About half-past five, a plump old country-woman, with a brown tissue
veil over her ruddy, wrinkled face, waddled into a green-grocer's not
far from South Audley Street. She bade the young man in the shop a
wheezy "Good day," and asked if she might be bold enough to inquire
whether Lady Henry Borrowdaile's housekeeper were a customer. Yes, the
youth admitted with pride, for anything in their line which was not sent
up from the Marquis of Wastwater's, in the country, they had the honour
of serving her Ladyship.
"Ah! I thought how it would be, your place being so near, and the
nicest round about," said the old country-woman. "The truth is, I have
to go to the house on a disagreeable errand. I volunteered to do it for
a friend, and I've forgotten the number. I've to break some bad news to
one of the housemaids."
"Not Miss Jessie Adams, I hope!" protested the young man, blushing up to
the roots of his light hair.
"Yes, it is poor Jessie," said the old woman. "You know her?"
"We've been walking out together the last six months. I suppose her
father's took bad again, or--or worse?"
"He's living--or was when I left; but----" and the old-fashioned bonnet
with the veil shook ominously. "Well, I must go and do my duty. I hope
she'll be able to get home for a week or so."
A few minutes later, Joan, delighted with her disguise and the detective
skill she was developing, rang the servants' bell at the Borrowdailes'.
She had learned what she had hoped to learn, the name of one of the
maids, and she had also learned something more--the fact that Jessie
Adams had a father whose state of health would afford an excuse for
absence; and the existence of a lover, who would probably urge immediate
marriage if there were enough money on either side.
The old countrywoman with the brown veil was voluble to the footman who
opened the door. She explained that she had news from home for Jessie
Adams, and was shown into a servant's sitting-room, where presently
appeared a fresh-looking girl with languishing eyes, and a full, weak
mouth.
"Oh, I thought perhaps it would be Aunt Emmy!" exclaimed the young
person in cap and apron.
"No, I'm not Aunt Emmy, but you may take it I'm a friend," replied the
old woman. "Don't be frightened. Your father ain't so very bad, but
your folks would be glad to have you at home if you could manage it.
And, look here, my gell, here's good news for you. You may make a tidy
bit of money by going, if you can get off at once--this very night. How
much must you and that nice young man of yours put by before you can
marry?"
"We can't marry till he sets up in business for himself, and it will
take a hundred pounds at least," said the girl. "We've each got about
ten pounds saved towards it. But what's ten pounds?"
"Added on to ninety it makes a hundred, and you can earn that by lending
your place here for one fortnight to a niece of mine, who wants to be a
journalist and write what the doings inside a smart house are like.
She'd name no names, so you'd never be given away. All you'd have to do
would be to tell the housekeeper your father was took bad, and would she
let you go if you'd bring your cousin Maria in your stead--a clever,
experienced girl, with the best references from Lord Northmuir's house?"
"My goodness me, you take my breath away!" gasped Jessie Adams. "How do
I know but your niece is a thief who'd steal her Ladyship's jewels?"
"You don't know, except that I say she isn't. But, anyhow, what does it
matter to you? You don't need to come back or ever be in service again.
Here's the ninety pounds in gold, my dear. You can bite every piece, if
you wish; and you've but to do what I say to get them before you walk
out of this house. You settle matters with the housekeeper, and I'll
have my niece call on her within the hour."
The girl with the languishing eyes and the weak mouth had her price,
like many of her betters, and it happened to be exactly ninety pounds.
Joan had brought a hundred, and considered that she had made a bargain.
Jessie consented to speak to the housekeeper, and the countrywoman
departed. By this time it was dusk. She took a four-wheeler and drove
to the gates of the Park. In a dark and lonely spot the outer disguise
was whisked off, and the paint wiped from her face. Underneath her
shawl she wore a neat black dress, suitable for a housemaid in search of
a situation. This, too, Joan had thoughtfully obtained at Clarkson's,
whence her pale blue cloth had been despatched by messenger to Woburn
Place. The bonnet was quickly shaped into a hat; the stuffing which had
plumped out the thin, girlish form was wrapped in the shawl which had
concealed it, and hidden under a bush. Joan's own hair was combed primly
back from her forehead, and strained so tightly at the sides as to
change the expression of her face completely. "Cousin Maria" was as
different from Miss Joan Carthew as a mouse is from a bird of Paradise.
Cream could not be more velvety soft than Joan's voice, the eye of a
dove more mild than hers, as she conversed with Lady Henry Borrowdaile's
housekeeper. And she was armed with a magnificent reference. There had
been a Maria Jordan at Lord Northmuir's, as housemaid, in Joan's day
there, but the real Maria had gone to America, and it was safe and
simple to write in praise of this young person's character and
accomplishments, signing the document Mercy Milton. At worst, even if
Lady Henry's housekeeper sent the reference to Lord Northmuir's
housekeeper, the imposition could not be proved. Maria might have had
time to come back from America, and Miss Milton, now departed, might
have consented to please the housemaid by giving her a written
recommendation.
