AN AFTERNOON CALL.
Talham was seized with the idea of making an afternoon call, and
waited on Tillizinni, to the detective’s embarrassment.
“Tillizinni,” he said, “one of the duties which civilisation imposes
upon its products, is the obligation under which we all rest, to
observe the social amenities.”
After which preamble he deigned to explain that he had accepted an
invitation for himself and for the detective, to what he termed “a
party.”
Tillizinni had visions of being called upon to sing, or do parlour
tricks, and he hastily excused himself.
“You must come,” said Talham gravely. “I did perhaps overstep the
conventions when, without consulting you, I accepted this invitation
on your behalf. But I think you will enjoy yourself. Mrs. Smith is a
lady of singular charm of manner, and has the gift which so few women,
and indeed so few men, possess, of appreciating scientific endeavour
at its true value.”
From which Tillizinni gathered that the lady had been engaged in
impressing upon Talham what a fine fellow he was.
The detective hesitated. He knew he would be horribly bored, but it
must be confessed he was possessed by a curiosity to know exactly how
Talham would behave in that nebulous sphere which is called “society.”
Mrs. Smith had a little house in Bayswater. It was in one of those
long roads which connect Bayswater with Mayfair, and where, at the
Mayfair end, the houses grow narrower and narrower, crowding against
one another as if in a panic lest they stray into the more
unfashionable end of the street.
She was a woman who had a passion for parties, and was never quite so
happy as when she was making two guests groan where one had groaned
before.
Since her entertaining area was severely restricted, it is not to be
wondered that her little social plot was somewhat overcrowded.
Habitués at Mrs. Smith’s “at homes” and functions were sufficiently
well acquainted with the lay of the house to tuck themselves into odd
corners and alcoves; but both Talham and his apprehensive companion
found themselves a little cramped for room in the tiny hall where six
men were endeavouring to find pegs for their coats at one and the same
time.
The drawing-room was on the first floor, and although the stairs
leading up to it were somewhat narrow, Mrs. Smith carried out the
illusion of a Foreign Office reception by receiving her guests on the
first landing with her back to the bathroom door, and handing them
over, as they squeezed past, to an ill-fitted butler, who conducted
them the three or four paces which separated the end of stairs from
the beginning of drawing-room.
She boasted that she never forgot names, and was wont to cite herself
and King Edward as twin souls in this respect.
Indeed, from time to time, she found many startling phases of
resemblance between herself and various members of the Royal Family.
The tiny drawing-room was uncomfortably crowded.
Tillizinni found himself wondering, as he pushed his way through the
press, by what extraordinary manœuvre Mrs. Smith held and attracted
such a large and representative body of good-looking young men.
He had a lurking suspicion that as fast as they entered the
drawing-room by the door they surreptitiously escaped through the
window.
There was that air of unreality which is frequently to be found in the
small drawing-rooms of the people bitten by the social bug.
“She called me Mr. Tinker,” said Talham’s voice in the other’s ear.
His words almost trembled with chagrin. Tillizinni tried to appease
him.
“She called me Phillips,” he said with a smile; “though that is not my
name as far as I know. You must allow for lapses in the memory of a
hostess who probably entertains thousands of people in a year.”
Talham was silent, but he was very annoyed indeed.
The press was thickest at one end of the drawing-room, and to this the
two made, following the instinct which invariably draws man to
man--for men like men in crowds.
“What is the attraction?” grumbled Talham. “Is it not lamentable,” he
went on without waiting for a reply, which, as a matter of fact, the
detective was not prepared to offer, “that with all the joyous and
bountiful gifts which nature has prepared and laid open for her
children, men should be found who prefer the hot and fetid atmosphere
of a drawing-room and the stimulations of artificial gaiety to that
ante-chamber of heaven, the field? Does not the pettiness--the
inconclusiveness--of it, strike you? Think of the futility of
effort----”
He got so far and was warming to his subject, when the little crowd
which stood between them and the attraction, thinned, as a sea-fret
thins before a westerly wind, and Tillizinni saw, for the first time
in his life, Yvonne Yale.
