Mr. Priestley Becomes an Uncle
It is to be recorded that when Mr. Priestley’s tour arrived in London,
the member of it known variously as Miss Howard, Mrs. Spettigue, Miss
Merrriman and Laura, did not slip away from it. She was hard put to it
to explain to herself exactly why she did not, for opportunity after
opportunity continued to present itself with sickening plausibility.
Perhaps the reason she gave Cynthia later is as good as any: she
simply hadn’t the heart. Anyhow, the consequence was that, some
half-hour afterwards, Laura found herself walking delicately over the
threshold of Mr. Priestley’s bachelor rooms, still in the rôle of a
damsel in distress without a rag to her back or a penny in her purse;
though now she had a roof to her head, Mr. Priestley’s.
The lender of the roof led her into his study and rang for his man.
Twenty seconds later that functionary stood before him, pale, genteel,
with a face as like a boiled egg as ever. Nothing had ever been known
to disturb this Being, not even when Mr. Priestley, ten years younger
and just beginning to open wondering eyes to the sinfulness of this
world, had ostentatiously taken to locking up his cigars when not
himself requiring the box; so far from being disturbed, all the Being
had done was to take, unobtrusively and in a gentlemanly way, an
impression of the cigar-cabinet key, walk along to the nearest
locksmith’s and then proceed as before. If, therefore, anybody could
have been so futile as to expect him to show signs of surprise at Mr.
Priestley’s fracture of a life-long habit in spending an unexpected
and unheralded night, and at that an unpacked-for night, away from
home, returning the next afternoon with a personable young woman in
tow, then that person deserved all the contempt which Barker would
scorn to bestow on him. After all, Barker set a certain value on his
contempt.
“You rang, sir?” said Barker, taking in Mr. Priestley’s somewhat
unkempt appearance, his torn trouser-leg and the personable young
woman at a single glance, and not batting an eyelid.
“Yes, some tea, please, Barker,” said Mr. Priestley briskly.
“Very good, sir.” Barker began to progress towards the door. Barker
never did anything quite so vulgar as exactly to walk, nor did he
precisely glide, chassis or slither; he just progressed. The sound of
Mr. Priestley attacking his quite admirable fire stopped him. He
retrogressed.
“Permit me, sir,” said Barker, neatly twitching the poker out of Mr.
Priestley’s grasp. He dropped on one knee on the hearthrug as if about
to breathe a prayer up the chimney, and lightly tapped three pieces of
blazing coal. The fire was as perfect as a fire in this world can be,
and Barker was not going to demean himself by pretending that he
thought it anything else. But he was prepared lightly to tap three
pieces of coal out of sheer courtesy.
Mr. Priestley also knew the fire was a perfectly admirable fire,
though he was quite prepared to demean himself by pretending to think
otherwise. He had, in fact, gripped the poker as a means of ensuring
Barker’s presence in the room for another two minutes, by the end of
which period Mr. Priestley devoutly hoped he would have jumped his
next two fences. They were fences at which he shied a good deal.
He took a running leap at the first one. “By the way, Barker,” he
said, with the chattiness of sheer nerves, “this is Miss Merriman—Miss
_Laura_ Merriman, Barker—a cousin of mine, who is going to stay with
me here for a little while.”
“Very good, sir,” Barker acquiesced woodenly in this momentous news.
“She—she will assist me in a secretarial capacity,” continued Mr.
Priestley unnecessarily. “She is a trained typist, and—and she will
assist me in a secretarial capacity.”
“Very good, sir,” repeated Barker stolidly from the hearthrug. Not a
sign appeared on his boiled-egglike countenance of the joyful interest
he was feeling in his master’s unexpected depravity and his wonder why
the old josser should think it necessary to fill him up with all this
bunkum about cousins and secretarial capacities. Barker had no doubt
that this tidy bit of goods was here to assist Mr. Priestley all
right, but not in a secretarial capacity.
The tidy bit of goods, seated in an arm-chair, demurely contemplated
her shoes, unconscious of these uncharitable reflections.
