He had never seen anybody as scared as Heloise was; that was the one
clear impression which Gordon carried away from the interview. She, the
self-possessed woman of the world, a soul, one superior to the lesser
grades of humanity, seemed to have cowered and shrunk under the
domination of Diana’s baleful eye. Gordon sighed, tied his baize apron a
little tighter round his waist, and wondered where Trenter kept his
stock of plate powder. On the whole, it was good that Trenter was away,
and that he was spared the sight of his master’s humiliation. If indeed
it was a humiliation to be thrust into an ill-lit pantry with
instructions to clean the silver, and be ready at a moment’s notice to
make himself presentable. Gordon tried again and attacked a cream-jug
half-heartedly. His hands were not designed for housework. Yet he would
as soon have thought of cutting his throat with a fruit knife
(half-a-dozen of which awaited his attention) as disobey Diana’s
imperious gesture which had sent him off to the pantry to clean silver.
He was not asleep; he had made absolutely certain of this; he was wide
awake, in his shirt sleeves, a baize apron covering his detestable suit,
and he was polishing a cream, or it may have been a milk jug. That fact
being firmly and inevitably established, he had some basis for reasoning
and wonder. Chief cause for wonder was why Diana kept him in the house
at all, believing him to be Double Dan; why she did not send immediately
for the police and have him taken off to the nearest lock-up. He was
devoutly thankful that she hadn’t! The second cause for wonder was what
had happened to the remainder of the domestic staff? Eleanor he had not
seen. There was no evidence that the cook was on the premises. Here
again this fact provided him with a certain amount of satisfaction--but
where were they? He was to learn.
Diana made her appearance at the door of the pantry and he stared at her
open-mouthed. Around her dainty waist was a broad leather belt, and,
hanging by two straps, was a pistol holster, from the opening of which
protruded the black handle of a Browning.
“Do you know anything about potatoes?” she asked curtly.
Gordon was ashamed to discover that he knew nothing about potatoes,
except that they were vegetables.
“Have you ever _peeled_ potatoes?”
“I can’t remember,” he said. “When I was at school I think we used to
peel potatoes----”
“I’m not interested in what happened at Borstal--that is the name of the
juvenile convict establishment, isn’t it? Put that milk-jug down and
come into the kitchen.”
He followed her meekly. There was no sign of the cook; Eleanor was
invisible, and he learnt the reason.
“I’ve sent my servants away for a week-end holiday,” she said. “I want
no scandal attaching to my cousin’s name. I will not even have it known
that this attempt has been made to swindle him. You understand that you
will not try to leave the house?”
“Yes,” he nodded.
“Naturally, it is impossible that I should keep up day and night
watching you,” she said, “so I have asked a friend to come in and help
me.”
A gleam of hope showed in Gordon’s eyes.
“A detective,” she said impressively, “a Mr. Superbus--a name, I think
with which you are well acquainted.”
“That ... that ...?” spluttered Gordon indignantly.
“That,” she said.
A bell shrilled in the kitchen. She looked up at the indicator. The
little disc which represented the front door was oscillating violently.
“There are the potatoes,” she pointed to them.
Gordon saluted. He was once in the army and it seemed natural to salute.
No sooner had she gone than he decided upon his course of action. He was
well enough acquainted with the house to know that there was a kitchen
door and for this he made. It was locked; the key had been taken away;
the windows of scullery and kitchen were heavily barred against
burglars. Gordon returned to his potatoes with a sigh. He sighed easily
in these hours.
Again the bell rang. Diana heard it as she unbuckled the strap of her
revolver belt, and put away the weapon into the hall cupboard. She
hesitated a second with her hand on the doorknob, and then the
thunderous rat-tat forced her to action. She opened the door. The
moment had come. Before she saw the bearded gentleman she knew he was
there.
“Three o’clock!” he cried exultantly, and threw out both his hands.
“Three o’clock, my bride, my dove, my life!”
“Come in,” said Diana practically.
He would have taken her in his arms, but she held him at a distance.
“The servants,” she said and swiftly eluded his embracing arms.
“In here,” she opened The Study door. “Guiseppi, you must behave--you
really must. My uncle----”
“Your uncle!” He gazed at her ecstatically.
She nodded.
“In this house?”
She ought to have been warned by his fervour, but the immediate
necessities of the moment threw her off her balance.
“Why, of course he’s here,” she said.
“Your uncle is here!” There was triumph in his tone, his wild eyes fixed
her.
“Why ... why yes, Guiseppi,” she faltered and he closed his eyes in a
rapt smile.
“Then the dream of my life is to be fulfilled. Your telephone--I may use
it, yes?”
