THE MODERN VICE
So staggered was I that for the moment I almost forgot my disguise, and
the _role_ I was playing, and was on the point of hurrying over to
Dulcie and asking her how she came to be there. That Mrs. Stapleton must
have brought her, of course I guessed.
Fortunately I restrained myself just in time. Dulcie, I saw to my
dismay, was not merely playing, but was deeply engrossed in the game.
"Sandown Park" was the game in progress at that table, a game which to
all intents is a series of horse-races, but whereas at a race-meeting
only half a dozen or so races are run in an afternoon, the players at
"Sandown Park" can back horses in half a dozen races in as many minutes.
Judging by the interest she evidently took in the game, Dulcie must, I
conjectured, have been playing for some time, for she appeared to be
quite _au fait_. Never had she mentioned this game to me, and never had
I known her to take interest in backing horses or in any form of
reckless speculation. Consequently I had reason to suppose that this was
the first time she had played, if not the first time she had seen or
heard of the game.
Did I dare approach her? Would my feelings get the better of me and lead
to my betraying who I was? Though I had not been identified by people
who knew me, would Dulcie's perception be keener and lead to her seeing
through my disguise? These and similar doubts and questions crowded my
brain as I stood there watching her from a distance, but in the end
indiscretion got the better of prudence, and I decided to join the men
and women grouped about the table at which she and her friend sat.
For fully ten minutes I stood there, and during that time I saw her win
seven times in succession. She seemed to play without judgment or
calculation, in fact, with absolute recklessness, and after winning
three "races" in succession she had increased her stake each time. In
the fourth "race" she had backed a horse for ten pounds at four to one,
and won. In the next race she had planked twenty sovereigns on an
outsider, and raked in over a hundred pounds. The next two races had
increased her pile by between three and four hundred pounds. I could see
her panting with excitement. Her lips were slightly parted. Her eyes
shone. Her whole soul seemed centred upon the game.
And then she began to lose.
At first slowly, then rapidly, her pile of gold and notes dwindled. Time
after time she backed the wrong "animal." Now only a few five- and
ten-pound notes and a little heap of sovereigns—twenty at
most—remained. Her face had turned gradually pale. Connie Stapleton
leant towards her and whispered in her ear. I saw Dulcie nod; then,
taking up all the money in front of her, she handed it to the man who
held the bank, and received a ticket in return.
The board with the graduated divisions and the names of the horses
marked upon them spun round once more. Dulcie's brows were contracted,
her face was drawn, her expression tense. Slowly the board now
revolved, slower still. It stopped. I saw her give a little start, and
distinctly heard the gasp which escaped her.
She had lost everything.
Connie Stapleton's hand closed over hers, as though to reassure her.
Again the widow spoke into her ear. A moment later I saw a roll of notes
pushed towards Dulcie. Eagerly she grabbed them.
This was terrible. I realized at once what was happening. The widow was
lending her money. I wondered if the money she had already lost had been
lent to her by her friend. Instantly it dawned upon me that it must have
been, unless, indeed, Dulcie had, before I arrived, been extraordinarily
lucky, for I knew that she had not money enough of her own to gamble
with for such high stakes. She was playing again now—and losing. Once
or twice she won, but after each winner came several losers. I was
gradually getting fascinated. Again the widow lent her money, and again
she lost it all.
At last they rose. Never, as long as I live, shall I forget the
expression that was on my darling's face as, with the widow's arm linked
within her own, she made her way towards the door.
I followed them to the supper room. They stopped, and, standing at one
of the tables, Mrs. Stapleton filled two glasses with champagne. She
gave Dulcie one, and herself emptied the other. She filled her own again
and once more emptied it. Dulcie only half emptied her glass, then
set it down.
Out of the room they went. While they put on their wraps I went in
search of my hat. A few minutes later Mrs. Stapleton and Dulcie were
entering a car which I at once recognized as Connie Stapleton's. As the
car started I saw a taxi approaching, and hailed it.
"Follow that car," I said to the driver. "Keep it in sight, and, when
you see it stop, stop forty or fifty yards behind it."
Right up into Hampstead the grey car sped. It slackened speed near
Southend Road, eventually pulling up at a house in Willow Road. Leaning
forward, I rubbed the frosted glass in the front of my taxi, and peered
out. I saw Mrs. Stapleton alight first; then she turned and helped
Dulcie to get out. Both entered the house. The door closed quietly, and
the car rolled away.
For some minutes I waited. Then I told my driver to pass slowly by the
house and make a note of the number. The number was "460."
That, at any rate, was satisfactory. I had discovered what was,
presumably, Mrs. Stapleton's London address. Only then did I begin to
wonder what Osborne and Preston would think when they found that I had
gone. So engrossed had I become in Dulcie's movements that for the time
all thought of my two companions had passed out of my mind. I thought of
returning to the house in Cumberland Place; then, deciding that it was
too late, I told the driver to go direct to my flat in South
Molton Street.