“That’s all right then,” said Mr. Priestley, with relief at this first
fence safely negotiated. “So get the spare room ready, please.”
“Yes, sir.” Barker rose and dusted the knees of his trousers with mild
reproach. “And the young lady’s luggage?” he asked maliciously.
“Her—her luggage?” stammered Mr. Priestley, who had not expected this
query. “Oh, it’s—yes, it’s been mislaid. Most—er—annoying. You quite
lost sight of it on the journey, didn’t you, Laura?”
“Oh, quite,” Laura agreed, heroically suppressing a giggle.
“Should you like me to go and make inquiries about it, sir?” asked
Barker, still more maliciously.
“No, no,” said Mr. Priestley testily. “We—we have already attended to
that. Of course we have.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Barker with a perfectly blank face. He
turned to go. Of course the bit of goods had no luggage, he’d known
that all along; but he had felt that Mr. Priestley deserved the
question. Fancy trying to take _him_ in with silly tales about cousins
and secretarial capacities! Barker felt almost hurt.
“Oh, and Barker!”
Barker turned back resignedly, but continuing to impersonate a
boiled-egg. “Sir?”
Mr. Priestley was fumbling inside his waistcoat, his face exceedingly
red. After a little preliminary manœuvring he extended his left arm;
the wrist was encircled by an unmistakable handcuff, from which
another handcuff dangled wistfully.
“A friend of mine,” said Mr. Priestley with considerable dignity,
“fastened this foolish contrivance on my wrists. I have managed to get
one free, but I cannot liberate the other. Will you please find some
instrument to—er—to free me with?”
Barker looked at his employer’s wrist, and then at his employer’s red
but dignified face. His lips twitched. His face suddenly took on a
poached aspect, and then a positively scrambled one.
“Very good,” he began bravely, “s-s-s——” A hoarse cry suddenly escaped
from him and he dived from the room. Further hoarse sounds were
distinctly audible from the passage outside.
Mr. Priestley looked at the closed door with considerable interest.
“Do you know,” he said with mild wonder, “I believe Barker actually
_laughed_ then. He must be human after all.”
Mr. Priestley was right. Barker was human. Exceedingly human thoughts
were coursing through Barker’s mind as he busied himself in preparing
the tea. But what was surprising Barker so very much was to find that
Mr. Priestley was human too.
“The wicked old sinner!” commented Barker to the tea-caddy. “To think
of ’im breaking out like a two-year-old after all this time! Ah,
well,” reflected Barker philosophically, “they always do say the older
you grow the friskier you get.”
In the study the frisky one proceeded to elaborate his plan.
“You must have clothes, of course,” he said. “Perhaps we had better go
out to-morrow morning and get you some. Now how much money,” asked Mr.
Priestley diffidently, “does a girl’s outfit cost? Including
everything, I mean?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” said Laura warmly, touched afresh by this
large-hearted generosity. “It’s out of the question.”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Priestley firmly. “It’s essential. Please don’t
be obstinate, Laura. You must have clothes. Would—do you think a
hundred pounds would be enough to get you what you require? I know
women’s clothes are exceedingly expensive,” added Mr. Priestley,
somehow contriving to apologise to the object of his charity for this
awkward quality of her own garments.
Laura gasped.
“I always keep a hundred pounds in cash on the premises, just for
emergencies,” explained Mr. Priestley happily, “so you see there is no
difficulty about that at all.” “For, of course,” added Mr. Priestley’s
expression, “one might just as well spend the silly stuff as keep it
lying about here for nothing; and just at the moment I think I’d
rather spend it on girl’s clothes than anything else.” One gathered
from Mr. Priestley’s expression that Laura would really be doing him a
very great favour if she would allow Mr. Priestley to spend his own
hundred pounds on a number of garments which could be of really very
little practical use to himself.
“It’s out of the question,” said Laura feebly. “I—I couldn’t hear of
it.”
“I insist,” retorted Mr. Priestley with his famous imitation of a
strong if not silent man.
