Part 10

“No,” said Elizabeth, “I haven’t. What do the papers say . . . about . . . Lord Pembury?”

The broad shoulders were shrugged.

“Oh, he’s the latest instance of the drunken driver. That’s all. I’m not particularly surprised, but——”

“Hang it, man,” cried Fairie, “you’ve no right to——”

“Why aren’t you surprised?” said Lady Elizabeth.

Her fiancé stared. Then he gave a short laugh.

“Oh, I don’t know. But don’t let’s pursue it. Didn’t you hear Fairie say that he’s——”

“Does it occur to you that Lord Pembury’s a friend of mine?”

“I know he was,” said Sir Hilton.

“Is,” said Elizabeth. “Is. And always will be. Never mind. Who says he was drunk?”

“The police, dear,” said Mrs. Fairie, putting an arm about her waist. “He ran into something—a taxi, on Sunday night—— _What is it, darling?_”

Elizabeth was trembling violently.

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing. Let me sit down. ‘On Sunday night,’ you were saying. Yes?”

“On Sunday night, in Park Lane. He wasn’t hurt. And the police—you know what they are—immediately jumped to the conclusion——”

“Be just, Mrs. Fairie,” said Shutter. “It wasn’t a question of jumping to any conclusion. Finding him drunk, they——”

“If you’ll forgive my saying so,” said Fairie, setting a brandy and soda in Elizabeth’s hand, “whether they found him drunk or sober has yet to be decided. At present he’s merely charged with being drunk.”

“Of course,” said Shutter, “if you like to split hairs——”

“It isn’t a question of hair-splitting,” said his host. “It’s a question of cold facts. If the charge is dismissed—as it will be—he could sue you for slander for this, and just waltz home.”

Elizabeth was speaking.

“Will somebody please tell me exactly what’s happened?”

“I will,” said her host. “Dick had a smash late on Sunday night. Nobody was hurt. He was arrested and charged. They say he smelt of liquor and a bottle was found in the car. He appeared on Monday morning and pleaded ‘Not guilty.’ Evidence of arrest was given and the case was adjourned for a week.”

“What’s to-day?” said Elizabeth.

“Friday.”

“Thank you. Go on.”

“That’s all, dear,” said Mrs. Fairie. “We didn’t tell you, because——”

“You did, though, didn’t you?” said Elizabeth, looking Sir Hilton in the face.

“I naturally assumed——”

“Quite a hobby of yours, isn’t it? Recreations—golf, yachting, assumption. You assumed that he was drunk. You assumed that I knew about it. I suppose you assumed that, in view of my knowledge, I should relish your recent conversation, including the fact that you had written to _The Times_, urging ‘the infliction of penalties—imprisonment, of course—so harsh . . .’” She stopped dead there. Then her voice rang out. “_Why did you write that letter?_”

Sir Hilton started.

“‘Why?’”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well—er—because, I suppose, I felt——”

“Was it in the hope that it would appear on the day Dick’s case came on?”

“Good Heavens, Elizabeth! What——”

“Cut it out,” said the girl, quietly. “I know. And so do Madge and Harry. We all three know. And so do you. And I’ll tell you another thing we know—we three. We know Dick wasn’t drunk.”

“Right!” cried the Fairies in a breath.

“And so do you,” said Elizabeth, rising.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Shutter. “If I like to——”

The girl stretched out her hand.

“Just hold my drink for a minute, will you?” she said.

Mechanically, Sir Hilton received the glass.

Elizabeth took off her pearls and slid an enormous emerald off her finger. She pitched the gems together at Shutter’s feet. Then she looked into his eyes.

“How I came to make such a mistake, I can’t conceive. I think I must have been mad. To be perfectly honest, I liked the idea of being rich. As far as you’re concerned, I’m not so terribly to blame, because, when you asked me to marry you, you dangled your rotten wealth before my eyes. You prayed it in aid of your suit. And I thought it was good enough, I did. . . . Well, I find I was wrong.”

“But, Elizabeth——”

“My good sir, _I wouldn’t be seen dead with you._” She stretched out her hand. “Thank you.”

She took the glass from his fingers and flung the liquor in his face.

