“I thought,” said Julia coldly, “that I was your star.”
“You told me to come down to earth,” said Fulke doggedly.
“You called yourself my knight.”
“You told me to dismount,” was the disconcerting reply.
“You said you loved me,” said Julia.
“So I do. But I’ve had some. When you got engaged to Hubert, it broke me
up. And now I’m wise, Julia. I’m not going through it again.”
“D’you mean you won’t help me?” cried Julia.
“I’ll go to Scotland Yard.”
There was another silence.
“But, George darling,” purred Julia, “you don’t understand. Marriage is
merely a form—a worldly ceremony. Sooner or later every girl has to
take her place. It’s a cruel law, but then Convention is cruel—where
girls are concerned. And so I’ve got to conform. But that doesn’t mean
that I want to. My heart will always be in your care.”
“Nothing doing,” said Fulke shortly. “You mightn’t think it, but I’ve
already got Sarah Pardoner’s and Nell Herrick’s. I reminded Sarah of
that about six weeks ago, but all she said was that she was glad it had
a good home: and when I told Nell she only shrieked with laughter and
said that if it wasn’t claimed soon I’d better sell it to defray
expenses.”
“Of course, you’ve changed,” said Julia shakily. “You’ve become
commercial. I used to think you were the one man I knew who wasn’t out
for himself.”
“Nor I was—once. But it’s worn off. You’ve no idea of the dirty work
I’ve done—all women’s, of course. And often enough before I was through
they’ve forgotten they asked me to do it. As for being grateful . . .”
He let the sentence go and struck a match with great violence. “Look at
Madrigal Chichele,” he added.
“What about Madrigal?”
“She told me she was tied up for money and wanted to raffle her Rolls,
and would I sell the tickets, as it was awkward for her? Well, I went to
no end of trouble. Got the car photographed and went all over the place
selling tickets at a quid a time. I touched people all over the
Continent—complete strangers. Once a week I wrote to Madrigal to say
how I was getting on. One day I ran into her in Bond Street. ‘Oh,’ says
she, ‘I’ve been meaning to write to you, George. I’ve sold the car.’”
“What did you say?” said Julia, struggling with laughter.
“I don’t know what I said,” said George wearily. “I know I damned near
died there and then. I tried to explain it was fraud: but she said that
was all rot, and that it often happened, and that all I had to do was to
give the money back.”
“How—how many tickets had you sold?” said Julia tearfully.
“Over six hundred,” said Fulke. “Half of them haven’t seen their
money—never will see it. I don’t know where they are. I tell you,
complete strangers came in on the deal. I’m afraid to go abroad. . . .
Well, that sort of thing’s learned me. I like to know where I am and
where I come in.”
“But I can’t say I’ll marry you, George. I’m engaged to Hubert.”
Fulke handed the papers back.
“Sorry,” he said, “but this is no ordinary job. If you wanted me to take
you to Goodwood or Lords or The Zoo or something like that, I should be
tickled to death. But I’m not giving any more pints of my blood away.”
“George,” pleaded Julia, “you’re not going to let me down.”
“I shouldn’t think of such a thing,” said Fulke. “But I’m not going to
help you out of one preserve into another. It’s not good enough. You
seem to forget I love you.”
“But if the ring isn’t found I shall have to marry him. D’you want me to
do that?”
George shrugged his shoulders.
“Hubert’s all right,” he said. “I’d just as soon it was him as somebody
else. I rather like Hubert.”
Miss Willow sat back in her chair and regarded her hands. These were
small and beautifully shaped. She remembered that Hubert had once said
that he would rather kiss her fingers than any other woman’s lips.
Suddenly it occurred to her that she rather liked Hubert too. . . .
Of course, his behaviour had been monstrous. It had been very hot,
certainly. Abnormally hot. But that was no excuse. Still. . . . He had
had no right to do it—not a shadow of right, but he had spoken the
truth. She _had_ been outrageously capricious—for the love of the
thing. She had meant to pull his leg, and had twisted his tail. She had
deliberately devilled him just to see how far she could go: and, before
she knew where she was, she had gone too far. . . . Of course, that was
no excuse. Still . . .
Suddenly she remembered that Hubert had a game leg.
All those miles with a knee that wasn’t sound, that, when it was tired,
hurt. . . . And he had never pleaded it . . . never so much as
referred. . . .
And George Fulke was demanding to occupy Hubert’s stall. . . . George
Fulke . . .
Julia sat up in her chair and picked up the reins.
“What are your terms?” she said.
“Marriage,” said George laconically. “Our engagement to be announced
within one month of yours and Hubert’s being called off. Then I’ll
spread myself, Julia. Hang it, I shall have something to sweat for.”
“Of course you’re spoiled,” said Miss Willow. “Utterly spoiled.”
“In other words, I’m not such a mug as I was. Well, you can thank Sarah
and Co. for that.”
“D’you still pretend you love me?”
“I’m mad about you,” said George. “It’s just because I’m so mad that I
can’t and won’t go and hand you to somebody else. Why, I’d—I’d never
get over it.”
“But if this is how we get engaged, what will our marriage be like?”
“Julia,” said Fulke earnestly, “I’ll do you a blinkin’ treat. I really
will. You know me pretty well, and you know it isn’t my nature to want
to see your money before I deliver the goods. I’m only doing it now in
self-defence. If you’d been stung like me, you’d be doing it too. Once
I’ve got you I’ll never bargain again.”
“Would you be kind to me, George?”
In a trembling voice George protested that he would be insanely kind.
“Very well,” said Julia, returning the ‘orders to view.’ “I accept your
terms. Find the ring, and a month after my engagement to Hubert’s been
officially cancelled——”
“Oh, you darling!” said Fulke rapturously.