The discussion raged.
Mr. Priestley closed it with a snap. “Very well,” he said, “if you
refuse to come with me, I shall go out and buy them alone.”
A horrified vision arose before Laura’s eyes of the garments Mr.
Priestley might be expected to purchase if left to himself. Sheer
desperation presented her with the essentials of a scheme for escaping
from the impasse. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll give in, though I don’t
approve of it at all. But of course it’s perfectly sweet of you. I’ll
let you pay for the clothes on one condition—that I go and buy them
alone. You know,” she added persuasively, “you wouldn’t really like
coming to lingerie shops with me, would you?”
“Not at all,” beamed Mr. Priestley. “But I’ll tell you why I wished to
come with you. Because I didn’t want to let you out of my sight! You
are an independent girl, and I was afraid that if I let you go out
alone you quite possibly would not return.”
“Oh!” said Laura, having had this very intention.
“I may have been wrong,” continued Mr. Priestley happily, “but I
feared that, once you were out of my clutches, so to speak, you would
begin to imagine all sorts of foolish things, such as that your
presence here might possibly—er—embarrass me, as it were, and that I
should not care to be saddled with the responsibility of looking after
you. Nothing,” said Mr. Priestley very earnestly, “could in reality be
further from the truth. I will, therefore, agree to your condition
upon one of my own: that you give me your word of honour to return
here whenever you go out, either to-day or to-morrow, take up your
residence as I suggested, and look upon this place as your home until
all this awkward affair is finally cleared up.” He smiled at her
benevolently.
“Oh!” said Laura blankly.
Now Laura was not one of those feeble-minded creatures who go through
life with the fatuous question constantly on their lips: What will
people say? She did not care a rap what people said about her (which
was perhaps as well); all that concerned her was what she was. But
however free from conventional ties a young woman may consider
herself, to take up her residence in a bachelor’s flat is not a step
to be made without a certain amount of reflection; if one only owes
the duty of essentials to oneself, one does owe a certain duty of
external appearances to one’s friends and relations. On the other
hand, those friends and relations, being themselves clean-minded
people, would, if they ever came to hear of the escapade at all,
certainly recognise Mr. Priestley for the innocent babe he was.
Nevertheless half an hour ago, in spite of everything, Laura would
have said very decidedly, “No,” and proceeded with her plan of escape.
Now the whole situation was altered by Mr. Priestley’s utter
generosity. To throw the gift he was trying to make back in his face
would, in one sense, be the act of a complete rotter. After all, as
she had had occasion to remind herself before, she had asked for
everything and it was only poetic justice that she should get it. As
things were, she owed Mr. Priestley all the reparation she could give
him. But nevertheless, modern though she considered herself, there
were limits even to such reparation, and was not to compromise herself
hopelessly and for ever quite decidedly one of them? Oh, Lord, she
didn’t know _what_ to do!
“All right,” Laura heard her own voice saying, “I agree. I give you my
solemn word.” She listened to it with astonishment. So far as she
knew, she had not arrived at any decision at all; apparently she had
been wrong. The words seemed to have come out of her mouth without any
volition on her part at all. Laura was grateful to her mouth; at any
rate it had solved this very awkward problem for her.
Mr. Priestley replied fittingly.
“And I know what I’ll do,” Laura went on, speaking this time of her
own free will. “I’ll adopt you as an uncle. That’ll make everything
all right, won’t it?” The British mind, it has been said, loves a
compromise.
Mr. Priestley looked slightly disappointed. He did not feel at all
avuncular.
Twenty minutes later Laura, having obtained leave of absence for half
an hour, was in Piccadilly, a smile on her lips and laughter in her
heart. Now that the die actually was cast, she was prepared to enjoy
the situation to its fullest extent. And anyhow, Duffley really was
deadly dull.
She entered the Piccadilly Palace and made a bee-line for the
telephone room. Their own house at Duffley was not on the telephone,
and she gave the Nesbitt’s number. A quarter of an hour later she got
it.