A letter was lying on the table in my sitting-room. I seemed to
recognize the writing, and yet—
I tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter. To my surprise it
was from Dick, who was now back at Eton. "My dear Mike," it ran. "I have
something very important to say to you, and I want to say it at once.
But I don't want to write it. Can you come here to see me to-morrow as
soon as possible, or can you get leave for me to come to London to see
you? I don't want to go home, because if I did father and Aunt Hannah
and Dulcie would ask questions, and what I want to say to you is _quite
private_. Will you telegraph to me as soon as you get this to say what I
can do and where I can see you at once?
"Your affectionate brother-in-law-to-be,
"DICK."
I read the letter through again; then refolded it and put it in a
drawer. The letter, I saw by the postmark, had arrived by the last post.
What could the boy want to see me about? What could he have to say to me
that he wished to keep secret from his family? I could not imagine.
Anyway, I would, I decided, gratify him—I was very fond of Dick. Then
and there I wrote out a telegram to be sent off early in the morning,
telling him that I would come down in the afternoon; I had decided to
try to see something of Dulcie during the morning, also to telephone to
Holt to inquire for her, though without betraying to Sir Roland or Aunt
Hannah that I knew anything of her movements during the previous night.
But Sir Roland forestalled me. Shortly after eight o'clock I was
awakened by the telephone at my bedside ringing loudly. Still half
asleep, I grabbed the receiver and glued it to my ear.
"Had I seen anything of Dulcie? Did I know where she was and why she had
not returned?"
The speaker was Sir Roland, and he spoke from Holt Manor.
"Why, isn't she at home?" I asked, controlling my voice.
"If she were here I shouldn't ask where she is," Sir Roland answered
quite sharply. "Mrs. Stapleton called yesterday afternoon to ask if
Dulcie might dine with her in town and go to the theatre. Of course I
raised no objection"—Sir Roland in no way shared my suspicion
concerning Mrs. Stapleton; on the contrary, she attracted him and he
liked her, though Aunt Hannah did not—"and Dulcie dressed and went off
at about five o'clock. They were to go to 'The Rook,' Mrs. Stapleton
said, where she would dress, and then they would motor to London. Mrs.
Stapleton assured me that she would bring Dulcie back here by about
midnight or one o'clock, and Dulcie took with her the key of the back
door, so that nobody need wait up for her—she told her maid to go to
bed. Her maid has just come to tell me that when she went to awaken
Dulcie, she found that she had not returned. I have telephoned to 'The
Rook,' and they tell me there that Mrs. Stapleton has not been back to
the hotel since yesterday soon after lunch. So I suppose that after
leaving here she decided to motor straight to town, and dress there. I
suppose she has some _pied-a-terre_ in London, though she has never
told me so."
"And you say that Dulcie has the door key with her," I said. "Do you
think it was wise to give it to her?"
"Why in the world not? She has often taken it before. But tell me, have
you seen anything of Dulcie?"
I didn't like telling an untruth, but, questioned in that point-blank
way, I had to prevaricate; otherwise I should have been forced to say
all I knew.
"She has not been to see me," I answered. "Perhaps Mrs. Stapleton's car
broke down and they have been obliged to seek refuge at some wayside
inn. I wouldn't be anxious, Sir Roland," I added, knowing how little it
needed to make him anxious about Dulcie. "You will probably get a
telegram from one of them presently."
We exchanged a few more remarks, and then Sir Roland exclaimed suddenly:
"Hold the line a moment. Hannah wants to speak to you."
Aunt Hannah, who, whatever faults she possessed, rarely lost her head,
spoke sensibly and incisively. She didn't like this affair at all, she
said, and intended to speak very seriously to Dulcie immediately upon
her return. Also she was determined to put an end to this strong
friendship between her niece and Mrs. Stapleton. On Dulcie's side, she
said, it was nothing less than an absurd infatuation. She would not have
minded her being infatuated about some women, but she had come
thoroughly to mistrust Mrs. Stapleton.
I asked her to telephone or telegraph to me the moment Dulcie got home,
and said that if I saw Dulcie in town or heard anything of her during
the morning I would at once ring up Holt Manor. With that we rang off.
"Can I see Mrs. Stapleton?" I inquired, as the door of the house in
Willow Road was opened by a maid with rather curious eyes; I had come
there straight from my flat, no longer wearing my disguise, and it was
nearly eleven o'clock. Just then I had an inspiration, and I added
quickly, before she had time to answer, "or Mr. Hugesson Gastrell?"
An arrow shot at random, it proved a lucky shot, for the maid answered
at once:
"Mrs. Stapleton isn't dressed yet, sir; but Mr. Gastrell can see you, I
expect. What name shall I say?"