He was at the telephone before she could say yes or no. She heard him
give a number, his hotel, and then:
“You will have my bags sent here at once, to Cheynel Gardens, yes? Two
bags, do you not understand English? My grip, bags, send them to this
place. What is the name, Cheynel? Yes, that is it, Cheynel Gardens,
Number 61. You cannot mistake it. My pyjamas you will not forget. They
are under my pillow.”
“Guiseppi!” she gasped. “What are you doing? Wait! You can’t stay here!”
“Yes, here, under your roof. The glory of it! It is wonderful, a
fulfilment of dreams, oh my starry vision! Without your good uncle it
was impossible. You have a new aunt? Ah, the poor Mrs. Tetherby! It was
comical, to me tragic, yet this moment comical again!”
“But Guiseppi,” she wailed, “you can’t stay. My uncle doesn’t like
people staying in the house....”
He patted her shoulder.
“We shall charm him. We shall overcome his objections! Tell me his
hobby, I will speak about it. There is no subject under the sun on which
I cannot speak.”
This she believed.
“Your aunt! To me your aunt! Bring her at once that I may shake her hand
and kiss her on both cheeks. The aunt of Diana! Oh divine relationship!”
In a dazed kind of way Diana realized that the Italian side of Mr.
Dempsi had developed to an enormous and unbearable extent. He could not
keep still for a moment. Now he was at the fireplace, examining the
crossed oars.
“You have learnt to row, my little Diana? That is wonderful! We shall
row together upon the stream of Time, drinking the waters of Lethe and
forgetting the past.”
In two strides he had reached her, gripping both her hands in his.
“Diana, do you realise how I have dreamt of all this, through the long
nights in the bush, in the waste places of the Northern Territories,
where I wandered seeking gold and forgetfulness and finding neither? In
the silence of the native hut, broken by the little birds’ twittering in
the darkness, and no other sound but the sighing of the wind--your face
was there! Your exquisite memorable features, the glory of your hair,
your eyes that smiled and tormented....”
He broke off abruptly.
“Your uncle ... produce him....”
Gordon had peeled his third potato when Diana staggered into the
kitchen. They were big potatoes when he started to deal with them. They
were very small when he had finished. It was difficult to know where the
skin began and ended; he had cut deep to make sure.
At the sight of her tragic face he dropped his potato.
“Anything wrong?”
“Wrong? Everything’s wrong!” she said bitterly. “I’m going to give you
your chance. I don’t like your name, Dan, and I’ve changed it. You’re
Isaac!”
“Who!” he twittered.
“You’re Isaac, my uncle Isaac!”
He put down the knife, wiped his hands on his apron and went slowly
across to her.
“I am not your uncle Isaac,” he began.
“Take off _that_!” she pointed to the apron. “Put on your coat and come
upstairs. Remember, you’re uncle Isaac and that terrible female--where
is she?”
“How the dickens do I know where she is?” asked the annoyed Gordon.
“Wait!”
Diana flew up the stairs to the top of the house and in the spare room
where she had intended putting the hired man and wife, she found Heloise
sitting disconsolately on the edge of the bed, a suspicious wetness
about her eyes. When the door was unlocked and flung open, the woman
jumped up.
“Now, see here, Mrs. Selsbury,” she began in her high voice, “I don’t
know the law of this country but you’ve no right to lock me in----”
“Do you want me to send for the police?” asked Diana, calm but menacing.
“I tell you you’re all wrong, Mrs. Selsbury,” said Heloise with great
earnestness. “You’ve made the biggest mistake of your life. That poor
fish is your husband.”
“I have no husband--fish, flesh, fowl or herring,” said Diana. “I never
had a husband,” and then remembering, “I am a widow.”
Heloise was momentarily staggered.
“You can forget all that has happened to-day,” said Diana speaking a
little wildly. “A visitor has come--he is staying in the house ... an
old friend of mine ... in fact, I was once engaged to him until he died
in the bush.”
“Is he here?” asked the startled Heloise.
“He is here,” nodded Diana, “and he is remaining. Obviously, I cannot
allow him to stay unless I have a chaperone. You are,” she spoke
deliberately, “Aunt Lizzie.”
Heloise could only look at her.
“You’re Aunt Lizzie and your wretched criminal husband, or whatever he
is (I can only hope for the best) is Uncle Isaac. Go right down into the
kitchen and tell him.”
“Let me get this right,” said Heloise slowly. “I am Aunt Lizzie ... you
want me to be your Aunt Lizzie.... and that poor child is to be ...?”
“Uncle Isaac.”
“I haven’t gotten it right yet,” said Heloise, “this is a cinema lot ...
you’re playing somep’n,” she had forgotten momentarily that she was a
lady of fashion and culture. “I’m Aunt Lizzie....”
She sank under the burden that had been imposed upon her.
“You’re all crazy, that’s what. I’m an American citizen, or near
American.... Toronto, but I live so close that I could throw a stone
across the border. And I’m Aunt Lizzie!”