“Yes?” said Cynthia’s voice very wearily. “What is it?”
“Is that you, Cynthia darling? Lawks speaking.”
“Oh!” Cynthia’s voice brightened considerably. “I thought it was
another wretched reporter. They’ve been buzzing round here like flies
all the afternoon, and the telephone’s been going continuously. Lawks,
what have you been doing, my dear?”
“Hush! Telephones have ears, you know, besides the ones at each end.
I’ll tell you all about everything when I see you. My dear, I’ve had a
perfectly hectic time. I—no, not now. Cynthia, will you take a message
across for me to Dawks?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“I want her to pack a trunk for me. Tell her to put in my gray
costume, my new black georgette, my . . .” A long list followed here,
of intimate interest to both Laura and Cynthia, and none at all to the
reader. “Oh, well, if you can’t remember all that, just tell her all
my new spring things, my best evening frocks and my choicest undies.
And I want you to tell George that——” Details followed of the car and
the garage at Manstead.
“But Lawks, what ever are you doing?”
“Never mind, darling; of that anon. Oh, and tell Dawks to bring the
trunk up here to-morrow morning, put it in the cloakroom, and meet me
in the Piccadilly Palace lounge at twelve sharp.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Cynthia, to whom an idea had just occurred.
“Yes, very well. Lawks, how’s—you know, your little friend?”
“Oh, sitting up and taking nourishment.”
“Yes, but is he—”
“Your thrrrree minutes is up,” said a harsh voice. “Do you want
another thrrrree minutes?” And its owner promptly cut them off before
either could answer her.
Laura returned to Half Moon Street with feelings which she made no
attempt to analyse.
Mr. Priestley also did not stop to analyse his feelings when Laura
returned to him. There was no need. His face one large beam, he
welcomed her as if she had been away half a year instead of half an
hour. It is to be feared that Mr. Priestley had not been quite as
reassured as he should have been by Laura’s solemn word.
Having taken off her hat and admired the delightfully cosy little room
prepared for her, in which a fire was already burning, Laura returned
to the study, and insisted upon being initiated into her secretarial
duties that very minute, brushing aside Mr. Priestley’s earnest
attempts to establish a conscience which would not allow him even to
think of work on a Sunday, much less practise it. Mr. Priestley, who
had not the faintest idea what to do with a secretary or how on earth
to keep her employed for more than ten minutes in the day, had
considerable difficulty in concealing the fact that a secretary who
knew no Latin or Greek was just about as much use to him personally as
the clothes she was going to buy with his money. Laura, who read each
thought as it flitted through his mind, listened demurely to his
halting sentences and continued to think what a perfect dear he was.
With an air of great importance the perfect dear finally gave her some
rough notes he had made ten years before (and never thought of since)
upon certain obscure passages in Juvenal, to be put into shipshape
form the next morning. Then, with the comfortable feeling of duty done
and pleasure coming, he settled down in a chair by the fire for a
companionable chat till dinner.
That meal safely over (and an admirable affair it was; Barker had seen
to that, though distinctly disappointed that no champagne was drunk
with it to mark the occasion fittingly), they went back to the
library, and there Mr. Priestley had a very bright idea indeed. This
dear girl was likely to be on his hands for some time; why not make
that period of real solid value to her, and at the same time increase
her own value to himself? Why not, in short, teach her a little Latin?
He pottered happily off to see if he could unearth the old Kennedy’s
grammar of his schooldays.
To Laura’s considerable regret, he succeeded.
To Barker, lurking tactfully in his own fastness and picturing lurid
scenes in progress in the study with all the strength of his somewhat
one-sided imagination, the truth regarding the next two hours would
have been a poignant disappointment; there is very little luridness in
the conjugation of _mensa_. Laura spent a dull evening.
At half-past ten, feeling that she had had enough Latin to last her
for several years, she announced her intention of going to bed,
resisting all Mr. Priestley’s efforts to dissuade her.
“I’m very tired,” she said, not without truth, holding out a slim
hand. “Good-night, Uncle Matthew.”
