AFTER DINNER
When the Secretary entered the drawing-room he received a distinct shock
of surprise.
The one person in the party unknown to him was Mr. Riddle. Yet those
high cheek-bones, that prominent nose between the deep-set, restless
eyes, peering out under their shaggy eyebrows, were strangely familiar.
He had seen them once before when they and their owner occupied a cab
together with his fair dinner partner. He was on the point of saying so
to her, but restrained himself, he hardly knew why, in deference,
perhaps, to his diplomatic training, which forbade him ever to say
anything unnecessary.
Fate placed him next to the Dowager Marchioness, who was manifestly
displeased at his presence, and lost no time in making him feel
thoroughly uncomfortable.
"I had always supposed," she began, before he was fairly seated at the
table, "that at this season of the year there was a great deal of
activity in the diplomatic world."
"There is," answered Stanley hastily, scenting danger, and anxious to
turn the conversation from his own affairs. "Most countries have a
little leisure, and, like Satan, expend the time in making and finding
mischief."
"That is, of course, a matter of which I am no judge, Mr. Stanley, but I
should have supposed, under the circumstances, you would naturally be
much occupied."
"We are," he replied, a trifle flippantly. Flippancy, he had noticed,
was the one thing that drove the Marchioness to the verge of
desperation. "My Minister and my colleagues are working like
draught-horses."
"While you----" began her Ladyship.
"I'm working also--hard," and he turned himself and the conversation to
the fair Miss Fitzgerald, while the Dowager said things in a loud tone
of voice about youthful diplomacy to Mr. Lambert, the local incumbent,
who had taken her down to dinner.
The Secretary was no more fortunate with his dinner partner. Not that
she rated him; far from it; but she was evidently making conversation,
and he could not help feeling that the cordial good fellowship which had
hitherto existed between them was now lacking, and that a restraint had
taken its place, which, to say the least, did not promote their mutual
ease. But there, he would have a talk with her when opportunity offered,
and they would understand each other and be as good friends as ever;
nothing more. He knew himself now. He was sure she had never been so
foolish as to suppose for an instant that their intimacy could mean
anything further. She would probably laugh at him if he proposed to
her--which he would not do, of course--but all the same he must make
some sort of an explanation, and--what was she saying?--he had not
spoken for a whole course--what must she be thinking of him? He pulled
himself together, and rattled on, till his hostess gave the signal for
the ladies to leave the table.
The interval for rest, refreshment, and tobacco promised to be somewhat
wearisome, for Kingsland seemed moody and abstracted, and Riddle and the
Reverend Reginald Lambert offered, to Stanley's mind, little hope of
amusement.
The good pastor was a bit of an archaeologist, an enthusiast on the
subject of early ecclesiastical architecture, and the nominal duties of
his living left him much spare time for the exploitation of this
harmless fad. He was possessed of considerable manual dexterity and a
certain nicety in the manipulation of whatever he undertook, whether it
were the restoration of parchments or the handling of leaden coffins,
but apart from his hobby he was as prosy as the most typical member of
his calling.
As the Secretary could not tell a nave from a chapter house, a very few
minutes served to exhaust his interest in the good old gentleman, and he
turned to Mr. Riddle in sheer desperation. Stanley had conceived a
dislike for the stranger from the first moment he had heard he was a
fellow-guest, either from his reputation for beneficence or his
mysterious acquaintance with Miss Fitzgerald. He had at once put him
down as a hypocrite, and his attitude towards him was reserved in
consequence. This sort of man, he told himself, takes a pride in his
good deeds, and can be most easily approached on that subject.
Accordingly he drew up his chair and opened the conversation with some
allusion to the chests of stereopticon fittings.
"Yes, they're bulky," replied Mr. Riddle, "and I was almost ashamed to
bring them with me-- I trust they've not annoyed you."
"On the contrary, I was hoping we might be favoured with a view of their
contents."
"Oh, no," he said, his face lighting up with a frank smile, which
appealed to the Secretary in spite of his prejudices. "I never inflict
my fads on my friends. I'd promised to send them on to a man in London,
and, as I was coming in this direction, brought them part way myself.
You see, the average porter cannot understand that a thing may be heavy
and yet fragile--if a chest weighs a great deal--and you'd be surprised
how heavy a case of slides can be--he bangs it about regardless of
labels and warnings; so I generally try to keep an eye on them, or put
them in the charge of some trusty friend."
"You are much interested in these things?"
"The slides? Oh, yes,--collecting them becomes quite absorbing, and now
these clever scientists of ours are able to photograph directly on them,
it increases our field immensely."
