Part 15

Her fortnight in Paris had grown into three fat weeks of merry-making. Parties, dances and plays had all contributed to the delicious orgy, but by far the handsomest contribution had been made by fashion parades. Indeed, with Madge Willoughby to pace her upon the track of models, Blanche had broken all her records of extravagance. When she rolled out of the gay capital in her luxurious car bound for Boulogne she had expended upon clothes alone very nearly six thousand pounds.

The prospect of returning to work was none too engaging. But while she loathed the thought of working ten hours a day, the reflection that Mrs. Willoughby had been left standing went far to cure her melancholy. Indeed, by the time she had crossed the Channel and was sliding through Kent she had come to the conclusion that Titus was right and that ‘not to see the boom out would be the act of a fool.’

Then a lorry came out of a by-road at thirty-five and knocked her limousine into a quickset hedge. . . .

By the time assistance arrived Blanche, who had recovered her wits, was able not only to direct her extrication, but to resist all endeavours to convey her to hospital.

“I should like to sit down somewhere,” she said faintly. “Perhaps there’s a house somewhere near where they’d give me some tea or something, and let me sit down. I’m not a bit hurt. What about the chauffeur?”

The chauffeur, who should have been killed, was safe and sound and more than occupied. It is good to think that he was kneeling upon the stomach of the driver of the motor-lorry, at once reciting the latter’s lineage and failings and compressing his windpipe until the delinquent’s eyeballs started from his head.

Twenty-five yards away an imposing gateway argued the presence of a mansion, so two very civil strangers offered Mrs. Cheviot their arms and assisted her up the drive.

Then a bell was rung, and when a servant arrived shelter was asked.

The man went running for his master, and two minutes later Blanche was seated in a deep chair before a fire, sipping a brandy-and-soda and absently listening to her host’s explosive indignation while her two assistants were relating the manner of her mishap.

The spirit worked wonders.

By the time the strangers had departed and her host was excusing his wife, who was indisposed, Mrs. Cheviot felt able and wishful to proceed on her way.

“If you would be so kind as to telephone for a car. The nearest garage, you know. I’d ring up my husband, but it’s no good frightening him for nothing, and he would be certain to think, whatever I said, that I was more or less hurt.”

“You’re sure you mean this?” said her host, a giant of about fifty with a handsome but choleric manner and the physique of a smith. “Because, if you feel the least shaky—and I’m very sure I should—I’ll be happy to put you up and your husband too.”

“You’re most awfully good,” said Blanche, “but——”

“Nonsense, my dear lady, nonsense. When a crime is committed at my very door, the least I can do is to offer the victim such shelter as she cares to accept. I say ‘a crime.’ If I had my way, madam, that swine should be drawn and quartered. But for the mercy of God you would be in the mortuary instead of in that chair conversing with me. Why? Because a blackguard in charge of a waggon deliberately chooses to convert it into an engine of destruction so that he can be done with the labour for which he is paid twenty minutes before his just time.” He broke off to stamp violently about the floor. Presently he swallowed his wrath and came to rest. “A car, you say. Very well. I think you’re very well plucked, but I’ll do as you say. And while it’s coming the servants will bring you some tea.”

He strode to a door and passed out.

It was when Mrs. Cheviot had made the most of a mirror and had lighted a cigarette that she noticed the room.

This appeared to be a hall of fine proportions.

The walls had been painted black and then varnished. They gave the impression of having been japanned. Above them was a frieze, six feet in depth, of the colour of chocolate and as glossy as the black walls. The ceiling was more remarkable, presenting a pale brown surface covered with what appeared to be a rash and somewhat resembling linoleum which has been lightly waxed. The doors had been painted bright pink picked out with white, and the chimney-piece, which was of steel and must have weighed about three tons, was suggesting that a power-house had been spoiled of some doubtless locally useful but ungainly member of its plant.

As first one and then another of these peculiarities attracted her attention, Mrs. Cheviot began to wonder whether, after all, she had been killed and this was the antechamber of another world. The furniture, however, seemed normal, and the sudden appearance of a butler with tea-things was less supernatural than anything she could imagine. When the man addressed her there was no longer room for doubt.

“Excuse me, madam, but I won’t put the table by you, for as soon as the fire’s burned up, madam, I’m afraid you’ll ’ave to move. You see, that steel, madam, gets practically red-’ot.”

“I thought I smelt something funny,” said Blanche, rising. “Of course——”

“That’s right, madam. It’s the metal ’eatin’. An’ if I may advise you, madam, don’t you forget an’ lay your ’and on it. I did it once without thinkin’, stoopin’ to put on some coal.” He raised his eyes to heaven. “You don’ do it twice. . . . An’ rust.”

“It must be terrible to keep.”

“Madam,” said the butler, “it’s crool. You can’t touch it with oil, or the moment you light the fire the ’ole ’ouse reeks like a dozen engine-rooms. It ’as to be burnished with chains to do any good. We jus’ manage to keep the front, but the top’s a mask of rust an’ so are the sides.”