“Good-night, then Niece Laura,” beamed Mr. Priestley, taking the hand
and forgetting apparently to release it again.
Laura could hardly go to bed without her hand; she lingered. They
smiled at each other.
“Oh, well,” thought Laura, “why not? He deserves something, the funny
old dear, and he does seem to enjoy it so.” She held up her cheek.
“Good-night, dear, kind Uncle Matthew,” she said softly.
“God bless my soul!” observed Mr. Priestley, discovering suddenly that
there are advantages in being an uncle after all.
“Besides, it isn’t the first time,” continued Laura’s thoughts as she
went off to her bed and a pair of Mr. Priestley’s pyjamas; “and he
certainly had that kissing look in his eye. Oh, well, I owe him that
much, I suppose.” But not for one moment did she admit that the very
simple reason why she had held up her face was that, for the first
time in her life, she actually wanted to be kissed. A simple reason is
so very dull, of course, when there is a complicated one to take its
place.
Mr. Priestley rang for his night-cap and settled himself in his chair
again feeling exactly ten years younger than when he had last
performed the same action forty-eight hours ago. If Laura let him kiss
her good-night, she ought by all logic to let him kiss her
good-morning. If he kissed her once each night and once each morning,
and she stayed in his rooms say, two months—no, three months at least
for safety, then he could look forward to . . . thirty multiplied by
three multiplied by two. . . . His thoughts ran happily on; very
happily.
Mr. Priestley was a man of resilient disposition. Living as he had so
far out of the everyday world, the things of the world passed him by
without his very much noticing them. One day out in the world there
might be a miners’ strike, but the next day Mr. Priestley had
forgotten all about it; one day there would be a railway disaster most
distressing at the moment of reading, the next there had never been a
railway disaster at all; one night out in the big world Mr. Priestley
might shoot a blackguard, the next his action had receded into a bad
dream. Even the handcuff, last tangible link with that extraordinary
affair, had been miraculously removed by Barker, to whom all things
seemed possible. Mr. Priestley had reached the stage of having to
pinch himself before he could realise that the thing had really
happened. It is true that Laura remained, one last link and,
presumably, a tangible one, especially when being bidden good-night.
But Laura was a different affair altogether. Sipping his hot toddy,
Mr. Priestley meditated not without awe how very different Laura
was—different from everything and every one there had ever been before
in the history of the world. Indubitably Laura was a different affair.
When he went to bed thirty minutes later, to sleep like a log all
night, Mr. Priestley was still pondering reverently upon the really
quite astonishing difference of Laura.
He had cause for further reflection the next morning, for that young
woman, although greeting him with cheerful nieceishness at the
breakfast-table, did not offer even a hand by way of token; indeed,
she was at some pains to avoid her host’s distinctly pleading eye.
During the meal Mr. Priestley found rueful employment in cutting down
his arithmetical calculations by exactly one-half.
For an hour afterwards in the study Laura wrestled nobly with the
obscurities of Juvenal. The time did not pass unpleasantly. She had a
translation given her, and in the intervals of wrestling was able to
discover some quite interesting reading therein. Mr. Priestley,
pretending to scan his morning paper by the fire, glanced at her
contentedly from time to time. This was a good idea of his,
secretarial employment; working away at Juvenal, the poor girl would
quite imagine that she was performing her share of a two-sided
bargain; it would never occur to her now to consider herself an object
of charity, with the inevitable resentment that a high-spirited girl
naturally would feel in such circumstances. Yes, a really brilliant
idea. Mr. Priestley turned to his _Daily Courier_ for the
forty-seventh time.
_The Sunday Courier_ and _The Daily Courier_ were as brothers having
one father, Lord Lappinwick. What _The Sunday Courier_ said on Sunday
_The Daily Courier_ said on Monday, and what _The Daily Courier_ said
on Saturday _The Sunday Courier_ repeated with admiration on Sunday.