"Of course the good you can do with them must be their chief charm to
you----" began the Secretary, sententiously.
The answer surprised him.
"Not at all. On the contrary, my charities, if they _are_ charities, are
of a very selfish sort. I suppose you've some kind of amusement which
you turn to in your hours for relaxation? Golf, tennis, hunting, what
not. These little entertainments are--mine. I thoroughly enjoy them. The
fact is, I'm passionately fond of children, and not having any of my
own, I've adopted everybody else's for the time being. But it's selfish,
purely selfish. Some benighted idiots call me a philanthropist--I'd like
to have them come pressing their claims for lazy heathen in my bank
parlour, they'd find out what sort of business man I was." And this
queer specimen doubled up his fists, and broke into a roar of laughter,
which was too hearty to have been assumed. "I'll tell you what it is,"
he continued, "if it wasn't for our good dominie there, I'd admit to you
that I hate a real professional philanthropist--ten to one he's a
humbug."
The parson held up his hands, and Stanley laughed nervously--the man was
actually voicing his own thoughts.
"As for charity-- Bah! Charity begins at home. It doesn't go racing over
the country with magic lantern shows--that's real downright, selfish
egotism."
Then, evidently feeling that the conversation had proceeded far enough
in this direction, he broke off suddenly, remarking:
"They tell me that you're a diplomat."
"Yes," said the Secretary. "Perhaps you know my chief?"
"I've not that honour. Indeed I've never had any dealings with your
countrymen but once, and then I'd reason to regret it."
"Really? I'm sorry to hear that."
"It was with a large manufacturing company," he continued, and mentioned
the name of the concern which had such a sinister reputation in regard
to the treaty.
"Oh," said the Secretary, at once alert for any information he might
pick up. "You mustn't judge my countrymen by that concern--anyway I
understand that it's really owned in England."
"Ah, is it so? I can't say how that may be, I'm sure; but I know they
kept so closely to the letter of their contracts with my bank, that it
almost crossed the border line from strict business to sharp dealing."
"I'm sorry you should have been annoyed, but I know nothing about it.
We--my father, is interested in sugar, and that, as you see, wouldn't
bring us into any connection with their line of business."
"No, of course not. Do you happen to know who _are_ the heads of the
firm in this country?"
"I haven't any idea," the Secretary answered, very tersely. "I fancy
they're in the nature of silent partners. But I dare say they might be
known in business circles."
"Oh, the matter doesn't interest me--except as I've mentioned. It was
recalled to my mind by some notice of a treaty I saw the other day in
the papers--which I should fancy would rather cripple their resources,
if it went through."
The Secretary held his peace, and silence falling upon the room, the
Reverend Reginald deposited the butt of his cigar tenderly in the
ash-tray, and blew his nose lustily, as a preparatory signal for a
retreat to the upper regions. The others obeyed the hint, and a moment
later were on their way to the drawing-room.
* * * * *
Miss Fitzgerald's resentment towards the Lieutenant had been
short-lived, and she was quite ready to aid and abet him to the extent
of her power, the more so as his success would upset the most cherished
plans of the Marchioness, who was, for the time being, the Irish girl's
pet detestation. Accordingly she took up her station near that matron,
who descended on her forthwith.
"I suppose, my dear," said the Dowager, with an assumption of friendly
interest that was even more terrible to behold than the coldness of her
wrath, "I _can_ only suppose, from what I could not help observing at
table this evening, that you are soon to be a subject of
congratulations."
"Really I don't understand."
"Of course, I shouldn't think of forcing your confidence, but when an
engagement is unannounced there's a degree of uncertainty."
"Oh, but I think you're mistaken," said Miss Fitzgerald, lifting her
liquid blue eyes to the Dowager's face, with an expression of innocence,
which was the perfection of art. "I'm much too young to think of such
things--besides, who'd have me, with no dower except my beauty, such as
it is, which, as your Ladyship knows, is not lasting."
The Marchioness fairly snorted with rage. She had been a Court belle in
her time.
"Some country parson, perhaps," continued Miss Fitzgerald reflectively;
"but then I fear I should not make a good parson's wife."
"I should doubt it," assented the Dowager with asperity.
"No millionaires would think of me for a moment."
"I did not know there were any such here."
"What, not Mr. Stanley?"
"Mr. Stanley?"
"Why, to be sure. He's worth millions they say. Stanley & Son, South
American sugar. Anyone in the city would confirm my statements, but you
don't know the city of course-- Lieutenant Kingsland could tell you more
about him if you cared to hear it," and she moved away as the gentlemen
entered the room, and running up to Stanley, exclaimed:--
"You've been an interminable length of time over your cigars. Men are
so selfish and I'm simply dying for a game of hearts."
