In a bedroom on the fourth floor of the Hotel Guelph in
Piccadilly, the Honorable Frederick Threepwood sat in bed, with
his knees drawn up to his chin, and glared at the day with the
glare of mental anguish. He had very little mind, but what he had
was suffering.
He had just remembered. It is like that in this life. You wake
up, feeling as fit as a fiddle; you look at the window and see
the sun, and thank Heaven for a fine day; you begin to plan a
perfectly corking luncheon party with some of the chappies you
met last night at the National Sporting Club; and then--you
remember.
"Oh, dash it!" said the Honorable Freddie. And after a moment's
pause: "And I was feeling so dashed happy!"
For the space of some minutes he remained plunged in sad
meditation; then, picking up the telephone from the table at his
side, he asked for a number.
"Hello!"
"Hello!" responded a rich voice at the other end of the wire.
"Oh, I say! Is that you, Dickie?"
"Who is that?"
"This is Freddie Threepwood. I say, Dickie, old top, I want to
see you about something devilish important. Will you be in at
twelve?"
"Certainly. What's the trouble?"
"I can't explain over the wire; but it's deuced serious."
"Very well. By the way, Freddie, congratulations on the
engagement."
"Thanks, old man. Thanks very much, and so on--but you won't
forget to be in at twelve, will you? Good-by."
He replaced the receiver quickly and sprang out of bed, for he
had heard the door handle turn. When the door opened he was
giving a correct representation of a young man wasting no time in
beginning his toilet for the day.
An elderly, thin-faced, bald-headed, amiably vacant man entered.
He regarded the Honorable Freddie with a certain disfavor.
"Are you only just getting up, Frederick?"
"Hello, gov'nor. Good morning. I shan't be two ticks now."
"You should have been out and about two hours ago. The day is
glorious."
"Shan't be more than a minute, gov'nor, now. Just got to have a
tub and then chuck on a few clothes."
He disappeared into the bathroom. His father, taking a chair,
placed the tips of his fingers together and in this attitude
remained motionless, a figure of disapproval and suppressed
annoyance.
Like many fathers in his rank of life, the Earl of Emsworth had
suffered much through that problem which, with the exception of
Mr. Lloyd-George, is practically the only fly in the British
aristocratic amber--the problem of what to do with the younger
sons.
It is useless to try to gloss over the fact--in the aristocratic
families of Great Britain the younger son is not required.
Apart, however, from the fact that he was a younger son, and, as
such, a nuisance in any case, the honorable Freddie had always
annoyed his father in a variety of ways. The Earl of Emsworth was
so constituted that no man or thing really had the power to
trouble him deeply; but Freddie had come nearer to doing it than
anybody else in the world. There had been a consistency, a
perseverance, about his irritating performances that had acted on
the placid peer as dripping water on a stone. Isolated acts of
annoyance would have been powerless to ruffle his calm; but
Freddie had been exploding bombs under his nose since he went to
Eton.
He had been expelled from Eton for breaking out at night and
roaming the streets of Windsor in a false mustache. He had been
sent down from Oxford for pouring ink from a second-story window
on the junior dean of his college. He had spent two years at an
expensive London crammer's and failed to pass into the army. He
had also accumulated an almost record series of racing debts,
besides as shady a gang of friends--for the most part vaguely
connected with the turf--as any young man of his age ever
contrived to collect.
These things try the most placid of parents; and finally Lord
Emsworth had put his foot down. It was the only occasion in his
life when he had acted with decision, and he did it with the
accumulated energy of years. He stopped his son's allowance,
haled him home to Blandings Castle, and kept him there so
relentlessly that until the previous night, when they had come up
together by an afternoon train, Freddie had not seen London for
nearly a year.
Possibly it was the reflection that, whatever his secret
troubles, he was at any rate once more in his beloved metropolis
that caused Freddie at this point to burst into discordant song.
He splashed and warbled simultaneously.
Lord Emsworth's frown deepened and he began to tap his fingers
together irritably. Then his brow cleared and a pleased smile
flickered over his face. He, too, had remembered.
