AN EXPLANATION
The little gentleman minced into the room, smiling and bowing. As I
stood in the shadow, removed from the strong light of the electrics,
he did not catch sight of me when he first entered. Exactly as he
behaved at Burwain, so did he behave in London--that is, as a specious
humbug. Of course he looked as though he had just been taken out of a
bandbox, and his _petit-mâitre_ air was more pronounced than ever.
With the assurance of a man accustomed to attention, he made a tour of
the circle.
"Lady Denham, you are looking more charming than ever. Lady Mabel, the
good wine of your beauty needs no bush to advertise its perfection.
Cannington, I am delighted to see you again. Mr. Weston "--this last
name was pronounced less effusively--"I trust the airship stocks are
rising. Ha! ha!" then he tittered at his small joke, made a
comprehensive bow, and looked at me.
I quite expected to see him turn pale: I half expected to see him fly
from the house where he was sailing under false colors. But I had yet
to learn the complete self-possession of Mr. Walter Monk, alias Mr.
Wentworth Marr. He might have foreseen the meeting, so coolly did he
eye me through his _pince-nez_. The tables were turned with a
vengeance, for I felt more like the culprit than did Mr. Monk.
"This is our oldest friend," said Mabel, and unless she had spoken I
do not know how the little traitor would have acted, "Mr. Cyrus
Vance."
"The dramatic author, I believe," remarked Mr. Monk--it is just as
well to call him by his true name to prevent confusion--and bowed
politely.
"Yes," said I, with a cool smile. There was no reason at that moment
why I should denounce the little man, and he played his comedy so
deliciously that, from sheer admiration of his impudence, I felt
compelled to take a judicious part in the same. "I am happy to meet
you Mr.--er--er----"
"Marr, old chap," put in Cannington, quite unaware that anything was
wrong.
"Yes, of course, Mr. Marr."
"Thank you," observed the fraud with a bow, "you flatter me, Mr.
Vance."
He was--as I have said--as cool as a cucumber, to all outward
appearances. Nevertheless, as he turned sideways to answer a question
put by Lady Denham, I saw the perspiration bead his forehead. I knew
that he was controlling himself with a great effort, although he never
turned a hair. He was evidently taken aback by my complete calmness,
yet it relieved his mind when he saw that I did not intend to make a
scene. Yet, had I denounced him he undoubtedly would have been
prepared with a crafty explanation, for he was too clever a schemer to
leave anything to chance. And as I guessed, my chance observation that
I knew Cannington had placed him to a certain degree on his guard.
With wonderful self-control he spoke to Lady Denham, and laughed with
Mabel, and deftly led the conversation on to theatrical topics. When
it became general he strolled over to me in a light and airy manner,
until he was at my elbow. "And when are we to see a play at the West
End by Mr. Cyrus Vance?" he asked gaily, dropping his voice
immediately at the end of the question to whisper: "Explanations when
we leave."
"Oh," said I loudly, and replying to his public inquiry, "I hope next
year will see me successful as the author of a comedy." Then I in turn
dropped my voice: "Count on my silence."
Monk drew a long breath of relief, but went on with his comedy. "I
hope you will put me down for a box," he said effusively; "I am a
great admirer of the drama."
"You shall be on the free list, Mr. Marr," I said, with ostentatious
gush.
The whispered words had not been heard by anyone in the room, so Mr.
Marr and I understood one another thoroughly without anyone being the
wiser. I half fancied Cannington's observant eyes might have seen our
byplay and his sharp ears might have overheard: but for once he seemed
to have missed his opportunity. Shortly Mr. Monk, more at ease, was
conversing gaily on the news of the day. Lady Denham seemed to favour
him, but Mabel had a contemptuous look on her face several times when
he addressed her. I felt certain that only his supposed wealth
attracted her, and that she had no respect for his tame-cat antics.
And the cream of the joke was, that Mr. Walter Monk, passing himself
off as Mr. Wentworth Marr, had only five hundred a year. I could not
help giving vent to an audible laugh as the humour of the situation
struck me.
"Why do you laugh, Cyrus?" asked Mabel, turning suddenly.