"You play it so much I should think you would tire of it," he said,
smiling.
"Tut! tut! naughty man! This is serious business. Sixpence a heart, and
you mustn't win, for I'm quite impoverished. You'll be one of the party,
Jack," she continued, turning to Kingsland, who had just come up.
"Nothing I should like better. I always approve of assisting the
undeserving," replied the Lieutenant, and added: "I'll get Lady Isabelle
to join us." A very valuable piece of assistance, as her Ladyship would
hardly have done so on Miss Fitzgerald's unsupported invitation; and
since it was manifestly an affair of the young people, this deflection
might have ruined all.
The Lieutenant's request, however, had due weight, and she graciously
consented to join the party, which was further augmented by Mr. Riddle,
who declared that "young people" meant anyone who felt young, and so he
did not intend to be excluded.
The cards were accordingly shuffled, but during the deal, Belle
discovered that though she had a pencil, no paper for scoring was
anywhere obtainable.
"Oh, any old scrap will do," she said. "Surely some of you gentlemen
have an old envelope on which we can keep tally. Jack? Mr. Riddle?"
Both gentlemen professed to an utter absence of any available material.
"You, Jim--then?" she queried, turning to the Secretary.
"I don't generally carry my correspondence round in my evening clothes,"
he protested, laughing.
"Idiot!" she retorted, with an affected depth of scorn. "How can you
tell unless you've looked?"
"Oh well," he replied, "to please you----" and thrust his hand into the
pocket of his coat. "Why," he exclaimed, "here is something! I declare,
it's that mysterious letter which I intercepted at the Hyde Park Club
night before last. Let me see, Kingsland, I think it dropped from the
ceiling into your hands."
"The letter belongs to me," came the keen voice of Mr. Riddle.
"To you!" said Stanley, in genuine surprise.
"Yes. I gave it to Lieutenant Kingsland at the Hyde Park Club."
"But surely," contended the Secretary, "Lieutenant Kingsland told me,
only that morning, that he didn't know who you were."
Silence fell on the little company. The Lieutenant flushed and moved
uneasily in his seat, and Miss Fitzgerald leaned forward with a strained
look in her face, while the keen, restless eye of Mr. Riddle swept round
the table, taking in all present at a glance.
Then he spoke, with quick decision.
"Quite true. I did not till to-day have the pleasure of _knowing_
Lieutenant Kingsland. I saw him leaving the room at the club, however,
and though he was a stranger, ventured, as I was unable to leave my
party, to ask him to do me the favour to post a letter for me, handing
him two-pence for the stamp. I had, it seems, very carelessly forgotten
to address it."
"Yes," broke in the Lieutenant, catching his breath. "You remember I
told you I didn't know who had given it to me."
"You will notice," continued Mr. Riddle, "that the envelope is sealed
with the initials A. R. inclosed in scroll work. Here"--detaching it
from his watch chain--"is the seal with which the impression was made."
A cursory glance assured Stanley that it was the same.
"If you doubt my statement," continued Mr. Riddle affably, "we can
procure some wax and make a duplicate----"
The Secretary hastened to disclaim any such intention. Why should he
doubt this gentleman's word? Kingsland corroborated his story, and the
letter was no concern of his, anyway. Indeed, as he said, in handing it
over to its owner, he felt that he owed him an apology for his
unwarrantable interference in the matter.
At this point Miss Fitzgerald resumed the conversation.
"There!" she cried. "You and your stupid letter have lost me the deal,
for I don't know where I left off. Take the cards and deal for me-- I'll
run downstairs and get a clean sheet of paper, and come in on the next
hand," and suiting the action to the word, she pushed the pack over to
Stanley, and ran from the room.
A moment later the game was in progress. Mr. Riddle was the life and
soul of the party, and his irresistible mirth and good humour put every
one at his ease.
The impoverished, it is perhaps needless to say, were duly remunerated;
and the Secretary, after a round of whiskies and sodas, retired to his
room, feeling that the evening had been a triumphant success, and
reflecting ruefully that he was yet very young, for a little brief
authority had made him suspicious of everybody. Had he not put down Mr.
Riddle as a hypocrite, when that gentleman was one of the most open,
whole-hearted and mirthful personages in existence? As for the letter it
was an unfortunate incident, very successfully brought to a close.
Something was wrong with Belle, however. She had left him with a shrug
and laugh, saying: "Oh, there is no real gambling in a mere game of
cards. Try life!"