What Lord Emsworth remembered was this: Late in the previous
autumn the next estate to Blandings had been rented by an
American, a Mr. Peters--a man with many millions, chronic
dyspepsia, and one fair daughter--Aline. The two families had
met. Freddie and Aline had been thrown together; and, only a few
days before, the engagement had been announced. And for Lord
Emsworth the only flaw in this best of all possible worlds had
been removed.
Yes, he was glad Freddie was engaged to be married to Aline
Peters. He liked Aline. He liked Mr. Peters. Such was the relief
he experienced that he found himself feeling almost affectionate
toward Freddie, who emerged from the bathroom at this moment,
clad in a pink bathrobe, to find the paternal wrath evaporated,
and all, so to speak, right with the world.
Nevertheless, he wasted no time about his dressing. He was always
ill at ease in his father's presence and he wished to be
elsewhere with all possible speed. He sprang into his trousers
with such energy that he nearly tripped himself up. As he
disentangled himself he recollected something that had slipped
his memory.
"By the way, gov'nor, I met an old pal of mine last night and
asked him down to Blandings this week. That's all right, isn't
it? He's a man named Emerson, an American. He knows Aline quite
well, he says--has known her since she was a kid."
"I do not remember any friend of yours named Emerson."
"Well, as a matter of fact, I met him last night for the first
time. But it's all right. He's a good chap, don't you know!
--and all that sort of rot."
Lord Emsworth was feeling too benevolent to raise the objections
he certainly would have raised had his mood been less sunny.
"Certainly; let him come if he wishes."
"Thanks, gov'nor."
Freddie completed his toilet.
"Doing anything special this morning, gov'nor? I rather thought
of getting a bit of breakfast and then strolling round a bit.
Have you had breakfast?"
"Two hours ago. I trust that in the course of your strolling you
will find time to call at Mr. Peters' and see Aline. I shall be
going there directly after lunch. Mr. Peters wishes to show me
his collection of--I think scarabs was the word he used."
"Oh, I'll look in all right! Don't you worry! Or if I don't I'll
call the old boy up on the phone and pass the time of day. Well,
I rather think I'll be popping off and getting that bit of
breakfast--what?"
Several comments on this speech suggested themselves to Lord
Emsworth. In the first place, he did not approve of Freddie's
allusion to one of America's merchant princes as "the old boy."
Second, his son's attitude did not strike him as the ideal
attitude of a young man toward his betrothed. There seemed to be
a lack of warmth. But, he reflected, possibly this was simply
another manifestation of the modern spirit; and in any case it
was not worth bothering about; so he offered no criticism.
Presently, Freddie having given his shoes a flick with a silk
handkerchief and thrust the latter carefully up his sleeve, they
passed out and down into the main lobby of the hotel, where they
parted--Freddie to his bit of breakfast; his father to potter
about the streets and kill time until luncheon. London was always
a trial to the Earl of Emsworth. His heart was in the country and
the city held no fascinations for him.
* * *
On one of the floors in one of the buildings in one of the
streets that slope precipitously from the Strand to the Thames
Embankment, there is a door that would be all the better for a
lick of paint, which bears what is perhaps the most modest and
unostentatious announcement of its kind in London. The grimy
ground-glass displays the words:
R. JONES
Simply that and nothing more. It is rugged in its simplicity.
You wonder, as you look at it--if you have time to look at and
wonder about these things--who this Jones may be; and what is the
business he conducts with such coy reticence.
As a matter of fact, these speculations had passed through
suspicious minds at Scotland Yard, which had for some time taken
not a little interest in R. Jones. But beyond ascertaining that
he bought and sold curios, did a certain amount of bookmaking
during the flat-racing season, and had been known to lend money,
Scotland Yard did not find out much about Mr. Jones and presently
dismissed him from its thoughts.
