The room was crowded, there was a hum of talk, a scraping of chairs, a
high nervous laugh or so, and in some adjoining room the clatter of
coffee cups. The Rev. Arthur had arranged the hall on a new plan, he
said, and everybody agreed that it was an excellent plan. At one end of
the room was a draped platform; on the floor, in place of the phalanx of
benches, were scattered little tables with seats for four. It was a
unique arrangement, some went so far as to defy the grammarian and say
it was "most unique," but as a matter of fact neither the enthusiast nor
the vulgarian were correct, for the Rev. Arthur--a most excellent
Christian, overflowing with worldly wisdom--had modelled his
arrangements after those obtaining at the wicked _Cafe Chantant_. Tea
and coffee were to be served between the items, and a pleasurable
evening seemed assured.
Without in any way desiring to anticipate the events of the night, I
will go so far as to say, that the soiree might have been an unqualified
success had "No 4" on the programme been "No. 15"--which would have been
the last. "No. 4," by the new arrangement, was:
Dramatic Monologue:
Mr. Roderick Nape
"The Murder at Fairleigh Grange" (Anon.).
When the Duke and Hank arrived every seat had been taken, and the heated
organizers of the entertainment were pressing into service the
schoolroom forms.
Somebody had reserved two seats at one of the tables. Sir Harry Tanneur
and his amiable son had taken for granted that the seats had been
reserved for them. Alicia tactfully pointed out that Sir Harry's proper
place was at the vicar's table, since he had borne no small part of the
cost of the postponed concert. Sir Harry and his son agreed, the latter
grudgingly. When, a few minutes later, the Duke person and his friend
arrived and calmly appropriated the reserved seats Hal started to his
feet with an exclamation of annoyance; when Alicia welcomed them with a
sweet smile he collapsed into his chair; and when, in shaking hands, the
Duke held the girl's in his for an unjustifiable space of time, Mr. Hal
Tanneur said something to himself which was quite out of harmony with
the tone of the proceedings.
"Did you see that, governor?" he said beneath his breath, "did you see
that wretched bounder--by Jove, I've half a mind to go over and break
the fellow's head."
Sir Harry had seen "the bounder;" he had breathed a sigh of relief on
seeing him. The Duke was the first man he had looked for when he entered
the hall. Sir Harry's anxiety was mainly a matter of dates. For
instance to-day was the 20th. Twenty plus eight=28. And the _Ironic_
did not call at Queenstown. Sir Harry was happy in the thought that on
this auspicious day the "Redhelm Line" and the "Nord Deutscher Line,"
had begun their famous record-breaking race across the Atlantic. The
_Ironic_ had the advantage of twelve hours' start. She left Liverpool
at four o'clock that afternoon (she does not call at Queenstown,
repeated Sir Harry mentally), the _Kron Prinz Olaf_, was due to leave
Hamburg at 7 p.m. but she had distance to make up.
With these reflections to occupy his mind he paid little heed to his
son's expressions of indignation. Instead he asked abruptly--"You have
that cutting, Hal?"
"Which cutting?" demanded Hal aggressively.
"The order of the court--you can call upon our friend to-morrow and show
it to him," he chuckled.
Strangely enough, the subject of the Atlantic race was under discussion
at another table. It came a propos of the postponed concert.
"It would have been jolly inconvenient if this concert had occurred next
week," said the Duke.
"Why?" she looked at him over her tiny fan.
"Because next week--next Wednesday as ever is, I must leave you," he
said tragically.
She made no disguise of her disappointment.
"Bear up," he encouraged her, "I shall be away a fortnight."
"To America?"
A shadow of alarm fell on her face.
"Thinking of Bill Slewer?" he bantered, "Big Bad Bill?"
"Yes," she confessed.
"Oh, it isn't vendetta that takes me away," he said lightly, "something
less romantic. When a man's single," he said sententiously, "he can
afford to let money go hang, but when he has a wife--did you speak?"
"No," she said, and looked at her programme.
"When a man has a wife who is pretty certain to be extravagant--you're
sure you didn't speak?"
She shook her head.
"Well, in that case, one has to look around one's silver mines, and
floating investments and besides----"
Something in his tone made her look up; she saw a look half puzzled,
half amused.