_The Daily Courier_ was now busy repeating its brother’s observations
of the day before, with added epithets and a few fresh facts. These
latter did not amount to much, being merely the brilliant discoveries
and deductions of Inspector Cottingham of the day before, and the
story of them only confirmed Mr. Priestley’s own theory. They had
furnished enough conversation to last throughout breakfast, but,
speculation tending to move in an endless circle, were now exhausted.
In the meantime Laura held her curiosity as best she could, till
twelve o’clock.
An hour before that time she looked up from her work.
“Do you—do you think I might be spared now to go out and do that
shopping?” she asked, with charming diffidence.
“God bless my soul, yes!” exclaimed Mr. Priestley, full of remorse.
“Do you know, I’d forgotten all about it. Go and get your hat on at
once, my dear; you’ve got two hours before lunch.”
Laura went.
“Here’s the hundred pounds,” said Mr. Priestley when she returned, and
stuffed a bundle of notes in her hand.
Laura attempted to thank him, but was cut short. “Yes, yes,” he said,
much embarrassed. “That’s all right. And—and you’ll be back for
lunch.”
Laura smiled at the indifferently concealed anxiety in his voice.
“Yes, Uncle Matthew, I’ll be back; or soon after, at any rate. I’m not
going to run away. I gave you my word, you know.”
“So you did,” said Mr. Priestley. “So you did. Well, good-bye, my dear
girl. Get yourself lots of pretty things.”
“I will, I promise you. Oh, and I’ve had an idea. I’m going to buy a
second-hand trunk and have all the things packed in that. Then it will
look to Barker as if it was just my luggage turned up, you see. What
do you think of that?”
“Excellent!” said the guileless Mr. Priestley with much admiration.
“Excellent! Well—er—good-bye, Niece Laura.”
“Good-bye, Uncle Matthew,” demurely said Laura, who was not taking any
hints to-day. She went.
Mr. Priestley found plenty to think about for the next fifty minutes.
Then, at ten minutes to twelve, he heard the front door-bell ring, and
Barker’s footsteps down the passage a moment later. He wondered idly
who had rung. It may be noted that Mr. Priestley did not start
guiltily every time a bell rang, nor did he cringe-about the place in
constant expectation of a heavy hand on his shoulder. It might have
been a mouse he had shot instead of a man for all the guilty starts
and cringing that Mr. Priestley performed.
While Mr. Priestley was not starting guiltily, Barker was opening the
door. Confronting him on the landing was a tall, slim woman,
exquisitely dressed, who smiled at him. The smile was of such peculiar
sweetness that Barker broke another life-time’s record and smiled
back.
“Is Mr. Priestley in?” asked the lady, amid the shattered fragments of
Barker’s record.
“Yes, madam.”
“Is he alone? Alone in the flat, I mean?”
“Yes, madam,” said Barker, concealing any surprise he might have felt
under his usual egg-like expression.
“Then I should like to see him, please.”
“Yes, madam. Will you step this way? What name shall I say?”
The visitor smiled at him again, this time in a particularly
confidential way. “It doesn’t matter about the name. Just say ‘a
lady.’”
“Very good, madam. Will you come in here, please?”
Still somewhat upset by the smile, Barker did a thing he would never
have dreamed of doing in normal circumstances and showed the caller
straight into Mr. Priestley’ s study. There, regretfully, he left her.
“Good-morning, Mr. Priestley,” said the lady, advancing at once with
outstretched hand and apparently quite at home. “You don’t know me,
but I think you know Pat Doyle, who is a friend of ours. I am Mrs.
Nesbitt.”
“Mrs. Nesbitt!” repeated Mr. Priestley in amazement. He became aware
of the outstretched hand in a gray glove and shook it absently. It was
a very nice hand, and deserved more attention. “Mrs. Nesbitt! Well,
good gracious me.”
“I want to speak to you very privately, Mr. Priestley,” Cynthia smiled
again, and at once Mr. Priestley felt he had known her all his life.
“Laura isn’t here, is she, by any chance?”