Sir Hilton recoiled and Madge Fairie started to her feet. Lady Elizabeth and Fairie stood perfectly still.

Floating from behind closed doors, the lilt of the latest fox-trot disputed possession of the silence with the pleasant flare and crackle of the logs in the grate.

* * * * *

“What’s Mr. Forsyth want?”

“I don’t know at all, my lord. He simply told me to find you, wherever you were, and bring you back in a cab to Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

Pembury, who was at his tailor’s, adjusted his tie.

“All right,” he said slowly. “If you’ll get a cab, I’ll be ready in two minutes’ time.”

The clerk bowed and withdrew.

Pembury wondered, frowning, what was afoot.

Had Forsyth got hold of something? Had he been making inquiries and come on the truth? Had the Richelieu been talking? Had . . . Forsyth had found out something. Not a doubt of it. Something about Sunday night. And Forsyth was going to try to force his hand. He was going to threaten to put Elizabeth wise. . . .

Pembury smiled a grim smile.

As he entered the lawyer’s room—

“Good morning, Dick,” said Elizabeth. “Where did they pick you up? I told them to try——”

“Forsyth,” said Pembury sternly, “I don’t remember instructing you——”

“One minute,” cried Forsyth. “One minute. My hands are clean. I haven’t moved in the matter. I never found the lady. She found me.”

“But——”

“It’s perfectly true,” said Elizabeth. “I only heard last night. Of course, it’s my own fault. I really must read the papers: but they’re so frightfully dull—usually.”

“Who told you?” said Pembury.

“Hilton, of course. But observe how astute I am. A fool would have rushed to you. The woman of the world goes to a lawyer.”

“Why does she do that?”

“Because,” said Elizabeth, “it’s Saturday, and lawyers are closed at one. By the time I’d had it out with you, the lawyers would have been closed. As it is, we’re in just nice time. My statement’s being typed now.”

“I won’t have you called,” said Pembury.

“Quite sure?” said Lady Elizabeth.

“Positive. That’s flat. You can’t be called without my consent, and, short of pressin’ me to death, you won’t get that.”

“But, Dick——”

“My dear, it’s no earthly. I’m absolutely resolved. I not only won’t call you, but I won’t have you near the Court.”

He flung himself into a chair and crossed his legs.

“Now, Dick, just listen. Put yourself in my place. Supposing I was charged with something I hadn’t done. And everything——”

“Dot,” said Pembury, “it’s not the slightest good. You know as well as I do that it’s a question of sex. What’s sauce for the goose may be sauce for the gander—but it can’t always be served. For people to know that we were dining ’ld be bad enough, but what about the beer?”

“Well, what about it?” said Dot. “What’s the matter with the truth? Remembering my affection for the beverage, you were considerate enough——”

“My dear girl,” said Pembury, “it’s out of the question. You can’t parade intimate nursery incidents in a Court of Law. Possibly, if we were brother and sister——”

“We are, practically. As I was telling Mr. Forsyth——”

“Well, it’s not the moment to advertise it. Forsyth knows that as well as I do. Of course, he’s out to pull me out of the muck, but I’m not takin’ any. Either I get out myself, or I stay where I am. _I won’t have you called._ More. Unless you give me your word not only to hold your tongue but not to come within a mile of the Joy Shop till it’s all over, I’ll—I’ll plead ‘Guilty.’”

Forsyth shifted in his chair.

Lady Elizabeth raised her delicate eyebrows.

“Well, there you are,” she said. “If you will cut your own little throat, I can’t stop you. Only, I can’t marry a man who’s been convicted of drunkenness.” Pembury leaped to his feet. “I can’t, really. You see, I’m funny like that. It’s—it’s against my principles.”

“Dot!” shouted Pembury. “Dot! What on earth d’you mean? You’re engaged to——”

“Finish, my dear, finish. I’ve turned him down. You’ll see it in _The Times_ on Monday. I just couldn’t stick the swine. If we could have lived apart, I might have managed it. But together—no thanks. Charing opened my eyes. I was happy enough there, until he came. Then everything crashed. Better is a cold tub, where love is, than a tiled bathroom and hatred therewith. Don’t you agree, Mr. Forsyth?”

