“Take me to London,” she gasped, “and put me down at the Ritz.”
In another minute she was flying up the broad highway.
* * * * *
An hour had gone by, and Titus was sitting at his table with a frown on
his face.
The man looked tired, as well he might. In the last ten days he had
ciphered one hundred and eighty rooms. During this period he had
surveyed none at all. The sowing season was past: it was time to garner
the harvest—high time. The boom was cracking.
Requests to visit were falling rapidly: so were requests to revisit: in
the latter’s stead indignant letters of complaint were arriving by every
post. That the latter included one from Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat suggested
that the end was at hand. Some of Titus’s calls were beginning to be
returned by furious clients, who, refusing to believe that the Cheviots
were not at home, simmered in the stalls for hours at a time.
Titus glanced at his watch.
“She won’t come now,” he murmured. “I suppose she’s wired to the flat
that she’s stayin’ on. Waitin’ on Worth or something for a monkey.” He
regarded his finger-nails. “Damn it, I wish she’d come back,” he added
suddenly. “If I have to send, it’ll give the game away, an’ it’s—it’s
close on closing-time. Very close. An’ there ain’t no blinkin’ market
for a business wot’s closed its doors. If she isn’t back to-morrow——
Thunder of heaven, here she is.”
It was true.
As he rose from his seat, the shop-door was slammed to, and an instant
later Mrs. Cheviot was in his arms.
“Titus, my darling, we must go—leave England at once.”
Cheviot’s brain reeled.
“Leave England?” he gasped. “Why?”
“Listen. D’you want to be murdered?”
“Not particularly,” said Titus. “But——”
“Then we must go,” said Blanche. “Why you’re still alive I can’t
imagine. Have there been any riots yet?”
“Not that I know of,” said Titus. “I haven’t had much time for the
papers lately. In the last ten days——”
“Well, there will be soon,” said Blanche. “To-morrow probably. Come on.”
“What on earth d’you mean?” said Titus dazedly. “What riots?”
“Listen,” cried Blanche, catching him by his lapels “This evening—no
matter why—I, er, called on a Mr. Blatchbourne. He’s got a house in
Kent. Well——”
“Blatchbourne,” said Titus. “Blatchbourne. Now, where have I seen that
name?”
Suddenly the truth dawned upon him—and with it came daylight in one
blinding flash.
_Blanche was about to play straight into his hands._
He had meant to show her the letters of violent complaint. He had meant
them to frighten her out of her very life. And then, when she had
decided that they must fly, he had meant to announce his intention of
carrying on. Finally, he had meant to give way—_upon certain terms_.
With a truly lightning brain he picked up his cue.
“Oh, I know,” he said. “I know. I did three rooms for them.”
“At three hundred guineas,” said Blanche. “My dear, you did. I had tea
in your hall this afternoon.”
“What a funny thing,” said Titus. “Did you say who you were?”
“No,” said Blanche faintly. “I didn’t. Like you, I value my life.
Apparently you got busy while Blatchbourne himself was away, and his
wife put through the deal. When he came back, it was all over. Of course
he’s mad as a hornet, and I don’t blame him. Titus, that hall would make
a saint see red.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” said Cheviot. “I remember it perfectly. That’s one
of my favourite designs. The ‘Boot and Saddle’ I call it. Did you notice
the pigskin ceiling?”
“I did,” said Blanche wildly. “And the steel mantelpiece. Mr.
Blatchbourne forgot and leaned on it just before I left. Of course he
was terribly burned, and he says you did it on purpose, and he’s going
to have your blood. I tell you——”
“He can’t,” said Titus calmly. “If he likes to take my advice, that’s
his look-out. Probably his burning was a judgment for abusing me.
Besides, when all’s said and done, whether the room looks well is
purely——”
“I’m not going to argue,” cried Blanche. “But we must close down at
once. That’s certain. If, as you say, you’ve done other rooms like
that——”
“I should think about fifty,” said Titus. “I tell you——”
Blanche felt rather faint.
“I say,” she said shakily, “that we must close down. It’s only a
question of hours—it must be—before a mob arrives. And then we shall
be torn in pieces.”
“My dear,” said Titus, “come home and sleep it off. Of course you can’t
please everyone, and of course we’ve had complaints. Every firm has.”
“When? You never told me.”
Cheviot shrugged his shoulders.
“It wasn’t worth while.” He pointed to a file on the table. “There are
some of them. But business keeps up.”
Blanche fell upon the file with shaking fingers.
As she peered at their contents, sentence after sentence flamed.
_A barefaced attempt . . . I defy you to take action . . . the most
horrifying result . . . brazen impudence . . . I shall do my utmost to
expose . . . actuated by malice . . . an offence against decency . . .
full particulars to the Commissioner of Police . . . inwardly ravening
wolves. . . ._
Blanche let the file go and put her hands to her head.
