"The Carew cottage was entered last night," said Killigrew, "and twenty
thousand in diamonds are gone. Getting uncomfortably close. You and
your mother, Kitty, had better let me take your jewels into town
to-day."
"We have nothing out here but trinkets."
"Trinkets! Do you call that fire-opal a trinket? Better let me take
it into town, anyway. I'm Irish enough to be superstitious about
opals."
"That's nonsense."
"Maybe."
"Oh, well; if the thought of having it around makes you nervous, I'll
give it to you. The Crawfords and Mr. Forbes are coming down this
afternoon. You must be home again before dinner. Here's the opal."
She took it from around her neck.
"Crawfords? Fine!" Killigrew slipped the gem into his wallet. "I'll
bring them back on the yacht if you'll take the trouble to phone them
to meet me at the club pier."
"I'll do so at once. Good-by! Mind the street-crossing," she added,
mimicking her mother's voice.
"I'll be careful," he laughed, stepping into the launch which
immediately swung away toward the beautiful yacht, dazzling white in
the early morning sunshine.
Kitty waved her handkerchief, turned and walked slowly back to the
villa. Who had passed her in the upper hall? And on what errand?
Neither Thomas nor Lord Monckton, for she had left them on the veranda.
Perhaps she was worrying unnecessarily. It might have been one of her
guests, going down to the library for a book to read.
She met Lord Monckton coming out.
"Fine morning!" he greeted. He made a gesture, palm upward.
A slight shiver touched the nape of Kitty's neck. She had never
noticed before how frightfully scarred his thumbs and finger-tips were.
He saw the glance.
"Ah! You notice my fingers? Not at all sensitive about them, really.
Hunting a few years ago and clumsily fell on the camp-stove. Scar on
my shoulder where I struck as I rolled off. Stupid. Tripped over a
case of canned corn. I have fingers now as sensitive as a blind man's."
"I am sorry," she said perfunctorily. "You must tell me of your
adventures."
"Had a raft of 'em. Mr. Killigrew gone to New York?"
"For a part of the day. Had your breakfast?"
"No. Nothing to do; thought I'd wait for the rest of them. Read a
little. Swim this morning, just about dawn. Refreshing."
"Then I'll see you at breakfast."
He smiled and stepped aside for her to pass. She proved rather a
puzzle to him.
Kitty spent several minutes in the telephone booth.
She began to realize that the solution of the Webb-Monckton wager was
as far away as ever. Lord Monckton was leaving on the morrow. She
must play her cards quickly or throw them away. The fact that neither
had in any way referred to the character of the wager left her in a
haze. Sometime during the day or evening she must maneuver to get them
together and tell them frankly that she knew everything. She wanted
her sapphires; more, she wanted the incubus removed from Thomas'
shoulders. Mad as March hares, both of them; for they had not the
least idea that the sapphires were hers!
Later, she stole to the library door and peered in. Thomas was at his
desk. For a long time she watched him. He appeared restless, uneasy.
He nibbled the penholder, rumpled his hair, picked up the ivory
elephant and balanced it, plunged furiously into work again, paused,
stared at the Persian carpet, turned the inkwell around, worked,
paused, sighed. Thomas was very unhappy. This state of mind was quite
evident to Kitty. Kissed her and hadn't wanted to. He was unlike any
young man she knew.
Presently he began to scribble aimlessly on the blotter. All at once
he flung down the pen, rose and walked out through the casement-doors,
down toward the sea. Kitty's curiosity was irresistible. She ran over
to the blotter.
Fool!
Blighter!
Rotter!
Double-dyed ass!
Blockhead!
Kitty Killigrew--(scratched out)!
Nincompoop!
Haberdasher!
Ass!
All of which indicated to the investigator that Thomas for the present
had not a high opinion of himself. An ordinary young woman would have
laughed herself into hysterics. Kitty tore off the scribbles, not the
least sign of laughter in her eyes, and sought the window-seat in the
living-room. There was one word which stood out strangely alien:
haberdasher. Why that word? Was it a corner of the curtain she had
been striving to look behind? Had Thomas been a haberdasher prior to
his stewardship? And was he ashamed of the fact?
Haberdasher.
What's the matter with that word? If it irked Thomas it irked Kitty no
less. It is a part of youth to crave for high-sounding names and
occupations. It is in the mother's milk they feed on. Mothers dream
of their babes growing up into presidents or at least ambassadors, if
sons; titles and brilliant literary salons, if daughters. What living
mother would harbor a dream of a clerkship in a haberdasher's shop?
Perish the thought! Myself for years was told that I had as good a
chance as anybody of being president of the United States; a far better
chance than many, being as I was _my_ mother's son.
Irish blood and romance will always be mysteriously intertwined.
Haberdasher did not fit in anywhere with Kitty's projects; it was
off-key, a jarring note. Whoever heard of a haberdasher's clerk
reading _Morte d'Arthur_ and writing sonnets? She was reasonably
certain that while Thomas had jotted it down in scornful
self-flagellation, it occupied a place somewhere in his past.
"They turne out ther trashe
And shew ther haberdashe,
Ther pylde pedlarye."
There's no romance in collars and cuffs and ties and suspenders.