It was not until Perrison joined her in the conservatory after dinner
that she found herself called on to play the part set her by her
brother.
She had gone there—though nothing would have induced her to admit the
fact—in the hope that someone else would follow: the man with the lazy
blue eyes and the eyeglass. And then instead of him had come Perrison,
with a shade too much deference in his manner, and a shade too little
control of the smirk on his face. With a sudden sick feeling she
realised at that moment exactly where she stood. Under a debt of
obligation to this man—under the necessity of a _tête-à-tête_ with him,
one, moreover, when, if she was to help Bill, she must endeavour to be
extra nice.
For a while the conversation was commonplace, while she feverishly
longed for someone to come in and relieve the tension. But Bridge was in
progress, and there was Snooker in the billiard-room, and at length she
resigned herself to the inevitable. Presumably she would have to thank
him for his kindness to Bill; after all he undoubtedly had been very
good to her brother.
“Bill has told me, Mr. Perrison, how kind you’ve been in the way you’ve
helped him in this—this unfortunate affair.” She plunged valiantly, and
gave a sigh of relief as she cleared the first fence.
Perrison waved a deprecating hand. “Don’t mention it, Miss Daventry,
don’t mention it. But—er—of course, something will have to be done,
and—well, there’s no good mincing matters—done very soon.”
The girl’s face grew a little white, but her voice was quite steady.
“But he told me that you had arranged things with these people. Please
smoke, if you want to.”
Perrison bowed his thanks and carefully selected a cigarette. The moment
for which he had been playing had now arrived, in circumstances even
more favourable than he had dared to hope.
“Up to a point that is quite true,” he remarked, quietly. “Messrs. Smith
and Co. have many ramifications of business—money-lending being only
one of the irons they have in the fire. And because I have had many
dealings with the firm professionally—over the sale of precious stones,
I may say, which is my own particular line of work—they were disposed
to take a lenient view about the question of the loan. Not press for
payment, and perhaps—though I can’t promise this—even be content with
a little less interest. But—er—Miss Daventry, it’s the other thing
where the trouble is going to occur.”
The girl stared at him with dilated eyes. “What other thing, Mr.
Perrison?”
“Hasn’t your brother told you?” said Perrison, surprised. “Oh, well,
perhaps I—er—shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Go on, please.” Her voice was low. “What is this other thing?”
For a moment he hesitated—a well-simulated hesitation. Then he shrugged
his shoulders slightly.
“Well—if you insist. As a matter of fact, your brother didn’t tell me
about it, and I only found it out in the course of my conversation with
one of the Smith partners. Apparently some weeks ago he bought some
distinctly valuable jewellery—a pearl-necklace, to be exact—from a
certain firm. At least, when I say he bought it—he did not pay for it.
He gave your father’s name as a reference, and the firm considered it
satisfactory. It was worth about eight hundred pounds, this necklace,
and your very stupid brother, instead of giving it to the lady whom,
presumably, he had got it for, became worse than stupid. He became
criminal.”
“What do you mean?” The girl was looking at him terrified.
“He pawned this necklace which he hadn’t paid for, Miss Daventry, which
is, I regret to say, a criminal offence. And the trouble of the
situation is that the firm he bought the pearls from has just found it
out. He pawned it at a place which is one of the ramifications of Smith
and Co., who gave him, I believe, a very good price for it—over five
hundred pounds. The firm, in the course of business, two or three days
ago—and this is the incredibly unfortunate part of it—happened to show
this self-same necklace, while they were selling other things, to the
man it had originally come from. Of course, being pawned, it wasn’t for
sale—but the man recognised it at once. And then the fat was in the
fire.”
“Do you mean to say,” whispered the girl, “that—that they might send
him to prison?”
“Unless something is done very quickly, Miss Daventry, the matter will
certainly come into the law courts. Messrs. Gross and Sons”—a faint
noise from the darkness at the end of the conservatory made him swing
round suddenly, but everything was silent again—“Messrs. Gross and Sons
are very difficult people in many ways. They are the people it came from
originally, I may tell you. And firms, somewhat naturally, differ, like
human beings. Some are disposed to be lenient—others are not. I’m sorry
to say Gross and Sons are one of those who are not.”
“But couldn’t you see them, or something, and explain?”
“My dear Miss Daventry,” said Perrison, gently, “I must ask you to be
reasonable. What can I explain? Your brother wanted money, and he
adopted a criminal method of getting it. That I am afraid—ugly as it
sounds—is all there is to it.”
“Then, Mr. Perrison—can nothing be done?” She bent forward eagerly, her
hands clasped, her lips slightly parted; and once again came that faint
noise from the end of the conservatory.
But Mr. Perrison was too engrossed to heed it this time; the nearness,
the appeal of this girl, who from the time he had first seen her six
months previously at a theatre had dominated his life, was making his
senses swim. And with it the veneer began to drop; the hairy heel began
to show, though he made a tremendous endeavour to keep himself in check.