On the theory, given to the world by William Shakespeare, that it
is the lean and hungry-looking men who are dangerous, and that
the "fat, sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights," are
harmless, R. Jones should have been above suspicion. He was
infinitely the fattest man in the west-central postal district of
London. He was a round ball of a man, who wheezed when he walked
upstairs, which was seldom, and shook like jelly if some tactless
friend, wishing to attract his attention, tapped him unexpectedly
on the shoulder. But this occurred still less frequently than his
walking upstairs; for in R. Jones' circle it was recognized that
nothing is a greater breach of etiquette and worse form than to
tap people unexpectedly on the shoulder. That, it was felt,
should be left to those who are paid by the government to do it.
R. Jones was about fifty years old, gray-haired, of a mauve
complexion, jovial among his friends, and perhaps even more
jovial with chance acquaintances. It was estimated by envious
intimates that his joviality with chance acquaintances, specially
with young men of the upper classes, with large purses and small
foreheads--was worth hundreds of pounds a year to him. There was
something about his comfortable appearance and his jolly manner
that irresistibly attracted a certain type of young man. It was
his good fortune that this type of young man should be the type
financially most worth attracting.
Freddie Threepwood had fallen under his spell during his short
but crowded life in London. They had met for the first time at
the Derby; and ever since then R. Jones had held in Freddie's
estimation that position of guide, philosopher and friend which
he held in the estimation of so many young men of Freddie's
stamp.
That was why, at twelve o'clock punctually on this Spring day, he
tapped with his cane on R. Jones' ground glass, and showed such
satisfaction and relief when the door was opened by the
proprietor in person.
"Well, well, well!" said R. Jones rollickingly. "Whom have we
here? The dashing bridegroom-to-be, and no other!"
R. Jones, like Lord Emsworth, was delighted that Freddie was
about to marry a nice girl with plenty of money. The sudden
turning off of the tap from which Freddie's allowance had flowed
had hit him hard. He had other sources of income, of course; but
few so easy and unfailing as Freddie had been in the days of his
prosperity.
"The prodigal son, by George! Creeping back into the fold after
all this weary time! It seems years since I saw you, Freddie.
The old gov'nor put his foot down--didn't he?--and stopped the
funds. Damned shame! I take it that things have loosened up a bit
since the engagement was announced--eh?"
Freddie sat down and chewed the knob of his cane unhappily.
"Well, as a matter of fact, Dickie, old top," he said, "not so
that you could notice it, don't you know! Things are still pretty
much the same. I managed to get away from Blandings for a night,
because the gov'nor had to come to London; but I've got to go
back with him on the three-o'clock train. And, as for money, I
can't get a quid out of him. As a matter of fact, I'm in the
deuce of a hole; and that's why I've come to you."
Even fat, jovial men have their moments of depression. R. Jones'
face clouded, and jerky remarks about hardness of times and
losses on the Stock Exchange began to proceed from him. As
Scotland Yard had discovered, he lent money on occasion; but he
did not lend it to youths in Freddie's unfortunate position.
"Oh, I don't want to make a touch, you know," Freddie hastened to
explain. "It isn't that. As a matter of fact, I managed to raise
five hundred of the best this morning. That ought to be enough."
"Depends on what you want it for," said R. Jones, magically genial
once more.
The thought entered his mind, as it had so often, that the world
was full of easy marks. He wished he could meet the money-lender
who had been rash enough to advance the Honorable Freddie five
hundred pounds. Those philanthropists cross our path too seldom.
Freddie felt in his pocket, produced a cigarette case, and from
it extracted a newspaper clipping.
"Did you read about poor old Percy in the papers? The case, you
know?"
"Percy?"
"Lord Stockheath, you know."
"Oh, the Stockheath breach-of-promise case? I did more than that.
I was in court all three days." R. Jones emitted a cozy chuckle.
"Is he a pal of yours? A cousin, eh? I wish you had seen him in
the witness box, with Jellicoe-Smith cross-examining him! The
funniest thing I ever heard! And his letters to the girl! They
read them out in court; and of all--"
"Don't, old man! Dickie, old top--please! I know all about it. I
read the reports. They made poor old Percy look like an absolute
ass."
"Well, Nature had done that already; but I'm bound to say they
improved on Nature's work. I should think your Cousin Percy must
have felt like a plucked chicken."