"Well--I've got feelings, Hank laughs at 'em, says it's all your fault."
"What kind of feeling?"
"A dread," he said slowly, "a sort of uneasiness about my property--a
sort of--I don't know." He ended weakly and she thought irritably.
She looked at him steadily and silently, and Hank found an opening.
"Suppose this concert had come along next week, Duke--you could have
still gone. Caught the midnight from Euston."
There must have been telepathic communication between Sir Harry and the
Duke, for he replied--
"The _Ironic_ does not call at Queenstown."
"S--sh!"
There was tremendous applause for the vicar. His audience smiled at him
proprietorially and approvingly.
He was very pleased, he said, to see so many there that evening. He was
afraid the postponement might have seriously jeopardized the success of
the soiree, but our friend Sir Harry Tanneur (applause), whose name he
should imagine was a household word throughout England (he ventured
daringly), had been so anxious to be present and so munificent withal,
that he had acceded to his wishes.
As this seemed the proper place to applaud, the audience dutifully
applauded.
They were there primarily to assist an excellent cause. It was an open
secret that the organ debt had seriously engaged the attention of those
excellent gentlemen who administered the church funds (hear, hear, from
the audience and "poor old organ" from the Duke), and it has been
suggested that this entertainment should be provided with a view to the
debt's reduction. Now as to the splendid fare that was to be set before
them to-night, they had their friend the noble Duc de Montvillier
(cheers), a gentleman who had always proved himself a ready and willing
helper in church matters.
The girl looked at the Duke to see how he would take this gracious
fiction. With folded arms and grave self-appreciation on every line of
his face he accepted the undeserved tribute as his right.
"What a humbug you are," she murmured.
"Aren't I?" he said unabashed.
The Duc was to sing: then they had a unique entertainment promised by an
American gentleman, who would give an exhibition of fancy pistol
shooting (loud applause from the young men). This Mr. Slewer was a
gentleman who had spent many years in the Wild West of America. And
there were other performances of song and speech that would be found of
equal fascination. The first item on the programme (he said, consulting
his paper, though he might have taken the fact for granted) was a
pianoforte solo by Mrs. Coyter (applause).
Whilst "The Moonlight on the Danube" was bathing Brockley in noisy
effulgence, Hank moved his chair closer to the Duke.
"Fancy shootin's another word for accidental death," he said
laconically, "you'll quit before then?"
It was half a question and the Duke shook his head.
"When Bill is doing his circus tricks I shall be sitting right here," he
said emphatically.
"You won't," said Hank.
The Duke's intentions were sound, but Hank's predictions were inspired.
The Duke was not there when "fancy shooting" came on, neither for the
matter of that was Bill Slewer, and it all came about on account of Mr.
Roderick Nape and his thrilling monologue. That young gentleman was
facing his audience with no great assurance. Certain disturbing events
had taken his mind from the monologue. In the language of the turf he
was "short of a few gallops," and he sat a prey to gloomy forebodings,
cursing his folly, that he had not made himself word perfect and
regretting with some bitterness the lost opportunities for rehearsal.
Too soon came the fatal announcement, "Mr. Roderick Nape will recite a
dramatic monologue, 'The Murder at Fairleigh Grange,'" and he stumbled
up on the platform clutching his manuscript tightly. He began huskily
the opening lines.
"It is now many years since I became a detective, and care has whitened
my locks, yet it seems but yesterday," etc., etc.
He slurred his lines horribly. He somehow missed the exact qualities of
tragedy as he unfolded his gory tale.
The audience sat quiet and behaved decorously, but it refused to be
thrilled. Mr. Nape recognized his failure and boggled his lines
horribly, and the Duke was genuinely sorry for him. He came to the part
of the story where he sees the agony advertisement. He was looking
forward to this part, as the desert traveller anticipates the oasis.
For here he had excuse for a pause, and a pause might help him to
collect his scattered thoughts. So his utterance grew steadier as with
trembling fingers he drew from his waistcoat pocket the little clipping.
"Come (he quavered), let me read the paper again;" he held it up and
read--yes, actually read, although he ought to have remembered that this
cutting had no reference whatever to the plot of his one-man melodrama.
But Mr. Nape was beyond the point of reasoning.
"To whom it may concern," he read, then paused.