“There is one thing,” he said, hoarsely. “And I hope you will understand
that I should not have been so precipitate—except for the urgency of
your brother’s case. If I go to Messrs. Gross and say to them that a
prosecution by them would affect me personally, I think I could persuade
them to take no further steps.”
Wonder was beginning to dawn in the girl’s eyes. “Affect you
personally?” she repeated.
“If, for instance, I could tell them that for family reasons—urgent,
strong family reasons—they would be doing me a great service by letting
matters drop, I think they would do it.”
She rose suddenly—wonder replaced by horror. She had just realised his
full meaning.
“What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Perrison?” she said,
haughtily.
And then the heel appeared in all its hairiness. “If I may tell them,”
he leered, “that I am going to marry into the family I’ll guarantee they
will do nothing more.”
“Marry you?” The biting scorn in her tone changed the leer to a snarl.
“Yes—marry me, or see your brother jugged. Money won’t save him—so
there’s no good going to your father. Money will square up the Smith
show—it won’t square the other.” And then his tone changed. “Why not,
little girl? I’m mad about you; have been ever since I saw you at a
theatre six months ago. I’m pretty well off even for these days,
and——” He came towards her, his arms outstretched, while she backed
away from him, white as a sheet. Her hands were clenched, and it was
just as she had retreated as far as she could, and the man was almost on
her, that she saw red. One hand went up; hit him—hit the brute—was her
only coherent thought. And the man, realising it, paused—an ugly look
in his eyes.
Then occurred the interruption. A strangled snort, as of a sleeper
awakening, came from behind some palms, followed by the creaking of a
chair. With a stifled curse Perrison fell back and the girl’s hand
dropped to her side as the branches parted and Archie Longworth, rubbing
his eyes, stepped into the light.
“Lord save us, Miss Daventry, I’ve been asleep,” he said, stifling a
yawn. “I knew I oughtn’t to have had a third glass of port. Deuced bad
for the liver, but very pleasant for all that, isn’t it, Mr.—Mr.
Perrison?”
He smiled engagingly at the scowling Perrison, and adjusted his
eyeglass.
“You sleep very silently, Mr. Longworth,” snarled that worthy.
“Yes—used to win prizes for it at an infant school. Most valuable asset
in class. If one snores it disconcerts the lecturer.”
Perrison swung round on his heel. “I would like an answer to my
suggestion by to-morrow, Miss Daventry,” he said, softly. “Perhaps I
might have the pleasure of a walk where people don’t sleep off the
effects of dinner.”
With a slight bow he left the conservatory, and the girl sat down
weakly.
“Pleasant type of bird, isn’t he?” drawled Longworth, watching
Perrison’s retreating back.
“He’s a brute—an utter brute,” whispered the girl, shakily.
“I thought the interview would leave you with that impression,” agreed
the man.
She sat up quickly. “Did you hear what was said?”
“Every word. That’s why I was there.” He smiled at her calmly.
“Then why didn’t you come out sooner?” she cried, indignantly.
“I wanted to hear what he had to say, and at the same time I didn’t want
you to biff him on the jaw—which from your attitude I gathered you were
on the point of doing.”
“Why not? I’d have given anything to have smacked his face.”
“I know. I’d have given anything to have seen you do it. But—not yet.
In fact, to-morrow you’ve got to go for a walk with him.”
“I flatly refuse!” cried Sybil Daventry.
“More than that,” continued Longworth, calmly, “you’ve got to keep him
on the hook. Play with him; let him think he’s got a chance.”
“But why?” she demanded. “I loathe him.”
“Because it is absolutely essential that he should remain here until the
day after to-morrow at the earliest.”
“I don’t understand.” She looked at him with a puzzled frown.
“You will in good time.” It seemed to her his voice was just a little
weary. “Just now it is better that you shouldn’t. Do you trust me enough
to do that, Sybil?”
“I trust you absolutely,” and she saw him wince.
“Then keep him here till I come back.”
“Are you going away, Archie?” Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm.
“To-morrow, first thing. I shall come back as soon as possible.”
For a moment or two they stood in silence, then, with a gesture
strangely foreign to one so typically British, he raised her hand to his
lips. And the next instant she was alone.
A little later she saw him talking earnestly to her brother in a corner;
then someone suggested billiard-fives. An admirable game, but not one in
which it is wise to place one’s hand on the edge of the table with the
fingers over the cushion. Especially if the owner of the hand is not
paying attention to the game. It was Perrison’s hand, and the agony of
being hit on the fingers by a full-sized billiard ball travelling fast
must be experienced to be believed. Of course it was an accident:
Longworth was most apologetic. But in the middle of the hideous scene
that followed she caught his lazy blue eye and beat a hasty retreat to
the hall. Unrestrained mirth in such circumstances is not regarded as
the essence of tact.