheque, if you like,” she conceded. “But,
frankly, I prefer to keep these things on a cash basis always. It’s a
fad of mine; and I don’t like to break my rule.”
The ungraciousness of the tone was evident; but Eileen cared little
for that. All she wanted was to escape the humiliation of a public
explanation. A cheque would furnish a way out of present difficulties.
She could hand it over; and then, later on, she could explain the
state of affairs to her creditor without an embarrassing audience.
“Wait a moment and I’ll get my cheque-book,” she said, rising from her
chair. As she turned, she noticed Morchard’s eyes fixed upon her and
there seemed to be something speculative in his gaze. In his glance
she read that he understood the state of affairs perfectly; but she
saw no sign of sympathy in his face. Instead, there seemed to be
calculation.
She climbed the great staircase, traversed the long corridor which ran
at the back of the main building, and turned down the passage leading
to her own room in the rear of the house. In a moment or two she had
found her cheque-book, scribbled a cheque, and was back in the
drawing-room. So eager was she to avoid an argument in public that she
hardly gave a thought to the possible results of her action.
“£206 18s.—is that right?” she asked, passing the slip of paper across
to Mrs. Caistor Scorton.
Mrs. Scorton picked up the cheque, glanced at its face to make sure
that it was in order, and then put it away. Eric Dangerfield watched
her, with an uncomfortable expression, then he turned to his other
opponent:
“Give you a cheque, if you don’t mind, Morchard,” he said. “I’ll let
you have it to-night or to-morrow—now, if you’re anxious.”
Morchard was still studying Eileen’s face.
“Oh, any time will do,” he said, absently. “There’s no hurry.”
The second bridge-table completed a rubber and the players rose from
their seats. Mrs. Brent, in her turn, left her chair and approached
the group.
“I think it’s growing closer every minute,” she said. “Would anyone
care to walk in the gardens for a while? I’m going out.”
Morchard seized on the suggestion.
“That’s a good idea. Care to come down to the Pool, Miss Cressage?
It’s sure to be cooler there, beside the water.”
The girl assented listlessly. Her mind was still busy with the
disaster of the evening. What a fool she had been! But calling herself
names would hardly help now. She would have to find some way out of
the affair; and the raising of £200 was beyond her resources
completely. Perhaps Mrs. Caistor Scorton wasn’t so bad as she seemed.
Possibly she might turn out to be rather a decent person; these
surface-hard people often were like that. Of course the money would
have to be found eventually; but if time were given, something might
be done.
The group moved out on to the terrace in front of the house. Freddie
Stickney attached himself to Nina Lindale, and they went off together
down into the gardens. Eric Dangerfield, looking worried, approached
his uncle, and they followed the other two. Morchard and Eileen
descended the steps and turned off into one of the side-alleys. Mrs.
Brent turned to the remaining two:
“Mr. Morchard’s quite right, I think,” she said. “If there’s any
coolness to be had to-night, it will be down at the Pool. Shall we
go?”
She looked up at the inky sky with some distrust. Mrs. Caistor Scorton
turned back towards the door.
“It looks very like a downpour,” she reflected. “I don’t think I’ll
join you. I have to write a note to my bankers and one or two other
things, and I may as well do that now.”
“Oh, very well,” said Mrs. Brent, placidly. “Perhaps you’re right.
Will you risk it, Mrs. Tuxford?”
They moved off in the track of the two Dangerfields, leaving Mrs.
Scorton to return to the house.
“I think we might walk a shade faster,” Mrs. Brent suggested in a
moment or two. She seemed anxious about something. “I hate moving
about at all on a night like this; but I’d really give a good deal for
a breath of fresh air. It’s like an oven up there at the house; but
down beside the water it ought to be cooler. Really, if this spell
doesn’t break soon I shall simply take French leave and go off in the
_Kestrel_.”
She pointed towards the bay, where one or two of the yacht’s lights
flickered upon the water. Mrs. Tuxford nodded understandingly.
“I know how you feel—nerves all ragged. And you’ve got a headache,
too. Don’t bother to talk. Let’s walk along quietly and see if the air
about the Pool will do you any good.”
By winding paths they came at last to the edge of the belt of trees
which encircled the sheet of water. Just before they emerged from the
shadows, Mrs. Brent pulled up and glanced round the Pool. On the
further bank, some forty yards off, she caught a glimpse of Eileen
Cressage’s dress lit up by the moonlight, and a flash of Morchard’s
shirt-front as he turned a little.