"I have thought of a good joke for a comic scene in a drama" said I
grimly.
"May we hear it?" asked Mr. Monk audaciously, for he must have guessed
the reason of my unseasonable merriment.
"Certainly not, sir. When you pay your money in the stalls you shall
hear the joke delivered on the stage."
"I hope it's a good one," said Cannington scoffingly.
"It's as funny a joke as I ever heard of," I replied cheerfully, and
my eyes sought those of Mr. Monk significantly.
"I shall look forward to hearing it," he said, bowing politely, "and
perhaps--as I know several of the managers--I may be able to assist
you in getting your masterpiece staged. My card," and he passed along
a piece of pasteboard, which was inscribed: "Mr. Wentworth Marr, 3
Stratford Street, St. James's." "I am in rooms there, Mr. Vance, as I
don't intend to take a house until I can find a lady to preside at my
dinner-table."
Weston scowled at this, and Lady Denham smiled benignly. "Oh, you
millionaires are so modest," she said, in her slow, cool voice, "why,
you have a country house in Essex, a shooting-box in Scotland, and a
villa at Nice."
With tremendous audacity the fraud bowed as each place was mentioned.
"I hope to receive you in them all, dear lady. Mr. Vance also, I
trust, will honor me with his company."
"Oh, I'll come and see you with pleasure," said I grimly. Mr. Monk
impressed me as a kind of Casanova, so matchless was his impertinence.
I wondered how an honorable girl such as Gertrude undoubtedly was,
came to have so scheming an adventurer as a father. I was also puzzled
to think why Mr. Monk, whom I knew to be almost penniless, should wish
to marry a pauper aristocrat like Lady Mabel Wotton. But as yet I was
not in a position to fit the pieces of the puzzle together, and had to
await enlightenment from the arch-rogue himself.
"I just looked in, my dear ladies," said Mr. Monk, accepting the title
of millionaire quite complacently, "to invite you to a box at the
Curtain theatre early next week--Tuesday is the day, to be quite
precise. There is a new play, which I think you will enjoy, Lady
Denham."
"Delighted," she yawned. "I like going to the theatre. One can sit
still all the time and say nothing."
"The performers on the stage say all that is to be said," replied Mr.
Monk, smiling suavely. "Lady Mabel, may I count on you?"
"Certainly," she answered swiftly, with a sly glance at the scowling
Weston.
"And perhaps Lord Cannington----?"
"Thanks, no, Mr. Marr, I have to go back to Murchester. Leave's up."
"That's a pity. Mr. Vance?"
"If I am in town I shall be delighted," I answered mildly, and
wondered more than ever at the audacity of the little man. He knew
that I could expose him as a fraud, and must have been puzzled to know
why I did not, yet he had the hardihood to drag me into his schemes of
posing as a millionaire.
"Then that is all settled. And now," he added, making a comprehensive
bow, "really and truly I must take my leave. Perhaps Mr. Vance, I can
give you a lift in my motor?"
"You are really too good," I replied, accepting promptly, and with
scarcely a repressed chuckle.
"But I say, Vance, I want you to go to dinner at the Savoy with me,
and afterwards to the Empire," cried Cannington, catching my arm,
while Mr. Monk was shaking hands and taking his leave.
"My dear boy, in any case I must go home and dress. Let us change the
dinner into a supper at the Savoy, and I'll come here at nine o'clock
to accompany you to the Empire."
Cannington was satisfied with this alteration, and nodded. Then, in my
turn, I took leave of the ladies and departed in the company of my
proposed father-in-law. At the door a really magnificent motor, far
surpassing my machine, was waiting, a brougham motor, with a chauffeur
and a liveried footman. How Mr. Monk contrived to live in this style
on five hundred a year I could not conceive: the machine alone must
have cost three times the amount of his entire income. Then, with
indignation, I thought of my dear, uncomplaining girl at Burwain,
with her one poor frock and her touching belief in the honesty and
kind-heartedness of this little villain.