As if the remembrance of this condition was more grievous than he could bear, the fellow turned away and fell to arranging the tea.

Blanche took another seat and, furtively regarding the apartment, began to wonder what effect, if suffered daily, such a scheme of decoration would have upon her mind. She also wondered if her host had ever heard of 68, Old Bond Street. Black and pink and chocolate were pretty thick, but there was something about the ceiling, something which was not only repugnant, but——

Mrs. Cheviot stiffened with a shock.

Her heart gave one bound and then stopped.

Her gaze riveted upon the ceiling, her fingers clamped upon the arm of her chair, she sat rigid and breathless as statuary itself, while her brain plunged and flounced and refused to obey her will.

Then the spasm passed, and she faced the hideous truth.

The cipher on the ceiling was no illusion.

The hall was fully entitled to be styled ‘A Cheviot Room.’

Appalling reflections came surging into her brain.

Titus. This was his work. And he had been paid money for conceiving—_this_. There were possibly two other chambers under this very roof which he had—decorated. More. All over England there were rooms with chocolate friezes and bright pink doors, bearing the Cheviot cipher, the hall-mark of style—_the badge of infamy_. As like as not he had done five or six to-day—_at one hundred guineas apiece_. . . . And there he was walking about, all cheerful and unsuspecting, while battle, murder and sudden death at the hands of infuriated clients must be crouching to spring upon his shoulders. Any moment the storm must break. Why hadn’t there been protests—riots? Why hadn’t Old Bond Street——

Here her host reappeared to say that a car would be ready in half an hour.

Blanche tried to thank him and to keep her eyes on the floor. . . .

Twenty-five ghastly minutes went halting by.

Mrs. Cheviot swallowed some tea, toyed with a scone, the very sight of which choked her, and by superhuman efforts succeeded in keeping the slippery ball of conversation upon the field of sport. Out of doors, out of mind. . . .

It was natural that hunting should figure, if late, upon her list.

“My husband used to hunt with the Quorn, and I’ve done a bit with the Heythrop, but not just lately. It’s so frightfully expensive now. There’s nothing quite like it, of course.”

“My dear lady,” said Mr. Blatchbourne, “a good day with the hounds is more physically and mentally exhilarating than any exercise I know. It brings out the best in every man. All his senses are regaled with the finest and purest fare. The movement of the horse beneath him, the music of the pack, the smell of the countryside——”

“And the colour,” cried Blanche excitedly. “You’re perfectly right. No one can witness a meet without feeling the better for the sight. Why will men wear pink in the evening? The only place for pink is out in the open air on the top of a ripping horse. Then it’s just——”

“I agree,” said her host grimly. “Then it’s superb. How does it look there?”

Blanche started violently. Then as a matter of form she suffered her gaze to follow the damning finger.

“I—I—frankly, I don’t quite like it,” she stammered. “You know. It seems out of place.”

“It is,” said Mr. Blatchbourne. “Those doors are of oak.” Mrs. Cheviot shuddered. “Even if they were of deal, I should not have chosen pink. Look at the walls,” he continued. Blanche obeyed tremulously. “Above all, observe the ceiling. And then that chimney-piece. I was away at the time, but I’m told they rigged up a derrick to get that in place.”

“You—you were away?”

“Unhappily—yes. Otherwise my wife would not have been bamboozled and betrayed, madam, into seeking and then taking the advice of as arrant a gang of scoundrels as ever bluffed a fool out of his money.”

White to the lips—

“How—how terrible,” quavered Mrs. Cheviot.

“One hundred guineas,” roared Mr. Blatchbourne, slamming the arm of his chair with a hand like a maul. “And another two hundred for another couple of rooms which I’m afraid to enter.” Blanche made ready to die. “Once this was a gentleman’s apartment: now it is ‘A Cheviot Room.’ There’s the cipher, madam, they had the effrontery to affix. That set the seal of their approval upon this—this barbarous pleasantry.” He rose to his feet and flung clenched fists to heaven. “Oh, if I’d only been here when the blackguard came down for his cheque.”

He laughed like a madman and, crossing to the hearth, stared violently upon the fire.

So he stood for a moment. Then, as though to brace himself, he laid hands upon the mantelpiece.

The screech of agony which instantly succeeded this action would have done any torturer credit.

For one long hideous moment Mrs. Cheviot, whose knees were knocking, supposed that insanity had supervened. Then a frightful apostrophe brought the butler’s warning to her mind.

“Goats and monkeys!” screamed Blatchbourne, uplifting his palms. “_I’ve done it again._”

That the household had recognized the burden of the plaint was manifest.

Three servants arrived at a run, bearing oil and linen with which they proceeded to minister to their injured lord.

The latter, half-mad with pain, submitted blasphemously to their attention, alternately reviling his wife and cursing the house of Cheviot, root and trunk and bough, till Blanche could have fallen in her tracks.