“Dot! Dot, my darling, is this a have?”

Pembury had her hands and was gazing into her eyes. The man was transfigured, blazing.

“No,” said Elizabeth. “It isn’t. It’s ordinary, natural love. Don’t go, Mr. Forsyth. I’ld rather like you to stay. I say it’s ordinary love. I’ve loved you for years, Dick. But when you never spoke, at last I came to the conclusion that you didn’t care for me—that way. And so—I turned elsewhere. Not to another man, because there was no other man and never could be. So I turned to money, instead. I told you I was degenerate. . . . And then, when on Sunday night you showed your hand—the hand you’d never played, the hand I’d been waiting for you to play for such a long, long time—I didn’t know what to do. You see, things had gone rather far. . . . And then—Sir Hilton Shutter very kindly showed me the way.”

A door closed. Forsyth had disobeyed.

“But, Dot, my darling, we’ll be awfully poor.”

“D’you think I care? I only worshipped riches because I hadn’t got you. Luxury was the god I set up in your place. I tried to drown my love in a butt of Malmsey. But, you see, it couldn’t be done. Malmsey’s sickening stuff. I’ld much sooner drink beer. And now about this old trial. I’m to be in attendance, in case——”

“Oh, damn the trial,” said Pembury, taking her in his arms. “I haven’t kissed your blessed mouth since——”

“August the seventh, 1914,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve got it down in a diary. ‘He kissed my lips.’”

“My sweet, my sweet. . . .”

The girl just clung to him.

After a moment or two she lifted a radiant face.

“I think I shall have to marry you, whether you’re convicted or not. You see, you’re not only my Best Man—you’re so much the very best man I ever saw.”

* * * * *

On Monday, those sections of the Press which had been hoping to be able to announce _Sensational Developments_ under the heading WELL-KNOWN VISCOUNT CHARGED were more than satisfied.

Before the case was called on, the Magistrate left the Bench, and Quaritch and his opponent were summoned behind the scenes. This was unusual. By the time the three reappeared excitement was running high.

The Magistrate’s clerk nodded, and the case was called on.

Pembury stepped into the dock, and the Magistrate cleared his throat.

“Mr. Shorthorn,” he said. The Solicitor to the Police rose to his feet and bowed. “I have decided, before proceeding with this case, to tell you that I have formed a very definite opinion.

“The position in which I stand is one of peculiar difficulty. If the charge was less grave, if the social position of the defendant was less considerable, if all the circumstances did not combine, rightly or wrongly, to attract to this case a good deal of attention, my path would be plain and easy to follow. As it is, I have thought proper to consult the Chief Magistrate and I may say that he agrees with me that the course which I am about to take is the only one which is at once convenient and just.

“By the merest accident, I am in possession of information which has a direct and powerful bearing upon this charge. That information would become evidence, if I could be put into the box.”

He paused.

Except for the noise of breathing and the flick of a reporter’s page, the Court, which was crammed with people, was still as death.

In a retired waiting-room Lady Elizabeth sat fretfully straining her ears, continually crossing and recrossing two sweet pretty legs and striving desperately to possess a mutinous spirit.

The Magistrate proceeded.

“In view of what I have said, Mr. Shorthorn, would you prefer that another Magistrate should deal with this case?”

“I am more than content, sir, that you should deal with it.”

Mr. Shorthorn resumed his seat.

“And you, Mr. Quaritch?”

Treasury Counsel smiled whimsically.

“The best, sir,” he said, “is good enough for me.”

An attempt at applause, which succeeded the roar of laughter, was instantly suppressed.

“Very well, then. On the evening of the defendant’s arrest I was dining out. Though he is probably unaware of the fact, I patronized the same restaurant as he did and, what is more, I sat at the next table.” Everyone’s gaze shifted to the accused. The latter stood like a rock. “And I observed—if I may say so, with surprise—that he drank nothing but water.”

A nervous ripple of laughter ran through the Court.

“I see that my words were equivocal. I should say that my surprise was provoked not by his personal failure to drink wine—for I do not know his habits and I never set eyes on him before—but by the spectacle of anyone of his age who to-day considers water fit for internal use.”