She was standing near the fireplace, listening to a short youth by her
side, with some evidence of boredom.
Her hair, perfectly coiffeured, was a mass of golden brown. About this
she wore a little bandeau of dull gold.
Tillizinni received the impression of observing a crowned queen--so
proud and straight she stood, with a little tilt to her chin, and the
merest hint of condescension in her eyes, as she talked to the voluble
youth who hung upon her words.
Her gown, cut low at the neck, was very plain. It was of black velvet,
close fitting. About her neck she had three strings of imitation
pearls. Her arms, bare to the elbow, were white and beautifully
shaped; her hands larger than one expected, but pretty. She had a
plain gold bangle about her wrist--the only jewel she wore.
Tillizinni looked at Talham. He was staring at the girl, his lips
parted, his eyes wide open, his head a little forward.
At any other moment he would have amused the other, but Tillizinni had
seen that look before--that strange earnestness and intensity with
which he confronted the problems of life.
He continued to look, and the girl must have subconsciously become
aware of the unwinking gaze fixed upon her, for she turned her head
and faced him.
For a moment they stood thus, looking one at the other; then
Tillizinni saw a delicate pink creep into her face, and he caught
Talham’s arm.
“Introduce me,” he muttered, “and apologise for my rudeness.”
Obeying rather the dictation of his inner self than any suggestion of
his friend, Talham went towards her, his hand outstretched.
She held out her hand frankly with a little smile to Talham, and he
took it. He held it, it seemed to Tillizinni, an unconscionable time.
The responsibility of piloting Talham through the social maze was
getting on the nerves of one who was famous throughout Europe for his
freedom from nerve trouble.
“I am glad to see you again, Captain Talham,” she said with a dazzling
smile which showed two rows of pearly teeth. “We do not often
entertain such distinguished people.”
She said this with a gentle note of mockery, but as usual Talham took
her very seriously.
“Whatever views you may hold regarding my friend,” he said gravely,
“you must not think of regarding me as distinguished. I hope, Miss
Yale, that you and I shall be great friends. I will have no artificial
barriers erected which may separate to any extent two people anxious
to grow in acquaintance.”
The girl looked puzzled. She had uttered the first conventional
pleasantry which had come into her head. She never regarded Talham as
distinguished. To her he was a man, who in the moment of her
necessity, had rendered a kindly and a chivalrous service.
She turned hurriedly, it seemed to Tillizinni, to introduce her
mother--a lady dressed in the abrupt fashion which was suggestive of
conflicting bargain sales.
Mrs. Smith was engaged in the eternal quest for the missing segment.
It was only a tiny segment that was required to make both ends of her
circle meet. She speculated modestly on the Stock Exchange, and dreamt
dreams of meeting a magnificent, kindly man who would give her the
“tip” of her life.
Then she would buy shares. The market would undergo some extraordinary
evolution, and the shares she bought at one pound, less fortunate
people would want to buy at twenty-five shillings. Then she would
sell, and she would be exactly five shillings per share to the good.
And if she had had five thousand shares, why then she would have one
thousand two hundred and fifty pounds.
It was very simple.
On such day dreams as these, men grow rich, but they are usually the
men who sell the shares to the dreamers.
But Talham was not to be detached. He made a little speech to the
mother, and with deplorable _sang froid_, dismissed her from the
circle. It was unpardonable, but it was very much Talham.
Tillizinni, watching the scene with his keen eyes, was chuckling and
learning.
But the girl was undoubtedly puzzled. She could not understand whether
Talham was serious, or whether his persistence was a form of humour
which had just about then become popular owing to the success of a
certain socialist dramatist, with whose name I will not sully these
fair pages.
“I am sure I shall be delighted,” she murmured pleasantly.
He had invited her to a concert, and had in his magnetic, plausible
way, persuaded her to go.