“I think we’ll stop,” said Mrs. Brent to her companion. “It’s cool
enough here under the trees.”
She fell into a listening attitude:
“Did you hear that bird-call?”
Mrs. Tuxford strained her ears, but heard nothing. Mrs. Brent excused
herself with a gesture:
“I always forget that my hearing is sharp. Can’t you even hear those
people talking over there? Sound carries far across water.”
Again Mrs. Tuxford listened intently.
“Nothing but a murmur,” she said.
Mrs. Brent held up a finger.
“There! That bird-call . . . lovely. Do you mind if I listen to it?”
Mrs. Tuxford nodded acquiescence and watched her companion listening
intently to something which she herself could not catch. Her eyes
wandered to the two figures across the Pool; but they were standing
half in the shadows and she could make very little of them.
Just at that moment, as it happened, Morchard was engaged upon a
psychological problem very much after his own heart. He had played
bridge that evening with a steadily growing satisfaction. To him,
Eileen Cressage’s face had been an open book; and he had read without
difficulty the thoughts which passed through her mind.
“That girl’s in difficulties,” he had ruminated, as the game
progressed. “I know the signs. She’ll not be able to pay. I know the
Scorton; she’ll want her money. Little Cressage hasn’t a blue cent. I
like these dark-haired, pale-skinned girls, especially when they’re
rather shy, like her.”
The incident of the cheque had been clear as glass.
“The Scorton won’t collect much on that, or I’m mistaken. It’ll come
back with ‘Refer to Drawer’ on it, sure enough. And the girl knows it,
too. She’s just staved off trouble for a few hours. That is, unless
someone else foots the bill. Two hundred’s only a flea-bite.”
He had wandered down to the Pool beside Eileen without saying very
much. That would give her time to think over things and to realise
what a hole she had got herself into. Card-debts were things one
simply had to pay. At one point only he had broken the silence, and
then it was to relate an anecdote of Mrs. Caistor Scorton, an anecdote
which brought out to the full the hardness of that lady’s character
where money was concerned. When they reached the shore, he glanced
round to see that no one was within ear-shot. The figures of Mrs.
Brent and her companion, hidden in the belt of trees, escaped his eye.
“Sorry you had bad luck to-night, Miss Cressage. Cards were rather
against you people.”
Eileen Cressage’s voice was not quite under control. She tried to
steady it and speak lightly.
“I suppose one must expect that, now and again.”
“Oh, yes. Your turn last night; ours to-night. Yours again to-morrow
night, very likely. We’ll give you a chance for your revenge then.”
Eileen thought of her worthless cheque and shivered a little. No
matter how things went, there would be no bridge for her next night.
“I don’t think I shall play to-morrow,” she said, hesitatingly. “I’m
rather tired of bridge.”
“Oh! Sorry to hear that. Quite looked forward to it.”
“No; I shan’t play any more.” She found her lip quivering and
stiffened it with an effort. Morchard had caught the movement in her
moon-lit face. “Shall we go back to the house?”
“Wait a moment, Miss Cressage, I’ve something to say.”
She turned back towards him and he studied her features for a moment;
then he continued, as though he had just made a discovery:
“Now I guess what’s wrong. I knew something was up. You’re hard up?
Isn’t that it?”
Eileen’s face was sufficient answer. Morchard’s voice became
sympathetic.
“Really hard up? That’s beastly.”
Then, watching her keenly, he appeared to make a fresh discovery:
“That cheque you handed over to-night, no good, eh? Overdrawn your
account? Well, well.”
He drew closer to the girl.
“Look here, Eileen, this is an awkward affair. You’ve got yourself
into a bad hole. I know the Scorton. She’ll send that cheque off
to-night to her bank—no, first thing to-morrow morning. I could see it
in her eye. She suspects it’s a dud. And by to-morrow night she’ll
know it hasn’t been met. And then she’ll make a row. She’ll make the
devil of a row. I know her.”
He paused, letting this sink in.
“You’ll need to get out of it somehow.”
The girl’s defences were down completely. This brute, with his mottled
face and close-set eyes, had seen the whole affair. If he knew,
everybody else might know also. He had told her nothing she had not
guessed for herself; but the mere putting of it into definite words
made it seem a worse business than ever. She made an unconscious
gesture, as though trying to ward off the catastrophe. Morchard grew
more sympathetic.