“Hush,” said Julia. “You’re not there yet, you know. Listen. There’s a
house with no end of stairs in Prince’s Gardens. I think I should try
that first. But between the others there’s really nothing to choose.”
“Good,” said Fulke enthusiastically.
That Julia was as wise as she was pretty is a true saying. But, what is
more to the point, she was wiser than Fulke.
George made an admirable swain. As a husband, he would have been a
complete failure. This was generally recognized. Mrs. Pardoner had seen
it, and so had Mrs. Herrick. Miss Willow was no whit less shrewd.
Besides . . .
When, therefore, she accepted his terms, she knew what he did not
suspect—that of his innocence he had left her a loophole of dimensions
so ample that it was resembling a grand entrance.
In a word, while she very much wanted her ring—it being a beautiful
gaud and of great value—she had not the slightest intention of becoming
disengaged.
That Fulke’s cake, then, was dough is perfectly plain.
Secured by this comfortable reflection, Miss Willow was in very good
cue. The bargain struck, George had recaptured his former excellence and
had made very seasonable love. She held great expectation of his finding
the ring, and was more than thankful to be spared the grisly ordeal of
revisiting her haunts of Saturday upon such a delicate quest. As for
Hubert, her peace must be made with honour: but that, she decided,
should not be difficult. Indeed, by the time she had parted with George
and was once more at home she had become quite hopeful that Hubert would
make the first move.
The sight of a note addressed in his well-known hand set the seal upon
her content.
She opened it with a faint smile.
_MY DEAR JULIA,_
_I’m afraid I didn’t play the game yesterday evening._
_What does the rotten ring matter? It’s served its turn. If it
doesn’t turn up, let it lie. If it does, keep it ‘with my love.’
Any old way I’ve written to_ The Times, _telling them to insert
the usual notice. You know. ‘The marriage arranged, etc., will
not take place.’_
_Yours,_
_HUBERT._
After one frightful moment, Julia fell upon the telephone.
Two minutes later she was curtly informed that Captain Challenger was
out of town.
* * * * *
“It’s no good you seein’ over,” said the porter at Sloane Street. “The
flat’s took.”
“I see,” said George thoughtfully. “I see. It—it wasn’t took—taken on
Saturday.”
“Oo said it was?” said the porter, who was of the new school.
George felt for a note.
“Look here,” he said. “I want to see over this flat. I don’t care
whether it’s taken or whether it isn’t. I think it’ll just suit
me—provided the floors are good.”
“They aren’t,” said the porter. “They’re rotten.”
George swallowed.
“Well, you let me see for myself. If you’re busy, you needn’t come. You
won’t lose by it, you know,” and with that he fingered a note.
The porter leaned against the wall.
“Now, wot are you gettin’ at?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” said George indignantly. “I just want to see that flat. From
what—what I’ve heard, it’ll suit me down to the ground.”
“But I tell you it’s took.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said George. “If it suits me I’ll square the
other fellow somehow.”
The porter looked George up and down.
As if without thinking, George reinforced the note.
“Yes, that’s all right,” said the porter. “I see the two ’alf-quids. But
I’m goin’ to get into trouble over this show. Once a flat’s took, it’s
took. I ain’t got no business to let you inside.”
“No one need know,” said George thoughtlessly.
“Yes, they need,” said the porter. “Wot if you wants to ’ave it? The
firs’ thing the agent’ll say is, ‘’Ow did you get inside?’”
George began to hate the porter very much.
“That’s easy enough,” he said. “I shall say I saw it on Saturday
afternoon.”
There was a silence.
“Let’s ’ave a look at that ‘order,’” said the porter suddenly.
For the ninth time that day an ‘order to view’ passed.
“Are you Keptin Chellenger?”
“That’s right,” said George boldly.
The porter folded the ‘order’ and put it away.
“Right-oh,” he said shortly.
They passed to the second floor. . . .
“This is the ’all,” said the porter supererogatively.
“I see,” said George, raking the floor with his eyes. “It’s—it’s not
very light, is it?”
“Depen’s wot you want to see,” was the dark reply.
George began to wish that he had given Sloane Street a miss.
That the porter’s suspicions were aroused was manifest. He stuck to
Fulke as a policeman sticks to his prey. Thus embarrassed, the latter’s
endeavours to behave like a prospective tenant lost much of the life
which they had begun to acquire, while any proper prosecution of his
search was out of the question. The tour of the gaunt rooms became a
hideous business—costly, futile, critical. What he should do in the
actual event of discovery, Fulke tried not to consider. He supposed
vaguely that there would be a free fight. All the time an inexplicable
feeling that he was what children call ‘warm’ pricked the unhappy youth
into the cannon’s mouth. . . .
Presently they came to the bathroom.
This was laid with cork carpet of dark green hue. Falling upon it, a
ring would hardly be heard: lying upon it, an emerald might well escape
detection.
Fulke’s eyes almost left his head.
The chamber was small enough, but one’s view of the floor was
obstructed. The basin got in the way: the bath could have hidden about
five hundred rings.
Frantically George sought an excuse for dalliance.
“I—I like this room,” he said, looking up and around as though he were
in a cathedral.
“No accountin’ for tastes,” said the porter, folding his arms.
Fulke frowned.
Then he tapped the linoleum with his foot.
“Does this go with the flat?” he said.
“Wot?” said the porter, staring.
“This linoleum.”
The porter eyed Fulke with a supreme contempt.
“Oh, less of it,” he said. “Ten feet o’ secon’-’and lino in a
six-’undred-quid flat. An’ you ask if it goes. Why, it ain’t worth——”
“I happen to know something about linoleum,” lied Fulke furiously. “Why,
if I told the Stores to put a new piece down, they’d charge me about ten
pounds.”
“Would they, though?” said the porter. “They must ’ave got your number.”
There was an unpleasant silence.