She altered her position, tapping her foot nervously--an infallible
sign that she was embarrassed. She looked from Talham to the dark
young man at her side.
Gregory de Costa owed his readmission to the Yale ménage to the
admiration which Mrs. Smith had for his business acumen. There were
some subjects which Yvonne did not regard as being worth a quarrel,
and Gregory de Costa’s attendance was one of these.
He made up for homeliness of face in magnificence of attire. His dress
suit was cut so well that he seemed, like another famous character, to
have been melted and poured into it. In the breast of his shirt blazed
a diamond, almost as big as a hickory nut. His links, when he raised
his hand to caress his tiny moustache, radiated light. His bejewelled
fingers reminded one irresistibly of the illuminations at Luna Park.
“Do you know Mr. de Costa?” asked the girl.
Talham bowed to the young man, and the young man bowed to him.
For some reason she did not introduce Tillizinni.
“I think I have met you before, Captain Talham,” said the young man.
“I do not think we have ever met you,” said Talham with deliberation.
“In our office?” suggested Mr. de Costa, an encouraging smile on his
thick lips.
“We have never been into your office,” said Talham.
“I’m perfectly sure that I have seen you there,” persisted the other.
If he expected that Talham would be satisfied with an exchange of
platitudinous pleasantries with the girl, and then withdraw, he was
disappointed. If he imagined he could draw Talham to a discussion on
so futile a question as his presence in an office at some remote
period of his life, he was mad.
Talham had a weightier interest. The thought that he might be _de
trop_ never occurred to him, and if it had been suggested that his
unconventional method of interesting others in his career and his
aspirations was calculated rather to bore than to grip their
imaginations, he would have smiled, pityingly.
He diagnosed the girl’s half-amused embarrassment as a natural
nervousness in being suddenly confronted with a man of his
attainments. By some extraordinary mental convolution which was
peculiarly Talhamesque, he credited her with a full appreciation of
his genius, a lurking suspicion of his identity, and a comfortable
ignorance of the character of his adventures. Like the exigent little
boy who demanded of the store-keeper two cents worth of hundreds and
thousands--an infinitesimal candy, about the size of a pin’s head,
variously coloured--Talham wanted her to pick him out all white.
“It is more than a pleasure to again meet you, Miss Yale,” he began,
in his oratorical manner. “There are some events in life--some
landmarks which rise above the dreary path that meanders across the
plain of eternity--which stand out…”
He orated on without drawing breath, so to speak. For his imagery he
ransacked forest and field and plain; the vegetable, mineral and
animal kingdoms contributed to the illuminations of his argument; and
the girl stood looking at him wonderingly, a little frightened, a
little--a very little--amused, a little--more than a little--bored.
As for Gregory de Costa--he stood stolidly by, taking no part in the
conversation, twirling his moustache with a determined and an injured
air.
From sheer humanity, Tillizinni set himself the task of diverting
Talham’s attention. He felt that his action was invested with that
heroism which one reads about in books of travel, when a devoted
servant sets himself the thankless task of attracting the attention of
a tiger, feeding upon his fellow creature, to his plump and trembling
self.
Tillizinni succeeded, however, in giving the girl an opportunity for
escape; but he drew down upon himself all the heavy weapons in
Talham’s arsenal. It was absolutely necessary for him to seek out Mrs.
Smith and pay her that little attention which is due from a guest to
his hostess.
Fortunately Mrs. Smith came to the rescue. She was engaged in that
process which is described in the society columns as “mixing up her
guests.” In other words, she was making her slow way through the
crowded little room, giving a nod here, a smile there, some
comment--generally misplaced--elsewhere. She left behind her a trail
of bachelors, who had, in acknowledging her tender inquiries after
their wives, inferentially admitted such possessions.
She found Talham, and from the manner in which she pounced upon him
and led him forth, Tillizinni gathered that the object of her search
had been accomplished.