“Now, listen, Eileen. There’s an easy way out. Two hundred’s nothing
to me; I can easily spare it. I’ll lend it to you. You can pay it back
any time you like; I shan’t miss it. That’s all right now. All your
worries over! Come to my room to-night and I’ll give you a cheque. You
can go up to town to-morrow, first thing, and pay it into your bank in
time to meet that cheque you gave the Scorton.”
Before the girl could reply Mrs. Brent’s voice sounded across the
water:
“Miss Cressage!”
Eileen started at the call; and, turning, she saw Mrs. Brent and Mrs.
Tuxford coming from among the trees.
“Thank goodness, they’re too far off to have heard what we were
saying,” she reflected, measuring the distance with her eye.
Then she called in reply; and she was further relieved to find it
difficult to make them hear what she said.
“Have you ever seen a glow-worm?” Mrs. Brent’s voice came faintly over
the Pool. “Come round and look at this one I’ve found.”
Eileen turned away from Morchard and made her way round the water’s
edge to where the two women were standing. Morchard followed her
sullenly, his anger at the interruption being evident, though he was
doing his best to conceal it.
But when Mrs. Brent led them back into the spinney and tried to point
out the glow-worm, it had vanished.
“That’s a pity,” she said, glancing side-long at Morchard as she
spoke. “I really thought I had it and could pick it up again easily
enough.”
She poked about for a moment or two among the grass at the edge of the
little wood.
“No, I’m afraid it’s escaped. Creatures do get away, unless one keeps
an eye on them. And it was such a pretty little thing, too.”
This time her face was in the moonlight, and there was no mistaking
the mockery in her expression as she turned to Morchard.
“Well, my headache’s a little better. Shall we go back to the house?
These wood-paths won’t let us walk four abreast, I’m afraid. Mr.
Morchard, you and Mrs. Tuxford had better go first.”
She stood aside to let them pass. Then, before following them, she
whispered a few words to Eileen. The girl nodded and they went up the
path in the track of Morchard and his companion. As they came into the
gardens, Mrs. Brent noticed Wraxall and old Dangerfield in one of the
alleys. The American was talking earnestly, while his host listened to
him with his usual polite aloofness. Again Mrs. Brent’s face betrayed
a flash of mockery; but she made no remark to the girl at her side,
and together they passed on towards the house.
She had been quite correct in her reading of the situation. Wraxall,
despite her friendly warning, had made up his mind to approach their
host with a direct offer for the Dangerfield Talisman. He had shown
considerable tact in his manner of introducing the subject, for Mrs.
Brent’s hints had not been lost upon him. But, just as she had
predicted, he met with an uncompromising refusal.
“Part with our Talisman, Mr. Wraxall? It’s out of the question!”
The American tried to work round the flank of the defence.
“One moment, Mr. Dangerfield, before you make up your mind definitely.
Perhaps I could say something to alter your views. I’m a collector.
I’m not the keeper of a public museum. I want your Talisman for
its own sake. I want it for itself and for myself. I shouldn’t
put it in a show-case with a ticket on it. No one would know that
you had transferred it. The matter would be entirely between
ourselves—completely private.”
Rollo Dangerfield halted for a moment in his stride.
“And how would you propose to account for its disappearance from
Friocksheim, then? Anyone looking at our empty cabinet would know that
it had gone.”
Wraxall had his solution ready.
“A replica, of course. That could be made in a few days, by these
modern electro-plating methods; and paste stones could be put in,
instead of the real ones. It would serve well enough. It wouldn’t be
spotted, Mr. Dangerfield, if you kept it out of people’s hands. You’d
never talk; I wouldn’t talk; no one would ever know.”
Rollo Dangerfield turned in the moonlight.
“That’s a very ingenious idea, Mr. Wraxall. But the Talisman is not
for sale.”
The American apparently had not quite given up his project.
“Well, think it over,” he begged. “No one would ever know. It would
only be a case of borrowing the Talisman for a day or two, to get the
replica made. Then you put the replica into the cabinet; I get the
Talisman, and nobody’s any the wiser. Think it over again.”
Rollo Dangerfield seemed deep in thought. He made no reply, and they
walked on once more. On the horizon a faint flicker of sheet-lightning
illumined the sky, heralding the coming storm. As they turned back
towards Friocksheim, the moon slipped behind the edge of the
thunder-cloud.