The garden-party was a great success. Quite half the people who were
asked came, and nearly all the people who weren’t. The fact that it
poured with rain from three o’clock onwards might have interfered with
the pleasure of the company, had not Mrs. Felix Waite been a woman of
invention and, with great presence of mind, held the garden-party in her
spacious drawing-rooms; thereby, some have thought, changing the
garden-party into an At Home or Afternoon Reception, but that is a
matter for argument.
Among those present was Mr. Michael Wagstaffe, the young gentleman with
the broken nose who called himself, with perhaps too much pomp, the
cavalier of the streets; a list of what other people called him might be
of interest, but could have no bearing on this story. It was not a habit
with the cavalier of the streets to go to garden-parties, or to parties
of any kind, for in London there were not a few people who would have
been pleased to meet him just once more. However, on this occasion, he
had happened to be passing Mrs. Felix Waite’s house towards six o’clock,
and, hearing music and being thirsty, had walked in. Not long after, he
walked out. But he had not walked more than a few yards when some one
caught his shoulder, and an abrupt voice said:
“Come back, you!”
Mr. Michael Wagstaffe turned round. “I never drink with strangers,” he
said proudly.
“Come on, now,” said the gruff man impatiently. “No one can leave that
house just yet. And we want you particularly--to ask you a few
questions.”
“A detective!” sighed Mr. Wagstaffe. “I knew it! For his clothes are
very plain.”
They started back, the plain-clothes man holding his arm. It was still
raining hard--one of those afternoons when people paid to watch it rain
on a nice new tarpaulin at the new tennis-courts at Wimbledon.
“I return under protest,” said Mr. Wagstaffe, “though I wouldn’t object
to an umbrella as well.”
“We know _you_,” the plain-clothes man grinned disagreeably. “We know
_you_. And I’ve had my eye on you in there--you weren’t invited, you
weren’t.”
They walked up the soaked red strip of carpet into the spacious portico,
through the spacious portico into the spacious Lounge Hall, and so into
a little room. The garden-party, it seemed, was still in full swing in
the drawing-rooms; there was music, there was gaiety, but in the little
room downstairs were only the plain-clothes man and the cavalier of the
streets. Methodically, the plain-clothes man began to search the
cavalier’s pockets. Contentedly, the cavalier let him.
“If it’s cigarette-cards for your children you’re looking for,” he said,
“I’m afraid I left my collection at home. And if it’s not
cigarette-cards, what the hell _are_ you looking for?”
“Diamonds,” said the detective. “Off with your shoes now.”
“I always was a devil for diamonds. Whose diamond?”
“Lady of the house lost famous diamond-ring. Come on now, off with your
shoes.”
“If you are worthy enough to untie them,” grinned Mr. Wagstaffe, and
held out a wet and rather muddy shoe. But there were no diamond-rings in
Mr. Wagstaffe’s shoes.
“Good-bye,” said Mr. Wagstaffe amiably.
“_Au revoir_,” the detective grinned. He was annoyed. “You’ll see more
of me, _Mr._ Wagstaffe. Call on you soon, perhaps.”
The young man turned round at the door.
“Going to search all the guests?” he asked.
“’Course not. But you had no right in the house. You was loitering
suspiciously.”
“Going to search the other people who came unasked?” asked Mr. Wagstaffe
gently.
“Don’t pull any of that on me, young man,” said the plain-clothes man.
“You was the suspicious character on the premises when the diamond-ring
was stolen, and you’ll hear more of it.”
The cavalier of the streets advanced gently upon the plain-clothes man,
and gently he smiled upon him.
“If you knew more of your London,” said he, “you would know that there
were at least five other suspicious characters in this house, of whom
not more than two could have been invited. And the next time you come
near me you had better bring a posse along with you for protection, for
at one more word from you I will smite you in such a manner that if you
don’t fall down instantly I shall have to run behind you to see what’s
holding you up. Good-afternoon.”
As Mr. Wagstaffe emerged from the little room into the spacious hall a
young lady passed him towards the door. She passed swiftly, intently,
and sweetly, for she was a pretty young lady. She was dressed like a
flower, a flower from a garden sweeter than the spacious garden of Mrs.
Waite, and as she passed by the cavalier of the streets a faint scent
pierced the rain-sodden air of the outer hall.
“Chypre,” thought Mr. Wagstaffe, for it was his business to know these
things.
“Good-afternoon,” said Mr. Wagstaffe amiably; but the young lady, the
very smart young lady, passed him without a glance into a waiting
taxi-cab outside.
The cavalier of the streets whistled gently as he walked away in the
rain. He walked not because he liked walking, but because he had not the
price of a taxi in the world, because the Underground was offensive to
his sensitive nerves, and because busses bored him.