The Court laughed tremulously.

“The results of my observation do not end there. We are told that the collision occurred at ten-twenty-five. As luck will have it, I saw the defendant leave. I did not notice the time, for there was, of course, no reason at all why I should: but, recalling my own movements, I am satisfied that he finally left that restaurant not earlier than ten-fifteen. He was then unquestionably sober.

“The opinion I have formed is that in no circumstances is it possible for a man who is sober at ten-fifteen, who for the last two hours has touched no alcohol, to be drunk at ten-twenty-five.”

That upon the evening in question the learned Magistrate’s watch was ten minutes fast was not his fault. The man was scrupulous.

The case for the prosecution died there and then.

The prosecution was withdrawn, apologies were offered, the defendant left the dock, applause was suppressed.

Mr. Quaritch knew his job.

He rose to his feet.

“If, sir, I may complete the solution of this matter by disclosing what happened in the ten minutes of time during which my client was under observation neither by the judiciary nor the executive, I must confess that he seized the opportunity to consume a small glass of beer.”

The Court roared its merriment.

“Possibly, the discovery of a small bottle of Bass—grim relic of some picnic—was responsible for his lapse from grace. Upon that point I have no instructions. It follows that at the time of the collision he indubitably smelt of liquor, and, while personally I should become uneasy if to smell of liquor were to be regarded as the peculiar privilege of drunkards, it was presumably his indignant recognition of that mocking perfume which provoked the constable, whose name, I observe, is Worthington, to . . .”

The rest of the sentence was lost in an explosion of delight—which the defendant missed.

In a retired waiting-room, cheek against cheek, Pembury and Lady Elizabeth let the world slip. . . .

And, as I have said, certain sections of the Press were perfectly satisfied. Could they have perused one document, reposing in Counsel’s Brief, I imagine their satisfaction would have melted like snow upon the hearth. The very first words would have fused it—_THE LADY ELIZABETH CRECY will say_. . . . As it was, they were perfectly satisfied. And, when they were able to announce the lady’s engagement to _the hero of a recent cause célèbre_, they could have thrown up their hats.

It was generally admitted that Lady Elizabeth was to marry by far the best man. Harry Fairie, of Castle Charing, put it much more strongly.

JO

JO

I January 7th, 1926

I am writing this down because Jo says I must—dear, beautiful Jo, with the great grey eyes and the maddening mouth. I tell her it is ridiculous—that in a short month the miracle will have sunk to a coincidence, the marvel to a curiosity. But she will have none of it: and, since she is leaning over my shoulder and has set her blessed cheek against mine, for what the business is worth down it shall go.

Last night we dined with the Meurices. Not of choice, but we agreed it was politic. A refusal might have been thought bilious. It is hard to see how, but it might. After all, I have been perfectly frank about my resignation. Now that I am married, I cannot stay on if I am not to be paid two-thirds of what I can earn elsewhere. And ‘The Office’ has been equally frank and, while expressing its deepest regret, has said that fifteen hundred for a spy is as much as it may afford. However, the Meurices being, so to speak, brass hats, might have misconstrued our refusal. So we went. We did not enjoy it. I cannot keep pace with these diplomats. No doubt they’re good at their job, and all their ice-and-brandy ways are probably part of the game. But I am a regimental officer and I am not at ease hobnobbing with the gilded staff. I don’t suppose they’ld ’ve been at their ease drinking with the shunters at Carlsruhe. . . . But there you are. _Chacun à son goût._

Well, after dinner a girl—one Roach—was induced to tell our fortunes by dealing cards from a pack. ‘Induced’ is misleading. Lady Meurice said, “Sarah, you’ve had a good dinner: now tell us some lies.” And Sarah replied, “’And me the seaweed, Lulu, and I’ll tell you where Arthur wore the dog-bite.” The next minute she was off.

I’ve heard some junk in my time . . .

Presently my turn came, and I took my seat at the table and shuffled the pack. Only pausing to take my cigarette from my mouth, use it to light her own and then replace it between my lips, Miss Roach picked up the cards and began the rites of prophecy.

