PALL MALL PLACE
"Higgs!" cried the Hon. Richard Pugeot.
"Sir?" answered a voice from behind the silk curtains cutting off the
dressing and bathroom from the bedroom.
"What o'clock is it?"
"Just gone eight, sir."
"Get me some soda-water."
"Yes, sir."
The Hon. Richard lay still.
Higgs, a clean-shaven and smart-looking young man, appeared with a
bottle of Schweppes and a tumbler on a salver.
The cork popped and the sufferer drank.
"What o'clock did I come home?"
"After twelve, sir--pretty nigh one."
"Was there anyone with me?"
"No, sir."
"No old gentleman?"
"No, sir."
"Was Randall there?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the car?"
"Yes, sir."
"There was no old gentleman in the car?"
"No, sir."
"Good heavens!" said Pugeot. "What can I have done with him?"
Higgs, not knowing, said nothing, moving about putting things in order
and getting his master's bath ready.
"I've lost an old gentleman, Higgs," said Pugeot, for Higgs was a
confidential servant as well as a valet.
"Indeed, sir," said Higgs, as though losing old gentlemen was as common
as losing umbrellas.
"And the whole business is so funny I can scarcely believe it's true. I
haven't a touch of the jim-jams, have I, Higgs?"
"Lord, sir, no! You're all right."
"Am I? See here, Higgs. Yesterday morning I met old Mr. Simon Pettigrew,
the lawyer; mind, you are to say nothing about this to anyone--but stay
a moment, go into the sitting-room and fetch me _Who's Who_."
Higgs fetched the book.
"'Pettigrew, Simon,'" read out Pugeot, with the book resting on his
knees, "'Justice of the Peace for Herts--President of the United Law
Society--Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries'--h'm, h'm--'Club,
Athenæum.' Well, I met the old gentleman in Piccadilly. We went for a
spin together, and the last thing I remember was seeing him chasing a
stableman round some inn yard, where we had stopped for petrol or whisky
or something; chasing him round with a bucket. He was trying to put the
bucket over the stableman's head."
"Fresh," said Higgs.
"As you say, fresh--but I want to know, was that an optical illusion?
There were other things, too. If it wasn't an optical illusion I want to
know what has become of the old gentleman? I'm nervous--for he did me a
good turn once, and I hope to heaven I haven't let him in for any
bother."
"Well, sir," said Higgs, "I wouldn't worry, not if I were you. It was
only his little lark, and most likely he's home safe by this."
"I have also a recollection of two ladies that got mixed up in the
affair," went on the other, "but who they were I can't say. Little lark!
The bother of it is, Higgs, one can't play little larks like that,
safely, if one is a highly respectable person and a J.P. and a member
of the what's-its-name society."
He got up and tubbed and dressed, greatly troubled in his mind. People
sucked into the Simon-whirl were generally troubled in their minds, so
great is the Power of High Respectability when linked to the follies of
youth.
At breakfast Mr. Robert Ravenshaw's card was presented by Higgs.
"Show him in," said Pugeot.
"Hullo, Ravenshaw!" said Pugeot. "Glad to see you. Have you had
breakfast?"
"Yes, thanks. I only called for a moment to see you about my uncle."
"Which uncle?"
"Pettigrew----"
"Good heavens! You don't say he's----"
Bobby explained.
It was like a millstone removed from Pugeot's neck.
Then he, in his turn, explained.
Then Bobby went into details.
Then they consulted.
"You can't get him out of London without telling him where you are
taking him to," said Pugeot. "He'll kick the car over on the road if
he's anything like what he was last night. Leave it to me and _I'll_ do
the trick. But the question is, where shall we take him? There's no use
going to a place like Brighton; too many attractions for him. A moated
grange is what he wants, and even then he'll be tumbling into the moat."
"I know of a place," said Bobby, "down at Upton-on-Hill. A girl told me
of it; it's the Rose Hotel."
"I know it," said Pugeot; "couldn't be better. I have a cousin there
living at a place called The Nook. There's a bowling-green at the hotel
and a golf-course near. Can't hurt himself. Leave it all to me."
He told Higgs to telephone for the car, and then they sat and smoked
whilst Pugeot showed Bobby just the way to deal with people of Uncle
Simon's description.
"It's all nonsense, that doctor man's talk," said Pugeot. "The poor old
chap has shed a nut or two. I ought to know something about it for I've
had the same bother in my family. Got his youth back--pish! Cracked,
that's the real name for it. I've seen it. I've seen my own uncle, when
he was seventy, get his youth back--and the last time I saw him he was
pulling a toy elephant along with a string. He'd got a taste also for
playing with matches. Is that the car, Higgs? Well, come along, and
let's try the power of a little gentle persuasion."
Simon was finishing breakfast when they arrived, assisted by Madame and
Cerise. Poor Monsieur Pattigrew did not seem in the least in the need of
pity either, though the women hung about him as women hang about an
invalid. He was talking and laughing, and he greeted the newcomers as
good companions who had just turned up. His geniality was not to be
denied, and it struck Bobby, in a weird sort of manner, that Uncle Simon
like this was a much pleasanter person than the old original article.
Like this: that is to say, for a moment out of danger from the vicious
grinding wheels of a city that destroys butterflies and a society that
requests respectable old solicitors to remain respectable old
solicitors.
Then, the women having discreetly retired for a while, Pugeot began his
gentle persuasion.
Uncle Simon, with visions of yesterday's rural pleasures in his mind,
required no persuasion, and he would come for a run into the country
with pleasure; but Pugeot was not taking that sort of thing on any more.
He was gay, but a very little of that sort of gaiety sufficed him for a
long time.
"I don't mean that," said he; "I mean let's go down and stay for a while
quietly at some nice place--I mean you and Ravenshaw here--for business
will oblige me to come back to town."
"No, thanks," said Simon; "I'm quite happy in London."
"But think how nice it will be in the country this weather," said Bobby.
"London's so hot."
"I like it hot," said Simon; "weather can't be too hot for me."
Then the gentle persuaders alternately began offering
inducements--bowls, golf, a jolly bar at an hotel they knew, even girls.
They might just as well have been offering buns to the lions of
Trafalgar Square.
Then Bobby had an idea, and, leaving the room, he had a conference on
the stairs with Madame Rossignol; with Cerise also.
Then leaving Simon to the women for a while, they went for a walk, and
returned to find the marble wax.
Simon did not mind a few days in the country if the ladies would come as
his guests; he was enthusiastic on the subject now. They would all go
and have a jolly time in the country. The old poetical instinct that had
not shown itself up to this, restrained, no doubt, by the mesmerism of
London, seemed to be awakening and promising new developments.
Bobby did not care; poetry or a Pickford's van were all the same to him
as long as they got Simon out of London.
He had promised Julia Delyse, if you remember, to see her that day, but
he had quite forgotten her for the moment.