But Maria Jordan's manner as an applicant to fill her cousin's place was
so respectful and respectable, and the need to decide was so pressing,
that Lady Henry's housekeeper resolved to accept Jordan, so to speak, on
face value. That same night Jessie Adams went home (or somewhere else),
and her cousin stepped into the vacant niche.
Meanwhile, Joan had, on the plea of picking up her luggage, driven to
one or two cheap shops in the Tottenham Court Road, and provided herself
with a tin box and a suitable outfit for a superior housemaid. She was
thankful to find that she would have a room to herself, and delighted to
discover that Jessie Adams and Mathilde, Lady Henry's own maid, had been
on terms of friendship. Their rooms adjoined; Jessie had been teaching
Mathilde English in odd moments, and Mathilde had often obligingly
carried messages to the enamoured greengrocer.
Joan lost not a moment in winning her way into Mathilde's good graces,
wasting the less time because she had already made preparations with a
view to such an end. She had bought a large box of delicious sweets,
which she pretended her own "young man" had given her, and this she
placed at the French girl's disposal. It happened that Lady Henry was
dining out and going to the theatre afterwards that night, and Mathilde,
being free, visited Maria easily in her room, where she sat on the bed,
swinging her well-shod feet and eating cream chocolates. Maria, in the
course of conversation, chanced to mention that her "young man" was the
partner of a French hairdresser in Knightsbridge; that the two were
intimate friends; that the hairdresser was young, singularly handsome,
well-to-do, and looking out for a Parisienne as a wife. This Admirable
Crichton was in France at present, on business, Maria added, but he
would return in the course of a fortnight, when Maria's "young man"
should effect an introduction, as she was sure that Monsieur Jacques
would fall in love at first sight with Mathilde.
Mathilde pretended indifference, but she thought Maria the nicest girl
she had met in England, far more _chic_ than Jessie; and when she heard
that her new friend longed to be a lady's maid, she offered to coach her
in the art. Maria was gushingly grateful, for though she had (she said)
already acted as maid to one or two ladies, they had not been "swells"
like Lady Henry, and lessons from Mathilde would be of inestimable
value.
"I suppose," she went on coaxingly, "that if I showed you I could do
hair nicely, and understood what was wanted of a lady's maid, you
wouldn't be took ill, and give me a chance to try my hand on Lady Henry?
Practice on her Ladyship would be worth a lot of lessons, wouldn't it?
My goodness! I'd give all my savings for such a chance in a house like
this! Think of the help it would be to me afterwards to say I'd been
understudy, as you might call it, to a real expert like Mathilde, Lady
Henry Borrowdaile's own maid, and given great satisfaction in the part!
It might mean a good place for me. I ain't jokin', mademoiselle. I've
got twenty-five sovereigns saved up, and if you'll have neuralgia so bad
you can't lift your head from the pillow for three or four days, those
twenty-five sovereigns are yours."
"_Mais_, for me to have ze neuralgia, it do not make that milady take
you for my place," said the laughing Mathilde.
"No, but leave that to me. You shall have the money just the same."
"All right," said Mathilde, giggling, scarce believing that her friend
was in earnest. "I have ze neuralgia _demain_--to-morrow."
Joan sprang up and went to the new tin box. She bent over it for a
moment, with her back to Mathilde; then she turned, with a stocking in
her hand--a stocking fat in the foot, and tied round the ankle with a
bit of ribbon. "Count what's there," she exclaimed, emptying the
stocking in Mathilde's lap.
There were gold and silver, and even a little copper. Altogether, the
sum amounted to that which Maria had named, and a few shillings over.
Mathilde was dazzled. What with this bird in hand, and another in the
bush (the eligible hairdresser), she was ready to do almost anything for
Maria. Later that night, in undressing Lady Henry, she complained of
suffering such agony that she feared for the morrow. Luckily, should
she be incapacitated for a short time, there was a girl now in the house
(a young person in the place of the first housemaid, absent on account
of trouble in the family) who had been lady's maid and knew her
business. Lady Henry was too sleepy to care what might happen
to-morrow--indeed, scarcely listened to Mathilde's murmurings; but when
to-morrow was to-day, and a sweet-faced, sweet-voiced girl announced
that Mathilde could not leave her bed, the spoiled beauty remembered
last night's conversation. After some grumbling, she consented to try
what Jordan could do; and while the second housemaid pouted over Maria's
work, Maria was busy ingratiating herself with Lady Henry--ingratiating
herself so thoroughly that Mathilde would have trembled jealously for
the future could she have seen or heard. Joan was one of those rare
creatures, born for success, who set their teeth in unbreakable resolve
to do whatever they must do, well. Being a lady herself, with all a
lady's fastidious tastes, she knew how a lady liked to be waited upon.