When we were safe in the motor and the footman had received his orders
to take the vehicle "Home!"--to Strafford Street, no doubt--Mr. Monk
made himself comfortable, then patted my knee in a most amiable
manner. "Very good indeed, my dear sir, very good indeed," he said
suavely, and in a most self-controlled manner, "you kept my little
secret in a way worthy of a man of the world."
"Thank you. I am waiting for an explanation now," I said dryly.
"Do you think I owe you one?"
"I am of that opinion, Mr. Monk."
"Hush!" He glanced anxiously through the glass at the backs of the
footmen and chauffeur. "Here, in London; I am Mr. Marr."
"Mr. Wentworth Marr," I said mockingly. "May I ask why?"
"I do not see," he said smoothly, "that you have any right to ask
questions concerning my private business."
"I must correct you there," I answered hotly. "Lady Mabel Wotton, her
brother, and Lady Denham are friends of mine. I do not wish to see
them deceived, Mr.--er--er--Wentworth Marr."
"That is very creditable to your heart, Mr. Vance. But I fail to see
how I am deceiving them."
"You wish to marry Lady Mabel?"
"Is that a crime? I am a widower, and am free to take another wife."
"Not under the pretence that you are a wealthy man."
"How do you know?" asked Mr. Monk, smiling politely, "that I am not a
wealthy man, Mr. Vance?"
"Pshaw, man!" I rejoined heatedly, for his cool insolence was getting
on my nerves. "You have a life interest in five hundred a year and a
tumbledown house with a few acres of land at Burwain."
"So far as you know, Mr. Vance, those are all my possessions, but when
we reach my rooms," he leaned forward and peered through the misty
glass, "we are nearly there now, I am glad to say, you will have an
explanation which will astonish you. Had you recognized me when at
Lady Denham's----"
"I did recognize you."
"Had you denounced me, I should have said," he went on pleasantly, "I
should have made the explanation then and there."
"Ah!" said I meaningly, "I thought my chance mention of Cannington's
name at Burwain forearmed you."
He nodded, and chuckled in his infernally oily manner. "It was just
possible, seeing that Lord Cannington and Lady Mabel, to say nothing
of Lady Denham, were our mutual friends, that we might meet, so I made
ready. I certainly did not expect to meet you quite so soon, however.
Tell me," he glanced sideways at me curiously, "why did you not
address me by my real name?"
"I remembered that you were Gertrude's father."
"How lucky--for me," said Mr. Monk sarcastically. "Julia Destiny
hinted that you were in love with my daughter."
"She didn't hint enough. I am _engaged_ to your daughter."
"Without my consent."
"I ask it now."
"Then you shall not have it."
I laughed. "Your consent matters very little, Mr. Monk."
"Marr, I tell you, Marr. And Gertrude will never marry you without my
permission. You may be sure of that."
"I am not at all sure of it. She loves you better than you deserve,
but when she finds that you are keeping her in poverty at Burwain,
while you live in splendor in London, and under another name, which
looks fishy, will she continue to regard you as the perfect father?"
Mr. Monk moved uneasily in his seat. "Here we are," he said, when the
car stopped in a somewhat dark street; "in my rooms I can explain. And
in any case I am obliged to you for carrying off the situation so
well. Not that I was unprepared, had you driven me into a corner. But
as a gentleman, I do not like stage melodrama in private life."
"Yet you make ready for every opportunity to exercise it," I retorted,
as the footman opened the door. "Your explanation----"
"Will take place in private," he said sharply, and we alighted. The
motor departed hastily--to the nearest garage, I suppose--and Mr. Monk
ushered me up a flight of well-lighted stairs. "These are my
quarters," he said complacently, and I was shown into a really
splendid hall, perfectly decorated.
It is useless to describe the rooms in detail, but Mr. Monk had done
himself full justice in the way of art and comfort. We went into a
Moorish smoking-room, which reminded me of Cairo, and I accepted
coffee and cigarettes. Perhaps Mr. Monk had some hazy idea connected
with the Eastern decorations that, having partaken of his bread and
salt, I would not betray him, for he pressed tobacco and Mocha on me
very assiduously. I took all he offered, but reserved my private right
of judgment. To save Lady Mabel from this fraudulent adventurer by
denouncing him was not a betrayal in my eyes. The sole thing that had
prevented me stripping him of his fine feathers hitherto had been the
undoubted fact that he was Gertrude's father. And so I had told him in
the motor.