What first she said I forget, but it was thin enough stuff. As a matter of fact, she seemed puzzled: something—some combination, she said, kept turning up. Finally she dropped the cards and took hold of my hand, holding it flat on the table, palm up, and blinking at it through the smoke of her cigarette.

“You’re on the eve of meeting someone,” she said: “someone who’ll influence your life to an amazing extent. They’ll affect your outlook more violently than anything else in your life. They’ll alter all your plans. The queer thing is they’ll do it indirectly. You’ll hardly see them at all.”

“Will they do me good or harm?”

“I can’t say. But, whichever it is, they’ll do it through somebody else. It’s a terrific influence.”

“In fact, I shall be swept off my feet?”

She frowned.

“Not exactly. Your existence will be changed. What’s so remarkable is that you retaliate. You’re going to influence their life even more strongly still. Only, your influence will be direct and—and concrete.”

“Concrete?” said I.

“Physical. Theirs on you will be mental. They’ll get off first. After they’ve influenced you, you start in on them. I should think——”

Mercifully at that moment Berwick Perowne was announced. As he was straight from Moscow, the conjuring went by the board. I was rather interested to see him—I’d heard so much. He’ld certainly do any staff credit—a dazzling A.D.C. The face of a careless angel, a tongue of silver, the impudence of the Fiend. His news left Jo and me gasping. He gave it as though he were describing a game of Bridge. After a while we made our excuses and left. . . .

All the way home in the taxi Jo chattered about ‘the prophecy,’ till at last I told her that it meant that a nicer man than I was going to steal her away, and I was going to follow and break his back. . . . She put her arms round my neck.

Bugle was waiting for us when we got in: he’s a good little dog: he’s never really happy unless we’re both of us there.

Sitting by the fire in the study, we discussed my resignation. Now that the War’s past, I should have been at home a good deal—actually at home with Jo. But we really cannot throw away twelve hundred and fifty a year. Not that I shall have that yet—I start at fifteen hundred: but in a year or two . . . with luck . . . And it means so much. It means a car, frocks, flowers about the house. . . . Jo’s eyes were like stars. I think she is the most beautiful thing I ever saw.

But I digress.

‘The Office’ rang up in the morning and wanted me down at once. I answered the telephone in my pyjamas. Jo was twittering with excitement. I found her, wrapped in a towel, hanging over the banisters, wild to know if it was ‘the prophecy.’ I tried to scold her, but she refused to be rebuked—as it happens, with good reason.

_The prophecy, or some of it, has been fulfilled._

At ‘The Office’ I was introduced to Sir George ——, a nervous little man with a short leg. He used to be in the game, and came back to help at ‘The Office’ during the War. Shortly, it is his wish to be permitted to supplement my old pay so that it reaches my figure—two thousand seven fifty a year. He considers it would be a pity for ‘The Office’ to lose my services: he understands my position: and, provided I agree to remain, he will hand the Treasury sufficient War Stock to pay twelve fifty a year, such money to be paid to me quarterly while I do my job and, when I retire, to be added to my pension. . . .

I tried my best to thank him, but I kept seeing the stars in Jo’s dear eyes. . . .

There. I have set out the miracle. As Sarah Roach said, so it has fallen out. I have met the person I was on the eve of meeting. By him my life is to be influenced to an amazing extent. My existence is to be changed. Instead of being a partner in a shipping firm, I shall go back to my own old job. My outlook has been switched from bills of lading to that exhilarating game of blind man’s buff. Instead of lunching in the City and arranging about freights, I shall be studying men and the ways of men, peering into their brain-pans, searching their hearts, watching and waiting and coping with sudden issues, stalking the truth under strange heavens, trying to beat Delusion at her own game. . . . More. Sir George is doing it indirectly—through somebody else: and I shall hardly see him at all.

It remains to be seen how I am to influence him . . . even more strongly . . . directly . . . physically.

Sufficient unto the day is the perfection thereof.

And now we are going out to look at a car fit for a queen to drive . . . my queen . . . my darling Jo. . . .

II November 22nd, 1926

The contrast is so ridiculous that I must set it down.

It is half-past nine, now, of a streaming night.

At this hour a week ago I was in Madrid.