A spasm of pain passed over the Honorable Freddie's vacant face.
He wriggled in his chair.
"Dickie, old man, I wish you wouldn't talk like that. It makes me
feel ill."
"Why, is he such a pal of yours as all that?"
"It's not that. It's--the fact is, Dickie, old top, I'm in
exactly the same bally hole as poor old Percy was, myself!"
"What! You have been sued for breach of promise?"
"Not absolutely that--yet. Look here; I'll tell you the whole
thing. Do you remember a show at the Piccadilly about a year ago
called "The Baby Doll"? There was a girl in the chorus."
"Several--I remember noticing."
"No; I mean one particular girl--a girl called Joan Valentine.
The rotten part is that I never met her."
"Pull yourself together, Freddie. What exactly is the trouble?"
"Well--don't you see?--I used to go to the show every other
night, and I fell frightfully in love with this girl--"
"Without having met her?"
"Yes. You see, I was rather an ass in those days."
"No, no!" said R. Jones handsomely.
"I must have been or I shouldn't have been such an ass, don't you
know! Well, as I was saying, I used to write this girl letters,
saying how much I was in love with her; and--and--"
"Specifically proposing marriage?"
"I can't remember. I expect I did. I was awfully in love."
"How was that if you never met her?"
"She wouldn't meet me. She wouldn't even come out to luncheon.
She didn't even answer my letters--just sent word down by the
Johnny at the stage door. And then----"
Freddie's voice died away. He thrust the knob of his cane into
his mouth in a sort of frenzy.
"What then?" inquired R. Jones.
A scarlet blush manifested itself on Freddie's young face. His
eyes wandered sidewise. After a long pause a single word escaped
him, almost inaudible:
"Poetry!"
R. Jones trembled as though an electric current had been passed
through his plump frame. His little eyes sparkled with merriment.
"You wrote her poetry!"
"Yards of it, old boy--yards of it!" groaned Freddie. Panic
filled him with speech. "You see the frightful hole I'm in? This
girl is bound to have kept the letters. I don't remember whether
I actually proposed to her or not; but anyway she's got enough
material to make it worth while to have a dash at an
action--especially after poor old Percy has just got soaked for
such a pile of money and made breach-of-promise cases the
fashion, so to speak.
"And now that the announcement of my engagement is out she's
certain to get busy. Probably she has been waiting for something
of the sort. Don't you see that all the cards are in her hands?
We couldn't afford to let the thing come into court. That poetry
would dish my marriage for a certainty. I'd have to emigrate or
something! Goodness knows what would happen at home! My old
gov'nor would murder me! So you see what a frightful hole I'm in,
don't you, Dickie, old man?"
"And what do you want me to do?"
"Why, to get hold of this girl and get back the letters--don't
you see? I can't do it myself, cooped up miles away in the
country. And besides, I shouldn't know how to handle a thing
like that. It needs a chappie with a lot of sense and a
persuasive sort of way with him."
"Thanks for the compliment, Freddie; but I should imagine that
something a little more solid than a persuasive way would be
required in a case like this. You said something a while ago
about five hundred pounds?"
"Here it is, old man--in notes. I brought it on purpose. Will you
really take the thing on? Do you think you can work it for five
hundred?"
"I can have a try."
Freddie rose, with an expression approximating to happiness on
his face. Some men have the power of inspiring confidence in some
of their fellows, though they fill others with distrust. Scotland
Yard might look askance at R. Jones, but to Freddie he was all
that was helpful and reliable. He shook R. Jones' hand several
times in his emotion.
"That's absolutely topping of you, old man!" he said. "Then I'll
leave the whole thing to you. Write me the moment you have done
anything, won't you? Good-by, old top, and thanks ever so much!"
The door closed. R. Jones remained where he sat, his fingers
straying luxuriously among the crackling paper. A feeling of
complete happiness warmed R. Jones' bosom. He was uncertain
whether or not his mission would be successful; and to be
truthful he was not letting that worry him much. What he was
certain of was the fact that the heavens had opened unexpectedly
and dropped five hundred pounds into his lap.