"You see that I am comfortable here," said Mr. Monk, who was smoking a
very fine cigar, "but I beg leave to contradict you when you say that
I do not give my daughter sufficient money. Gertrude has whatever she
asks for, and, being fond of the simple life, is quite content."
"Pardon my contradicting you, but, thinking that you have but five
hundred a year, and knowing your luxurious tastes, Miss Monk denies
herself all, save the necessaries of life, so that you may have more
money to spend. Did she know you were a millionaire----"
"I am not a millionaire," said Monk, snapping for the first time, as
hitherto he had kept his temper in a most aggravating manner.
"I understood Lady Denham to say that you were," I reminded him
politely.
"Like all women, Lady Denham exaggerates. I have a good many
thousands, but I cannot call myself a millionaire."
"And the house in the country----"
"In Essex, remember. That is true enough."
"Oh, yes, though it can hardly be called an estate. But the
shooting-box in Scotland?"
"I rented one last year for a time."
"I see, you saved the situation in that way. And the villa at Nice?"
"A friend of mine lends me his. I can ask anyone there."
"And apparently intend to pass it off as your own."
"No," he said, smiling graciously, "you are mistaken. It is true that
I asked Lady Denham and Lady Mabel to Nice. I mentioned the villa, but
I did not declare it was mine. They hastily concluded that it was."
"From what you left unsaid, I presume. Well, and your change of name?"
"That has to do with my money. A distant cousin of mine died three or
four years ago in Australia and left me nearly one hundred thousand
pounds on condition that I took his name. I complied with the
necessity in a legal manner, without letting my daughter know, and now
enjoy the money. I am quite rich enough to marry Lady Mabel if she
will have me."
"That may be. But when she learns that you have a daughter as old as
she is, I doubt if she will accept you. Particularly, as----"
"I know what you would say. Particularly as that Weston man loves
her."
"Not quite that, Mr. Marr. Particularly as she loves the Weston man.
But may I ask why you keep your daughter in ignorance of your change
of name and your possession of wealth?"
"Listen," he said, throwing away his cigarette. "I inherit five
hundred a year from my late brother--that is, as you say, I have a
life interest in it. After my death it goes to Gertrude. As a matter
of fact she enjoys it now, as it goes to keep up The Lodge at Burwain,
and pay for her necessary needs. That she chooses to dress plainly and
live plainly is not my fault. The money is to her hand when she wants
it. Under these circumstances, since she has all she requires, I do
not see why she need know that I live a different life in London, as
she would not join me here if I offered to take her. On my part, I am
a man still young, and I wish to marry again, since I am well off.
Why, then, should I encumber myself with a grown-up daughter?"
"I can't answer that question, as I don't quite follow your eminently
selfish reasoning. But as it is I propose to take charge of your
grown-up daughter. Then you can do what you like, so long as you don't
marry Lady Mabel under false pretences."
"You will tell Lady Mabel?"
"Yes, and Cannington also. I should not be surprised if he
horsewhipped you."
Mr. Monk winced. "I shall take my chance of that," he said bravely
enough, and to do him the justice he was no coward so far as flesh and
blood was concerned. "But suppose I get ahead of you and explain
myself."
"In that case Lady Mabel will not marry you."
"It's probable, although, beyond the fact that I forgot to tell her of
my change of name, I have done nothing wrong."
"Nothing wrong, when you masquerade----"
"I tell you I don't masquerade," he cried, with sudden heat, and
springing to his feet; "my name has been legally changed and the money
is mine by right. I really am, under an Act of Parliament, Mr.
Wentworth Marr. I daresay it was vanity on my part to lessen my years
by not confessing to having a daughter of Gertrude's age, but that is
not a crime. But you are not going to blackmail me, Mr. Vance, so
don't think it.'
"I don't propose to. I simply intend to tell Cannington and Lady Mabel
the truth. Then they can deal with the situation."
