*Part I*
*THE DUKE ARRIVES*
*I*
The local directory is a useful institution to the stranger, but the
intimate directory of suburbia, the libellous "Who's Who," has never and
will never be printed. Set in parallel columns, it must be clear to the
meanest intelligence that, given a free hand, the directory editor could
produce a volume which for sparkle and interest, would surpass the
finest work that author has produced, or free library put into
circulation. Thus:--
AUTHORIZED STATEMENT. PRIVATE AMENDMENT.
KYMOTT CRESCENT.
44. Mr. A. B. Wilkes. Wilkes drinks: comes home
Merchant. in cabs which he can ill
afford. Young George
Wilkes is a most insufferable
little beast, uses scent
in large quantities. Mrs.
W. has not had a new dress
for years.
56. Mr. T. B. Coyter. Coyter has three stories which
Accountant. he *will* insist upon repeating.
Mrs. C. smokes and is
considered a little fast.
No children: two cats,
which Mrs. C. calls "her
darlings." C. lost a lot of
money in a ginger beer
enterprise.
66. Mrs. Terrill. Very close, not sociable, in
fact, "stuck up." Daughter
rather pretty, but
stand-offish--believed to have
lived in great style before
Mr. T. died, but now
scraping along on L200 a
year. Never give parties
and seldom go out.
74. Mr. Nape Retired civil servant. Son
Roderick supposed to be
very clever; never cuts his
hair: a great brooder,
reads too many trashy
detective stories.
And so on _ad infinitum_, or rather until the portentous and grave
pronouncement "Here is Kymott Terrace" shuts off the Crescent, its
constitution and history. There are hundreds of Kymott Crescents in
London Suburbia, populated by immaculate youths of a certain set and
rigid pattern, of girls who affect open-worked blouses and short
sleeves, of deliberate old gentlemen who water their gardens and set
crude traps for the devastating caterpillar. And the young men play
cricket in snowy flannels, and the girls get hot and messy at tennis,
and the old gentlemen foregather in the evening at the nearest open
space to play bowls with some labour and no little dignity. So it was
with the Crescent.
In this pretty thoroughfare with its L100 p.a. houses (detached), its
tiny carriage drives, its white muslin curtains hanging stiffly from
glittering brass bands, its window boxes of clustering geraniums and its
neat lawns, it was a tradition that no one house knew anything about its
next-door neighbour--_or wanted to know_. You might imagine, did you
find yourself deficient in charity, that such a praiseworthy attitude
was in the nature of a polite fiction, but you may judge for yourself.
The news that No. 64, for so long standing empty, and bearing on its
blank windows the legend "To Let--apply caretaker," had at length found
a tenant was general property on September 6. The information that the
new people would move in on the 17th was not so widespread until two
days before that date.
Master Willie Outram (of 65, "Fairlawn ") announced his intention of
"seeing what they'd got," and was very promptly and properly reproved by
his mother.
"You will be good enough to remember that only rude people stare at
other people's furniture when it is being carried into the house," she
admonished icily; "be good enough to keep away, and if I see you near 64
when the van comes I shall be very cross."
Which gives the lie to the detractors of Kymott Crescent.
Her next words were not so happily chosen.
"You might tell me what She's like," she added thoughtfully.
To the disgust of Willie, the van did not arrive at 64 until dusk. He
had kept the vigil the whole day to no purpose. It was a small van,
damnably small, and I do not use the adverb as an expletive, but to
indicate how this little pantechnicon, might easily have ineffaceably
stamped the penury of the new tenants.
And there was no She.
Two men came after the van had arrived.
They were both tall, both dressed in grey, but one was older than the
other.
The younger man was clean-shaven, with a keen brown face and steady grey
eyes that had a trick of laughing of themselves. The other might have
been ten years older. He too was clean-shaven, and his skin was the hue
of mahogany.
A close observer would not have failed to notice, that the hands of both
were big, as the hands of men used to manual labour.
They stood on either side of the tiled path that led through the strip
of front garden to the door, and watched in silence, the rapid unloading
of their modest property.
Willie Outram, frankly a reporter, mentally noted the absence of piano,
whatnot, mirror and all the paraphernalia peculiar to the Kymott
Crescent drawing-room. He saw bundles of skins, bundles of spears,
tomahawks (imagine his ecstasy!) war drums, guns, shields and trophies
of the chase. Bedroom furniture that would disgrace a servant's attic,
camp bedsteads, big lounge chairs and divans. Most notable absentee
from the furnishings was She--a fact which might have served as food for
discussion for weeks, but for the more important discovery he made
later.
A man-servant busied himself directing the removers, and the elder of
the two tenants, at last said--
"That's finished, Duke."
He spoke with a drawling, lazy, American accent.
The young man nodded, and called the servant.
"We shall be back before ten," he said in a pleasant voice.
"Very good, m'lord," replied the man with the slightest of bows.
The man looked round and saw Willie.
"Hank," he said, "there's the information bureau--find out things."
The elder jerked his head invitingly, and Willie sidled into the garden.
"Bub," said Hank, with a hint of gloom in his voice, "Where's the
nearest saloon?"
He did not quite comprehend.
Willie gasped.
"Saloon, sir!"
"Pub," explained the young man, in a soft voice.
"Public-house, sir?" Willie faltered correctly.
Hank nodded, and the young man chuckled softly.
"There is," said the outraged youth, "a good-pull-up-for-carmen, at the
far end of Kymott Road, the _far_ end," he emphasized carefully.
"At the far end, eh?" Hank looked round at his companion, "Duke, shall
we walk or shall we take the pantechnicon?"
"Walk," said his grace promptly.
Willie saw the two walking away. His young brain was in a whirl. Here
was an epoch-making happening, a tremendous revolutionary and
unprecedented circumstance--nay, it was almost monstrous, that there
should come into the ordered life of Kymott Crescent so disturbing a
factor.
The agitated youth watched them disappearing, and as the consciousness
of his own responsibility came to him, he sprinted after them.
"I say!"
They turned round.
"You--here I say!--you're not a duke, are you--not a real duke?" he
floundered.
Hank surveyed him kindly.
"Sonny," he said impressively, "this is the realest duke you've ever
seen: canned in the Dukeries an' bearin' the government analyst's
certificate."
"But--but," said the bewildered boy, "no larks--I say, are you truly a
duke?"
He looked appealingly at the younger man whose eyes were dancing.
He nodded his head and became instantly grave.
"I'm a truly duke," he said sadly, "keep it dark."
He put his hand in his pocket, and produced with elaborate deliberation
a small card case. From this he extracted a piece of paste-board, and
handed to Willie who read--
"THE DUC DE MONTVILLIER,"
and in a corner "San Pio Ranch, Tex."
"I'm not," continued the young man modestly, "I'm not an English duke:
if anything I'm rather superior to the average English duke: I've got
royal blood in my veins, and I shall be very pleased to see you at No.
64."
"From 10 till 4," interposed the grave Hank.
"From 10 till 4," accepted the other, "which are my office hours."
"For duking," explained Hank.
"Exactly--for duking," said his grace.
Willie looked from one to the other.
"I say!" he blurted, "you're pulling my leg, aren't you? I say! you're
rotting me."
"I told you so," murmured the Duke resentfully, "Hank, he thinks I'm
rotting--he's certain I'm pulling his leg, Hank."
Hank said nothing.
Only he shook his head despairingly, and taking the other's arm, they
continued their walk, their bowed shoulders eloquent of their dejection.
Willie watched them for a moment, then turned and sped homeward with the
news.