“And yet he’s gone on!” she wailed.
“Of course he’s gone on,” said Titus. “The vast majority are as pleased
as Punch. I tell you, business is wonderful. Last week——”
“You must stop at once,” screamed Blanche. “I won’t have another——”
“My dear,” said Titus, “come home. I’ve a full day to-morrow, and I want
you——”
“You haven’t. You shan’t have. You—Titus, for Heaven’s sake——”
“The orange,” said Titus firmly, “is not yet sucked. I’m not going to
turn down ten thousand quid a week because two or three gents prefer
their taste to mine. My conscience is perfectly clear and my hands are
clean. There isn’t a letter there that isn’t libellous. If I liked to
take ’em to Court, I could get a verdict on every one of them. What
authority have I professed? None. It’s all very well to get excited
because they don’t like my advice. I never asked them to take it. I
never said it was worth having. But as long as they like to seek it——”
Blanche was down on her knees.
“Ti, I implore you to give it up. By all that’s holy, I beg you——”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t I shall go mad. Because someone else will go mad
and try to kill you. Each time you go out to cipher you take your life
in your hand. If Blatchbourne had been at home when you went to approve
that hall, he’d ’ve broken your back. You’ve not the faintest idea——”
“Ten thousand a week,” said Titus, “is better than any ideas.”
“We’ve made enough,” wailed Blanche. “More than enough. How much have we
made?”
“Ninety-six thousand—to date.”
“For Heaven’s sake,” screamed Blanche, “how much do you want?”
“The orange,” said Titus ruthlessly, “is not yet sucked.”
Blanche clung to his knees.
“Ti, Ti, if you love me—if you care in the least whether I live or
die—if there’s ever to be any tiny atom of happiness between us again,
you’ll turn this down.”
Cheviot appeared to hesitate.
Then he picked up his wife and put her upon the table.
“How much did you spend in Paris?”
Mrs. Cheviot started.
“I—I’m not quite sure,” she said. “I—I think I went rather a bust.”
“Quite right too,” said Titus. “I hoped you would. As a matter of fact,
you got away with over five thousand pounds.”
“Titus!”
Cheviot nodded.
“And more also. I put that amount to your credit, and I got a letter
this morning saying your account was overdrawn. Don’t think I’m kicking.
I’m not. You’ve earned every quid, sweetheart, and I’m only too glad.
But that’s a pace, my lady, that only a Crœsus can stand. And so I’ll do
a deal with you. We agreed to invest what we made. Ninety-one thousand
sounds a good deal of pelf, but when everything’s paid it means, say
three thousand a year. Very good.” He drew some paper towards her and
set a pen in her hand. “You write as I dictate. And then, if you feel
inclined, you can sign what you’ve written. If you don’t feel
inclined—well, then you can tear it up. But if you sign—I’ll put up
the shutters to-morrow at nine o’clock.”
Mrs. Cheviot slewed herself round and slid on to a chair.
“I’m at your mercy,” she said.
Titus proceeded to dictate, pacing the room.
_In consideration of my husband’s desisting from visiting or
revisiting strange houses, surveying rooms, stencilling ceilings
or accepting money therefor—a practice which I admit he has
found extremely lucrative—I hereby undertake never to demand or
expend by way of dress-allowance a sum in excess of three
thousand pounds a year._
“That’s all,” said Titus.
Without a word, Mrs. Cheviot affixed her signature.
Then she took a fresh sheet.
“I’ll make a copy,” she said.
“Very well,” said Titus, lighting a cigarette. . . .
When Blanche had finished writing she rose and crossed to a glass.
“Take your choice,” she said over her shoulder. “They are—facsimiles.”
Titus shot her a glance and stepped to the table.
The ‘copy’ seemed longer than the ‘original’—much longer.
_There was once a dear called Titus. He was most awfully
handsome and generous, and when he married he spoiled his wife
to death. She was as greedy and selfish as he was sweet, and
though he gave her everything he’d got, that wasn’t enough. So
then, though he was all tired, he took off his shabby coat and
began to work. He worked and worked and always swore he liked
it, but he loathed it really. And they both knew why he was
doing it, but he pretended it amused him, and she pretended to
believe him for very shame. And then one day she really did want
him to stop. And when he saw that she meant it, he gave her all
the gold he had made. “If that’s enough,” he said gently, “why,
then I’ll stop. But if it isn’t, dear, I must try to go on.” And
when he said that, all of a sudden HER DESIRE FOR RICHES DIED.
. . . And she didn’t know whether to laugh or whether to cry
because at last she saw that, money or no, nothing could ever
alter the fact that she was the richest woman in all the
world—because she was_
_TITUS’ WIFE_.
Titus folded the ‘copy’ and slid it into his case.
Then he struck a match and burned the ‘original’ up.
Blanche never turned.