Several hours later, when the stars had begun to peep out and the birds
were rustling sleepily in the trees, a solitary figure might have been
observed moving slowly up the drive towards the front door of the
Waddington summer-residence at Hempstead, Long Island. It was Sigsbee
H., returning from his travels.
He walked apprehensively, like a cat that expects a half-brick. Oh,
sings the poet, to be home again, home again, home again: but Sigsbee
H. Waddington could not bring himself to share that sunny view-point.
With the opportunity for quiet reflection there had come to him the
numbing realisation that beneath the roof before him trouble waited. On
other occasions while serving his second sentence as a married man he
had done things of which his wife had disapproved--and of which she had
expressed her disapproval in a manner that was frank and unrestrained:
but never before had he committed such a domestic crime as the one
beneath the burden of which he was staggering now. He had actually
absented himself from the wedding of his only child after having been
specifically instructed to give her away at the altar: and if on a
theme like this his wife did not extend herself in a fashion calculated
to stagger Humanity--well, all Sigsbee H. could say was that past form
meant nothing and could be ruled out as a guide completely.
He sighed drearily. He felt depressed and battered, in no mood to
listen to home-truths about himself. All he wanted was to be alone on a
sofa with his shoes off and something to drink at his elbow. For he had
had a trying time in the great city.
Sigsbee H. Waddington, as has perhaps been sufficiently indicated in
this narrative, was not a man who could think deeply without getting
a headache: but even at the expense of an aching head he had been
compelled to do some very deep thinking as he journeyed to New York in
the train. From somewhere in the muddy depths of his sub-consciousness
it was imperative that he should bring to the surface the name of the
policeman to whom he had sold that stock. He started the dredging
operations immediately, and by the time the train had reached the
Pennsylvania Station had succeeded in narrowing the search down to this
extent,--that he felt sure the man was called either Mulcahy or Garrity.
Now, a man who goes about New York looking for a policeman named
Mulcahy has quite an afternoon's work in hand. So has the man who
seeks a Garrity. For one who pursues both there is not a dull moment.
Flitting hither and thither about the city and questioning the various
officers he encountered, Sigsbee H. Waddington soon began to cover
ground. The policeman on point duty in Times Square said that there was
a Mulcahy up near Grant's Tomb and a choice of Garritys at Columbus
Circle and Irving Place. The Grant's Tomb Mulcahy, expressing regret
that he could not himself supply the happy ending, recommended the
Hundred-and-Twenty-Fifth Street Mulcahy or--alternately--the one down
on Third Avenue and Sixteenth. The Garrity at Columbus Circle spoke
highly of a Garrity near the Battery, and the Garrity at Irving Place
seemed to think his cousin up in the Bronx might fill the long-felt
want. By this time the clocks were striking five, Mr. Waddington had
come definitely to the decision that what the world wanted to make
it a place fit for heroes to live in was fewer and better Mulcahys.
At five-thirty, returning from the Bronx, he would have supported
any amendment to the Constitution which Congress might have cared
to introduce, totally prohibiting Garritys. At six sharp, he became
suddenly convinced that the name of the man he sought was Murphy.
He was passing through Madison Square at the moment, having just
flushed Fourteenth Street for another Mulcahy: and so deeply did this
new idea affect him that he tottered to one of the benches and, sitting
down, groaned heavily. It was the breaking-point. Mr. Waddington
decided to give it up and go home. His head was aching, his feet
were aching, and the small of his back was aching. The first fine
careless rapture with which he had started his quest had ebbed away to
nothing. In short, if there was one man in New York utterly incapable
of going about the place looking for Murphys, that man was Sigsbee H.
Waddington. He limped to the Pennsylvania Station and took the next
train home, and here he was, approaching journey's end.
The house, as he drew near, seemed very silent. And, of course, it
had every right to be. Long since, the wedding must have taken place
and the happy pair departed on their honeymoon. Long since, the last
guest must have left. And now, beneath that quiet roof, there remained
only Mrs. Waddington, no doubt trying out blistering phrases in the
seclusion of her boudoir--here, discarding an incandescent adjective in
favour of a still zippier one that had just suggested itself; there,
realising that the noun 'worm' was too mild and searching in Roget's
Thesaurus for something more expressive. Mr. Waddington paused on the
door-step, half inclined to make for the solitude of the tool-shed.
Manlier counsels prevailed. In the tool-shed there would be nothing to
drink, and, cost what it might, a drink was what his suffering soul
demanded. He crossed the threshold, and leaped nimbly as a dark figure
suddenly emerged from the telephone-booth.
"Oosh!" said Mr. Waddington.
"Sir?" said the figure.
Mr. Waddington felt relieved. It was not his wife. It was Ferris.
And Ferris was the one person he particularly wanted at that moment
to meet. For it was Ferris who could most expeditiously bring him
something to drink.
"Sh!" whispered Sigsbee H. "Anyone about?"
"Sir?"
"Where is Mrs. Waddington?"
