“All right, Simon,” she said.
They passed to the back of the stand and up the stairs. . . .
Simon took out his glasses and put them up.
“I take it,” he said quietly, “that if you had ten thousand, that
letter’s worth it—to you.”
“Yes,” said Patricia, “it is. It’s—it’s a question of saving my name.”
She hesitated—then burst out. “But what can I do? Of course they think
I’m rich. Not rolling, perhaps, but rich enough to get
loans—borrow—find the money somehow, as rich people can. And I haven’t
two hundred pounds. I’ve got my pearls, but what can I do with them? I
couldn’t explain their disappearance. I might pretend I’d lost them, but
they’re insured. Oh, Simon, isn’t it cruel? All round us people are
sinning—callously, wantonly sinning—sinning for the sake of sin: but
they never get caught. And I—I who’ve tried to live clean and play the
game—because I love you I write one wretched letter that I’ve no
business to write—and get clean bowled.”
A bell stammered, and the tumult and shouting of Tattersalls’ ring, died
a sudden death. The race had begun.
Simon put down his glasses and wiped them carefully.
Then he put them back to his eyes.
“That’s always the way,” he said. “Would you like me to take it on?”
Patricia bit her lip.
“Well, _I_ can’t, Simon.”
The field appeared.
Grey Ruby was on the stand side and showing up well.
“No, that’s plain. Besides, it’s a man’s job. I’ll stick to the letter,
shall I?”
“Yes, if you will. But, Simon, what can you do?”
Grey Ruby was coming up. Yes, there was no doubt about it. Half the
field was beaten, but the grey was coming up.
“Pat,” said Simon, “I don’t know what I shall do. My impulse is to break
the gentleman’s back. But I’m inclined to think that he means what he
says, and so that wouldn’t help you.”
Grey Ruby was lying third now and full of running. A bay on the rails
was leading and going uncommonly well.
“Nothing can help me,” said Patricia listlessly. She shivered. “It’s
like a fearful dream. The impossible’s got to be done, lest a worse
thing befall.”
Grey Ruby was second now.
A chestnut was leading, and the bay was falling back.
The chestnut was leading by a neck and holding his own.
“Buck up, Pat,” said Simon shakily. “We’re both—both in this. I
mean—one second. . . .”
A confusion of shouting arose.
The whips were out now, and it was either’s race.
The chestnut, if anything, was slightly ahead.
The shouting swelled into a roar.
“My God,” said Patricia quietly. And then again, “My God.” She drew in
her breath. “I turn to you in my trouble—my hideous, ghastly mess. Not
for help, because you can’t give it. I just call to you out of
hell—call for a drop of water to wet my lips. And you—_you_ can’t give
it me . . . because you’re rather busy . . . _watching a race_.” She
laughed wildly. Simon put down his glasses. “And the letter that’s doing
me in—— Never mind. What’s won?”
“Grey Ruby,” said Simon shortly, marking his card. “And don’t you worry,
lady. You’re out of the wood.”
Patricia stared.
“Out of the wood?” she repeated.
Simon smiled back.
“Clean,” he said. “Bless your pretty bright eyes. Going to the
Wakefields’ dance on Tuesday night?”
“I was.”
“Well, go. I give you my word that there and then you shall have your
letter back.” He opened the door of the box. “And now let’s find the
Club tent and try some tea.”
* * * * *
At a quarter to twelve on the following Tuesday morning Simon was
ushered into a private room.
This was an office, smart and well furnished, with ground-glass panes in
the windows and three oak doors massively built.
A peculiarity of the doors was that they had no handles.
A large, bland, smooth-faced gentleman, wearing blue glasses and sitting
behind a table, rose to his feet.
“Sit down, Mr. Beaulieu.”
“I prefer,” said Simon, “to stand.”
The other inclined his head and resumed his seat.
“As you please. You have your credentials?”
“There they are.” The Master’s letter passed. “I have the money also.”
“But naturally,” said the smooth-faced gentleman. He took an envelope
from a drawer and smiled affectionately upon it. “This is Miss Bohun’s
letter. I like her handwriting. It reminds me of my dear mother’s.”
“Indeed,” said Simon. “May I see it—as a matter of form?”
The other tossed it across.
“Pray observe that I trust you,” he said.
“Why not?” said Simon Beaulieu.
He took out the letter, glanced at beginning and end, put it back in its
envelope and slid this into a pocket. Then he took out ten packets of
notes and laid them upon the table.
“Count them, please,” he said.
The smooth-faced gentleman smiled.
“I always do,” he said, “as a matter of form.”
Each packet contained ten notes—for one hundred pounds apiece.
That this was so The Master proceeded to verify, taking his own time.
Simon stood like a statue.
At length the other looked up.
“Quite right,” he said comfortably. He pointed to a pile of envelopes.
“There are the twenty-two copies. Will you take them also? Or shall I
burn them now?”
“Burn them, please.”
The Master stepped to the fireplace, set the envelopes in the grate, and
lighted a gas jet which was fixed beneath the bars.
The papers began to flame almost at once.
In silence the two men stood, watching them burn.
Presently The Master turned and, picking up his own letter, added that
to the pyre.
“A distressing incident,” he said, “now happily closed. This little room
has seen the dissipation of so many tragedies.”
“You don’t say so?” said Simon dryly. “It’s almost a shrine, isn’t it?”
The other laughed.
“At least,” he said, “its suppliants are very generous.”
“You choose them for their generosity?”
The rogue spread out his hands and put his head on one side.
“That,” he said, with the air of a past-master, “that is the secret of
blackmail.”
“Then if I were you,” said Simon, “I should chuck in your hand.” The
other stiffened. “If Grey Ruby hadn’t won the Stewards’ Cup, I imagine
you would have died about five minutes ago.”
The other stooped to rake the ashes to dust.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But what a magnificent race! Neck and neck for a
furlong, and won by a head. I lost a bit on Sweden, but I must confess I
enjoy——”
Simon lunged.
“Take my advice,” he said, “and chuck in your hand. You’ve got your
money by a fluke—the purest fluke.”
The Master straightened his back, poker in hand.
Two spots of colour burned in the great smooth face.
“I never fluke,” he said majestically.
Simon smiled back. Then he raised his eyebrows and turned to the door.
“I say I never fluke. _Take—back—those—notes._”
Simon turned, still smiling, to look the speaker in the eyes.
“I wouldn’t touch them,” he said, “with the end of a ten-foot pole.”
The Master recoiled. Then he seemed to shrink into himself.
The two red spots spread into deep blotches, and a hand went up to cover
the quivering mouth.
For a moment he stood motionless. Then, with a visible effort, he
touched the arm of his chair.
A bell throbbed.
Almost at once the door opened, and Simon passed out.
* * * * *
Patricia fingered her letter as though it were unreal.