She was Yvonne Yale’s stepmother, being the second wife of the gallant
colonel who had long since passed over to the majority. Mrs. Smith’s
poetical way of putting it, was that he had taken his sword to heaven;
but as to this, it is impossible to speak with authority.
She was one of those women who have a den--half study, half boudoir,
all roll-top desks and Liberty knick-knacks. She prided herself upon
being a thorough business woman, with a head for figures, which meant
periodical disputes between her and her broker, which induced piles of
tragic correspondence between herself and her bank, and explained to a
very large extent the domestic cataclysms which were of such frequent
occurrence in her household.
To this den she led Talham, and in the hour he spent with her he
learnt as much of her private history, and much more of her financial
standing, than she knew herself.
He came back and rescued Tillizinni at a period where he was bored to
the point of tears. Talham was very important and very mysterious. He
plunged into the crowd again to find Yvonne Yale. She may have seen
him coming; at any rate Tillizinni saw her look helplessly round, then
face him with a scared look.
“Must you really go, Captain Talham?”
Talham said that he really must go; he said why he had to go, what he
had to do--the hours of anxious work which lay ahead of him--and he
hinted of the destinies of people which would be affected by any
longer abstention from their interest. He spoke of generations yet
unborn whose fates were trembling in the balance; he laid down the
well-worn thesis that social obligations should be subservient to
stern economic realities.
If she thought she had seen the last of him after he had so
unmistakably expressed his intention of retiring, she was mistaken.
She did not know Talham. She felt foolish and resented the cause.
People at whom speeches are made in public invariably feel foolish.
Yet for all the exhaustive character of his farewell, Talham
remembered on his way home several things he had intended to say, and
was half inclined to go back to say them. All the way to the hotel he
could think of nothing else but her wonderful eyes, her refinement,
her glorious voice.
She was, he then told me, the daughter of an army officer who had died
suddenly a few years before, leaving the second wife and his daughter
the most meagre of incomes. This was the text on which he delivered an
address, dealing with the duty of the state and the grudging gratitude
of the nation. So far as Tillizinni was able to trace, Yvonne’s father
was a colonel of infantry, who had spent some twenty years in various
parts of the globe, missing active service the whole of his life, and
finishing up with the command of a militia depôt. Under these
circumstances, Talham’s heroics about the “children of England’s
battle-scarred defenders” were beside the point.
“Mrs. Yale,” he said impressively, “was a wonderful woman, a splendid
woman, a business woman. I can only hope that Yvonne inherits her
splendid qualities.”
When Talham ordered his world to his own satisfaction, he was not
above adjusting the laws of progeniture. Mrs. Smith had sought his
advice as to her investments. Talham had fallen for it.
It is a subtle form of flattery employed by dowagers, who could not
hint at the physical attractions of their middle-aged and bald-headed
admirers, and still retain their self-respect; and who found in this
oblique tribute to their business capacities an effective and
profitable substitute.
But Talham was not middle-aged, and the poison of the flattery had
eaten deeper into his system.
“I am transferring five thousand shares in the Mount Li Exploration
Syndicate,” he said.
Tillizinni was not easily moved, but now he gasped.
“The Mount Li----?” he asked incredulously.
“The Mount Li Exploration Syndicate,” said Talham firmly.
“But there isn’t such a company,” protested the other.
Talham looked at him a little sadly.
“It is one of the things I have overlooked,” he said. “One of the
essentials of our communal life. It did not, I confess, occur to me
until that extraordinary woman was discussing such things as shares
and bonds, that I realised in a flash that it was impossible for me to
help her because no such shares stood in my name. Have not,” he asked
impressively, “the great events of history which have transformed the
world, been born in a moment’s inspiration? Even as I sat there, in
the excellently appointed study--I must make a note, by the way, of
the furnishing of that apartment: I should like an office arranged on
similar lines--the Mount Li Exploration came into existence.”
“In other words,” said Tillizinni with a helpless smile, “you created
the company in order to give her shares!”
“I created the company,” agreed the tall man, gravely.