She was not attracted by Lady Henry, whom men called an angel, and women
"a cat," but she was as attentive as if her whole happiness depended on
her mistress's approbation. Mathilde was efficient, but frivolous and
flighty, sometimes inclined to sulkiness; and Lady Henry, superbly
indifferent to the sufferings of servants, decided that she would not be
sorry if Mathilde were ill a long time.
Two or three days went by; Joan kept the Parisienne supplied with
_bonbons_ and French novels, and carried up all her meals, arranged
almost as daintily as if they had been for her Ladyship. Mathilde was
happy, and Joan was--waiting. But her patience was not to be tried for
long.
On the third day, she was told that her mistress was dining at home,
alone with Lord Henry. This was such an unusual event that Joan was
sure it meant something, especially when Lady Henry demanded one of her
prettiest frocks. A footman, inclined to be Maria's slave, was smiled
upon, intercepted during dinner, and questioned. "They're behaving like
turtle-doves," said he.
Joan had expected this. "That little cat has guessed or discovered that
everything is settled, and she means to get the truth out of him this
evening, so that somehow she can give the news to _The Daily Beacon_
to-night, in time to go to press for to-morrow," the girl reflected.
She was excited, but the great moment had come, and she kept herself
rigidly under control, for much depended upon calmness and fertility in
resource. "They will have their coffee in Lady Henry's boudoir," Joan
reflected, "and that is when she will get to work."
She thought thus on her way upstairs, carrying a dress of Lady Henry's,
from which she had been brushing the marks of a muddy carriage-wheel.
She laid it on a chair, and saw on another a milliner's box. Her
mistress had not mentioned that she was expecting anything, and Joan's
curiosity was aroused. She untied the fastenings, lifted a layer of
tissue paper, and saw a neat, dark green tailor-dress, with a toque made
of the same material and a little velvet. There was also a long, plain
coat of the green cloth, with gold buttons, and on the breast pocket was
embroidered an odd design in gold thread.
Joan suddenly became thoughtful. This dress was as unlike as possible
to the butterfly style which Lady Henry affected, and all who knew her
knew that she detested dark colours. Yet this costume was distinctly
sombre and severe; and the name of the milliner was unfamiliar to Joan.
"It's like a disguise," the girl said to herself, "and I'll bet anything
that's what it's for. She went to a strange milliner; she made a point
of the things being ready to-night; she chose a costume which would
absolutely change her appearance, if worn with a thick veil. And then
that bit of embroidery on the pocket! Why, it's a miniature copy of the
design they print under the title of _The Beacon_. It is a beacon,
flaming! She means to slip out of the house when she's got the secret
safe, and somebody at the office of the paper will have been ordered to
take a veiled woman with such a dress as this up to Portheous' private
office, without her speaking a word. Well--a woman will go there, but I
hope it won't be Lady Henry."
Without stopping for an instant's further reflection, Joan caught up the
box and flew with it to her own room, where she pushed it under the bed.
She then watched her chance, and when no one was in sight, darted into
the boudoir, where she squeezed herself behind a screen close to the
door. She might have found a more convenient hiding-place, but this,
though uncomfortable, gave her an advantage. If the two persons she
expected to enter the room elected to sit near the fireplace, as they
probably would, Joan might be able to steal noiselessly away without
being seen or heard.
She had not had much time to spare, for ten minutes after she had
plastered herself against the wall, Lord and Lady Henry came in. They
went to the sofa in front of the fire and chatted of commonplaces until
after the coffee and _Orange Marnier_ had been brought. Then Lady Henry
took out her jewelled cigarette-case, gave a cigarette to her husband
and took one herself. To light hers from his, she perched on Lord
Henry's knee, remaining in that position to play with his hair, her
white fingers flashing with rings. She cooed to her husband prettily,
saying how nice it was to be with him alone, and how it grieved her to
see him weary and worried.
"Is the old Russian Bear going to take hands and dance prettily with
little Japan and big China, darling?" she purred. "You know, precious,
talking to me is as safe as talking to yourself."
"I know, my pet. Thank goodness, the strain is over. England and
France together have brought such pressure to bear, that Russia was in a
funk. The ultimatum we issued----"
"Oh, then, the ultimatum _was_ sent?"
"Yes. If Russia had held firm, nothing could have prevented war. But
for obvious diplomatic reasons, the papers must not be able to state
officially that any negotiations of the sort have ever taken place.
There has been a rumour, but that will die out."