Monk snapped his delicate fingers. "Tell them the truth by all means,"
he said derisively; "it's bound to come out sooner or later. Striver
knows that I appear in London as Marr."
"Striver, the gardener. How did he learn?" I asked, taken aback.
"Ah," sneered the little man, "you don't feel quite so certain that
you hold the keys of the situation, do you, Mr. Vance? Yes, Striver
knows. He saw me in Piccadilly when I was getting out of my motor, and
went to ask my chauffeur questions?"
"What sort of questions?"
"About my possessing a motor, I suppose. Striver knows my income, and
didn't see how I could afford such a machine. Also he has the
impudence of old Nick himself. At all events, he learned from my
chauffeur that I was Marr, and, thinking something was wrong, as you
did, he learned my address and had an interview. To prevent his
telling Gertrude I was obliged to shut his mouth and confess all."
"How did you shut his mouth?" I asked hastily.
"I intimated," said Monk coolly, "that if he could get money enough,
and went to school to improve his education, he could marry Gertrude."
"What!" this time I sprang to my feet, and a fine rage I was in, "you
dared to make a bargain with that fellow."
"I had to shut his mouth," said Monk sullenly, and sat down.
"So he lives in a fool's paradise. You don't suppose that Gertrude
would marry Striver?"
"I never thought so for one moment, no more than she would marry you."
"She is going to marry me," I insisted, at white heat.
"Nothing of the sort," said the little man obstinately; "now that you
have learned the truth, I am not going to be under your thumb. I shall
give up any idea of marrying Lady Mabel. I shall bring Gertrude to
London and I shall marry her to Lord Cannington."
"You'll do nothing of the sort."
"Who will stop me?"
"There is no stoppage in the matter of the kind you mean. Whether I or
your own self tell Lady Mabel the facts of the case matters very
little. But when the truth becomes known, she will not marry you, and
Cannington, who is my best friend, will not marry Gertrude. He would
not even admire her, unless I gave him permission, since he knows that
she is my promised wife."
"Who told him that?" asked Monk wrathfully.
"I did. It is true. Gertrude is going to marry me, and you can do your
best to prevent it. And another thing, Mr. Monk, or Marr, or whatever
you choose to call yourself, you had better confess the truth at once.
Weston is going to set up his airship factory at Burwain, and Lady
Mabel is bound to go down and see him. You will understand the
necessity to retreat gracefully from your position before you are
kicked out. As to Striver----"
"What about Striver?" sneered the little villain, who was desperately
pale by this time, for my words had gone home. "He won't give in. You
have got the better of me, but Striver will get the better of you."
I snapped my fingers, as Mr. Monk had done himself a few minutes
previously. "That for Mr. Striver!" I said contemptuously. "Do you
think I care for a country bumpkin such as he is. Gertrude has
promised to be my wife, so the rest matters little."
Monk nursed his chin on his hand, and looked remarkably sullen. After
a couple of minutes' silence he looked up. "See here, I shall make a
bargain with you. If I withdraw from Lady Mabel's society and court
her no more, will you hold your tongue?"
"No. Lady Denham must learn the truth. You are at her house under
false pretences."
"As you choose!" he shrugged, but his eyes glittered wickedly behind
the _pince-nez_, "but if you will hold your tongue, for, say a
fortnight, until I can retreat gracefully from my position by feigning
to make a trip to the Continent, I will offer no opposition to your
marriage with Gertrude."
"Oh, I have no wish to be hard on you, Mr. Monk. Your opposition to my
marriage doesn't matter, since Gertrude will think very little of you
when she learns the truth. I shall hold my tongue for a fortnight, and
you must give up Lady Denham's acquaintance altogether: also Lady
Mabel's and Lord Cannington's acquaintance."
"And you'll let me tell Gertrude myself," he entreated, now beaten.
"Yes," said I, after a pause, "I shall let you tell Gertrude
yourself."
"Thank you," said Monk in a low tone, "and in return I advise you to
beware of Striver. You have conquered me: you won't conquer him," and
he smiled in a most evil manner.