"In her boudoir, sir."
Sigsbee H. had expected as much.
"Anyone in the library?"
"No, sir."
"Then bring me a drink in there, Ferris. And don't tell anybody you've
seen me."
"Very good, sir."
Mr. Waddington shambled to the library and flung himself down on the
chesterfield. Delicious, restful moments passed, and then a musical
tinkling made itself heard without. Ferris entered with a tray.
"You omitted to give me definite instructions, sir," said the butler,
"so, acting on my own initiative, I have brought the whisky-decanter
and some charged water."
He spoke coldly, for he disapproved of Mr. Waddington. But the latter
was in no frame of mind to analyse the verbal nuances of butlers. He
clutched at the decanter, his eyes moist with gratitude.
"Splendid fellow, Ferris!"
"Thank you, sir."
"You're the sort of fellow who ought to be out West, where men are men."
The butler twitched a frosty eyebrow.
"Will that be all, sir?"
"Yes. But don't go, Ferris. Tell me about everything."
"On what particular point did you desire information, sir?"
"Tell me about the wedding. I wasn't able to be present. I had most
important business in New York, Ferris. So I wasn't able to be present.
Because I had most important business in New York."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Most important business. Impossible to neglect it. Did the wedding go
off all right?"
"Not altogether, sir."
"What do you mean?"
"There has been no wedding, sir."
Mr. Waddington sat up. The butler appeared to be babbling. And the
one moment when a man does not want to mix with babbling butlers is
immediately after he has returned home from a search through New York
for a policeman named Mulcahy or Garrity.
"No wedding?"
"No, sir."
"Why not?"
"At the last moment a hitch occurred, sir."
"Don't tell me the new clergyman sprained his ankle, too?"
"No, sir. The presiding minister continues to enjoy good health in
every respect. The hitch to which I allude was caused by a young woman
who, claiming to be an old friend of the bridegroom, entered the room
where the guests were assembled and created some little disturbance,
sir."
Mr. Waddington's eyes bulged.
"Tell me about this," he said.
The butler fixed a fathomless gaze on the wall beyond him.
"I was not actually present at the scene myself, sir. But one of the
lower servants, who chanced to be glancing in at the door, has apprised
me of the details of the occurrence. It appears that, just as the
wedding-party was about to start off for the church, a young woman
suddenly made her way through the French windows opening to the lawn,
and, pausing in the entrance, observed 'George! George! Why did you
desert me? You don't belong to that girl there. You belong to me,--the
woman you have wronged!' Addressing Mr. Finch, I gather."
Mr. Waddington's eyes were now protruding to such a dangerous extent
that a sharp jerk would have caused them to drop off.
"Sweet suffering soup-spoons! What happened then?"
"There was considerable uproar and confusion, so my informant tells
me. The bridegroom was noticeably taken aback, and protested with some
urgency that it was all a mistake. To which Mrs. Waddington replied
that it was just what she had foreseen all along. Miss Waddington, I
gather, was visibly affected. And the guests experienced no little
embarrassment."
"I don't blame them."
"No, sir."
"And then?"
"The young woman was pressed for details, but appeared to be in an
overwrought and highly emotional condition. She screamed, so my
informant tells me, and wrung her hands. She staggered about the room
and, collapsing on the table where the wedding-presents had been
placed, seemed to swoon. Almost immediately afterwards, however, she
appeared to recover herself: and, remarking 'Air! Air! I want air!'
departed hastily through the French windows. I understand, sir, that
nothing was seen of her after that."
"And what happened then?"
"Mrs. Waddington refused to permit the wedding to take place. The
guests returned to New York. Mr. Finch, after uttering certain protests
which my informant could not hear distinctly but which appear to
have been incoherent and unconvincing, also took his departure. Mrs.
Waddington has for some little time past been closeted in the boudoir
with Miss Waddington. A very unpleasant affair, sir, and one which
could never have occurred at Brangmarley Hall."
One hates to have to record it, but it is a fact that the first emotion
which came to Sigsbee H. Waddington after the waning of his initial
amazement was relief. It was not the thought of this broken romance
that occupied his mind, nor pity for the poor girl who had played the
principal part in the tragedy. The aspect of the matter that touched
him most nearly was the fact that he was not in for trouble, after
all. His absence had probably escaped notice, and that wifely lecture
to which he had been looking forward so apprehensively would never be
delivered.
And then, cutting through relief, came a sudden thought that chilled
his satisfaction.
"What sort of a girl was it that came in through the window?"
"My informant describes her as small, sir, and of a neat figure. She
had a _retroussé_ nose and expressive black eyes, sir."
"Great Godfrey!" ejaculated Mr. Waddington.
He sprang from the sofa and, despite his aching feet, made good time
along the hall. He ran into the dining-room and switched on the light.
He darted across the room to the table where the wedding-presents lay.
At first glance, they seemed to be all there, but a second look showed
him that his suspicions had been well-founded.
The case containing the necklace was gone.