"Ah, well, I'm glad there won't be war; but as _you're_ not a soldier,
and can't be killed, it wouldn't have broken my heart. Kiss me and let's
talk of something amusing. Your poor pet gets a headache if she has to
think of affairs of State too long."
Joan did not wait for the end of the last sentence. She began with the
utmost caution to move the farther end of the screen forward, until she
could reach the door-handle. With infinite patience she turned the knob
at the rate of an inch a minute, until it was possible to open the door.
Then she pulled it slowly, very slowly, towards her. At last she could
slip into the corridor, where she had an instant of sickening fear lest
she should be detected by a passing servant. Luck was with her, however;
but instead of seizing the chance to run upstairs unseen, she stopped,
shut the door as softly as it had been opened, and then knocked. Lady
Henry's voice, with a ring of relief, called "Come in!" Joan showed
herself on the threshold, and announced that a person from Frasquet's,
of George Street, had called to say that by mistake a costume ordered by
Lady Henry had been sent to the wrong address, but that search would at
once be made, and the box brought to South Audley Street as soon as
found.
Lady Henry sprang up with an exclamation of anger, and called down the
vengeance of the gods upon the house of Frasquet.
"Might I suggest, your Ladyship, that I go with the messenger, and make
sure of bringing back the box, if the dress is a valuable one?" asked
Joan.
Lady Henry caught at this idea. Joan was bidden to run away and not to
come back till she had the box. "I will give you a sovereign if you
bring it home before midnight," she added.
Joan walked calmly out with the box from Frasquet's, took a cab, and
drove to Woburn Place, where, in her own room, she dressed herself as
Lady Henry had intended to be dressed. The frock and coat fitted
sufficiently well, for Jordan and her mistress were somewhat of the same
figure. An embroidered black veil, with one of chiffon underneath,
completely hid her features; and, heavily perfumed with Lady Henry's
favourite scent, at precisely a quarter to eleven she presented herself
at the office of _The Daily Beacon_. A gesture of a gloved hand towards
the flaming gold on the coat was as if a password had been spoken. She
was conducted to a private office on the first floor, and there received
by a bearded, red-faced man, who sprang up on her entrance.
"Well--well?" he demanded.
The veiled and scented lady put her finger to her lips.
"'Sh!" she breathed. Then, disguising her voice by whispering, she went
on. "Russia China, and Japan have signed the alliance, in spite of
England and France, whom they have defied very insolently, and it's only
a question of a short time before the storm breaks. There! That's all,
in a nutshell. I must run away at once."
[Illustration: "'Sh!' she breathed."]
"A thousand thanks! You're a brick!" Mr. Portheous pressed the gloved
hand and left a cheque in it. "We shall go to press with this
immediately."
Joan glanced at the cheque, saw it was for seven hundred pounds, and
despised Lady Henry for cheapening the market. Her waiting cab drove her
a few streets farther on, to the office of _The Planet_. A card with
the name of Miss Carthew, and "Important private business" scrawled upon
it, was the "Open, sesame!" to Sir Edmund Foster's door.
"Have you your cheque-book handy?" she nonchalantly asked.
"What for?"
"_Quid pro quo._" Joan rushed into her whole story, which she told from
beginning to end, proving its truth by showing Mr. Portheous' cheque
made out to Mrs. Anne Randall. "Lady Henry, no doubt, has an account
somewhere under that name. She's too sharp to use her own," added the
girl. "Do you believe me now?"
"Yes. You're wonderful. I shall risk printing the news exactly as you
have given it to me."
"You won't regret your trust. But I don't want your cheque to-night.
I'll take it to-morrow, when I can say: 'I told you so.'"
"Would you still like to come on our staff--at a salary of ten pounds a
week?"
"No, thank you, Sir Edmund. I've brought off my big _coup_, and
anything more in the newspaper line would be, I fear, an anticlimax.
Besides, I want to play with my fifteen hundred pounds."
"What shall you do now?"
"Go back to the house which has the honour of being my home, change my
clothes, hurry breathlessly to South Audley Street, and inform Lady
Henry that her costume can't be found. She will then, in desperation,
decide to send a note to _The Daily Beacon_, which, my prophetic soul
whispers, she will order me to take."
"Shall you go?"
"Out of the house, yes--never, never to return, for my work there is
done. But not to the office of _The Beacon_. Lady Henry's box shall be
sent to her by parcel post to-morrow morning, and Mrs. Randall's cheque
will be in the coat pocket. That will surprise her a little, but it
won't matter to me; for, after having called here for my cheque, I think
I'll take the two o'clock train for the Continent. I shall have plenty
of money to enjoy myself, and I feel I need a change of air."
"You are wonderful!" repeated Sir Edmund Foster.