“Miss Merriman?” Mr. Priestley smiled back delightedly. “Oh, do you
know her too? Excellent! No, she isn’t here just now. She went out
nearly an hour ago, to—er—in fact, she went out. But she’ll be back
for lunch, I hope.”
“Miss Merriman?” said Cynthia, puzzled. “I meant Laura Howard.”
Mr. Priestley shook his head. “There’s no Miss Howard here. I don’t
even know a Miss Howard. There is a Miss Merriman, Miss Laura
Merriman, staying here with me.”
“Staying here?” echoed Cynthia, considerably startled. She devoted one
searching look at Mr. Priestley and knew him at once for what he was;
then she laid back her head and laughed very heartily. “Oh, Laura!”
laughed Cynthia. “Yes, it must be her. Well, it was her own fault and
I’m very glad to hear it. It may do her quite a lot of good.”
It was Mr. Priestley’s turn to look mystified. Also he was beginning
to feel slightly alarmed. Mrs. Nesbitt’s call could only mean one
thing, and that was that his connection with the business at Duffley
had come to light. Probably Pat Doyle had asked her to give him a hint
of warning. Oh, dear, how exceedingly awkward!
“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he faltered.
Cynthia threw him a compassionate glance. “No, I shouldn’t think you
do,” she said warmly. “That’s why I’m here.” She walked swiftly over
to the door, and, to Mr. Priestley’s astonishment, turned the key. “I
want to talk to you very confidentially, Mr. Priestley. I’ve only got
a very few minutes, and whatever happens nobody must see me here. Oh,
why aren’t you in the telephone-book? I’ve wasted hours finding out
your address.”
“God bless my soul!” said the astonished Mr. Priestley.
Cynthia began to talk.
Out in the passage, hovering warily, Barker heard the key turn in the
lock and walked thoughtfully back to the kitchen. “The saucy old
kipper!” was Mr. Barker’s summing-up of the situation, after profound
cogitation. He repeated his analysis to an empty milk-jug. “The saucy
old _kipper_!” confided Mr. Barker to the milk-jug.
Ten minutes later Cynthia was taking farewell of a staggered Mr.
Priestley. “And you’ll be by the Achilles statue at three o’clock?”
she said, offering the gray-gloved hand again. “I’ve ever so much more
to tell you, but I simply must fly now as she’s been waiting there
since twelve for the cloak-room ticket. Think over that idea of mine
in the meantime, and see if you can improve on it. And for goodness’
sake don’t let Laura follow you this afternoon. Good-bye, Mr.
Priestley.”
“Good-bye, Mrs. Nesbitt,” mumbled Mr. Priestley, who had been
conversing for the last ten minutes entirely in gasps. “And—and thank
you so much.”
“Not a bit. I can only apologise most humbly, as the only member of
the conspiracy with perhaps a single grain of sense, that I ever let
things go so far; I ought to have put my foot down at the very
beginning. And now I must go. Oh, and perhaps you’d better tell your
man not to let it out to Laura that I’ve been here this morning.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” muttered the dazed recipient of her
confidences, trying to open the door by twisting the handle backwards
and forwards. Cynthia gently unlocked it for him.
Mr. Priestley saw her out himself, more or less, and then ambled along
the passage to the kitchen.
“Barker,” said Mr. Priestley, eyeing his servitor as blankly as if the
latter had actually turned into the breakfast dish he so much
resembled. “Barker, kindly say nothing to Miss How—to Miss Lau—to my
cousin about the lady who called this morning. Or,” added Mr.
Priestley comprehensively, “to any one else.”
“Very good, sir,” agreed Barker without visible emotion.
He waited till Mr. Priestley’s shuffling footsteps had ceased to be
audible in the passage. Then he gave vent to his feelings. “Well, I’ll
be blowed!” remarked Mr. Barker to the silver spoon he happened to be
polishing at the moment. “Running two of ’em at once, unbeknown to
each other! Sends one out and has the other in, and vice verse. The
giddy old gazebo!” said Mr. Barker to the silver spoon.