I was shown into a small morning room, and there I waited for, I
suppose, five minutes. At last I heard footsteps approaching, and in a
moment Gastrell entered.
"Dear me, this is a surprise," he exclaimed cordially, extending his
hand. "I didn't know I had given you this address. Well, and what can I
do for you?"
His tone, as he said this, was rather that of a patron addressing an
inferior, but I pretended not to notice it, and, drawing upon my
imagination, answered:
"I don't think you did give me this address; it was somebody else—I
forget who—who mentioned it to me the other day in course of
conversation. Really I have come to see Mrs. Stapleton and inquire for
Miss Challoner."
"Miss Challoner? Do you mean Miss Dulcie Challoner, Sir Roland's
daughter?"
"Yes."
An extremely puzzled look came into his eyes, though this he was
probably not aware of.
"But what makes you think Miss Challoner is here?" he inquired quickly.
"She spent the night here with Mrs. Stapleton."
He looked still more puzzled.
"Did she really?" he answered in a tone of surprise which obviously was
feigned.
"Yes. Didn't you know?"
"This is the first I have heard of it, but I dare say you are right.
Mrs. Stapleton has rooms in this house—it's a little private
establishment of mine—but beyond that I know little of her movements.
I'll go and inquire if you'll wait a moment."
"Clever scoundrel!" I said aloud when he had left the room and shut the
door. "Rooms here," "knows little of her movements," "first he has heard
of it." But I am going to bowl you out in the end, my friend, I ended
mentally as I seated myself and picked up one of the morning papers
which lay upon the table. It was the _Morning Post_. I noticed that
several little bits had been cut out of the front page—presumably
advertisements.
I had scanned one or two pages and was reading a leading article when
Gastrell returned.
"You are quite right," he said, offering me his cigarette case. "Miss
Challoner is here. After supper last night at the Carlton with Mrs.
Stapleton she didn't feel very well, so Mrs. Stapleton persuaded her to
come back and sleep here instead of motoring back to Newbury. She told
her maid to telegraph early this morning to Sir Roland Challoner, in
case he should feel anxious at Miss Challoner's not returning last
night, but the maid stupidly forgot to. She is sending a telegram now.
Miss Challoner is quite all right this morning, and will be down
presently, but I am afraid you won't be able to see Mrs. Stapleton, as
she isn't up yet."
I thanked him for finding out, thinking, as I did so, that certainly he
was one of the most plausible liars I had ever come across; and then for
a few minutes we conversed on general topics.
"You don't remember who it was told you my address?" he presently asked
carelessly, flicking his cigarette ash into the grate.
"I am sorry, I don't," I answered, pretending to think. "It was some
days ago that somebody or other told me you lived here, or rather that
you had an address here."
"Oh, indeed. It's odd how people talk. By the way, how did you come to
know that Mrs. Stapleton and Miss Challoner were here?"
His question was interrupted by Dulcie's entering, wrapped in a great
fur coat. There were dark marks under her eyes that I had never seen
there before, but she seemed in quite good spirits as she came across
the room and greeted me.
"How in the world did you find out I was here!" she exclaimed. "It is
most astonishing. Did you know that Connie had rooms here? I didn't,
until last night. It was so good of her to put me up. I can't think what
it was upset me so last night, but I am quite all right this morning.
Connie has just telegraphed to father to explain my absence—you know
how little it takes to worry him. I've got my evening dress on under
this coat that Connie's lent me. She wanted to lend me one of her day
dresses, but not one of them comes near fitting me."
I gasped. I couldn't answer. It was bad enough to find people like
Gastrell and Jasmine Gastrell and Connie Stapleton perjuring themselves
in the calmest way imaginable; but that Dulcie, whom I had until now
implicitly believed to be everything that was good should thus look me
in the eyes and lie to me—with as much self-assurance as though she had
been accustomed to practising deception all her life.
A kind of haze seemed to rise before my eyes. My brain throbbed. All the
blood seemed suddenly to be going out of my heart. Mechanically putting
out an arm, I supported myself against the mantelpiece.
"Mike! Mike! What is the matter? Are you ill? do you feel faint?"
Her voice sounded a long, long way off. I heard her words as one hears
words in a dream. My mouth had turned suddenly dry. I tried to speak,
but could not.
"Here, Berrington, drink this and you'll feel better."
These were the next words I remember hearing. I was lying back on the
settee, and Gastrell was holding a tumbler to my lips. It contained
brandy slightly diluted. I drank a lot of it, and it revived me to
some extent.
Still uncertain if I were sleeping or awake, I passed out through the
hall, slightly supported by Dulcie, and clambered after her into the
taxi which awaited us outside.
"Go to Paddington," I heard her say to the driver, as she pulled the
door to. No servant had come out of the house, and Gastrell had
disappeared while we were still inside the hall.