“Grievous bodily harm,” he mouthed. “That’s what it is. They’ve deposited dangerous goods. They’ve done it maliciously. They intended me to be burned. They hoped I should be burned—burned to hell. It’s a diabolical plot. They’re poisoners. First they poison the mind and then the body. They’re proffering robbery and murder, and fools all over England are buying their treacherous wares. Three hundred guineas I’ve paid to have my mind diseased and my body burned to hell.”

Here a bell stammered.

That no one heard it but Blanche is not surprising.

Without a moment’s hesitation she slipped unobserved from the hall into a vestibule, and a moment later she was on the steps.

As the chauffeur opened the door of a landaulet—

“Take me to London,” she gasped, “and put me down at the Ritz.”

In another minute she was flying up the broad highway.

* * * * *

An hour had gone by, and Titus was sitting at his table with a frown on his face.

The man looked tired, as well he might. In the last ten days he had ciphered one hundred and eighty rooms. During this period he had surveyed none at all. The sowing season was past: it was time to garner the harvest—high time. The boom was cracking.

Requests to visit were falling rapidly: so were requests to revisit: in the latter’s stead indignant letters of complaint were arriving by every post. That the latter included one from Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat suggested that the end was at hand. Some of Titus’s calls were beginning to be returned by furious clients, who, refusing to believe that the Cheviots were not at home, simmered in the stalls for hours at a time.

Titus glanced at his watch.

“She won’t come now,” he murmured. “I suppose she’s wired to the flat that she’s stayin’ on. Waitin’ on Worth or something for a monkey.” He regarded his finger-nails. “Damn it, I wish she’d come back,” he added suddenly. “If I have to send, it’ll give the game away, an’ it’s—it’s close on closing-time. Very close. An’ there ain’t no blinkin’ market for a business wot’s closed its doors. If she isn’t back to-morrow—— Thunder of heaven, here she is.”

It was true.

As he rose from his seat, the shop-door was slammed to, and an instant later Mrs. Cheviot was in his arms.

“Titus, my darling, we must go—leave England at once.”

Cheviot’s brain reeled.

“Leave England?” he gasped. “Why?”

“Listen. D’you want to be murdered?”

“Not particularly,” said Titus. “But——”

“Then we must go,” said Blanche. “Why you’re still alive I can’t imagine. Have there been any riots yet?”

“Not that I know of,” said Titus. “I haven’t had much time for the papers lately. In the last ten days——”

“Well, there will be soon,” said Blanche. “To-morrow probably. Come on.”

“What on earth d’you mean?” said Titus dazedly. “What riots?”

“Listen,” cried Blanche, catching him by his lapels “This evening—no matter why—I, er, called on a Mr. Blatchbourne. He’s got a house in Kent. Well——”

“Blatchbourne,” said Titus. “Blatchbourne. Now, where have I seen that name?”

Suddenly the truth dawned upon him—and with it came daylight in one blinding flash.

_Blanche was about to play straight into his hands._

He had meant to show her the letters of violent complaint. He had meant them to frighten her out of her very life. And then, when she had decided that they must fly, he had meant to announce his intention of carrying on. Finally, he had meant to give way—_upon certain terms_.

With a truly lightning brain he picked up his cue.

“Oh, I know,” he said. “I know. I did three rooms for them.”

“At three hundred guineas,” said Blanche. “My dear, you did. I had tea in your hall this afternoon.”

“What a funny thing,” said Titus. “Did you say who you were?”

“No,” said Blanche faintly. “I didn’t. Like you, I value my life. Apparently you got busy while Blatchbourne himself was away, and his wife put through the deal. When he came back, it was all over. Of course he’s mad as a hornet, and I don’t blame him. Titus, that hall would make a saint see red.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” said Cheviot. “I remember it perfectly. That’s one of my favourite designs. The ‘Boot and Saddle’ I call it. Did you notice the pigskin ceiling?”

“I did,” said Blanche wildly. “And the steel mantelpiece. Mr. Blatchbourne forgot and leaned on it just before I left. Of course he was terribly burned, and he says you did it on purpose, and he’s going to have your blood. I tell you——”

“He can’t,” said Titus calmly. “If he likes to take my advice, that’s his look-out. Probably his burning was a judgment for abusing me. Besides, when all’s said and done, whether the room looks well is purely——”

“I’m not going to argue,” cried Blanche. “But we must close down at once. That’s certain. If, as you say, you’ve done other rooms like that——”

“I should think about fifty,” said Titus. “I tell you——”

Blanche felt rather faint.

“I say,” she said shakily, “that we must close down. It’s only a question of hours—it must be—before a mob arrives. And then we shall be torn in pieces.”

“My dear,” said Titus, “come home and sleep it off. Of course you can’t please everyone, and of course we’ve had complaints. Every firm has.”

“When? You never told me.”

Cheviot shrugged his shoulders.

“It wasn’t worth while.” He pointed to a file on the table. “There are some of them. But business keeps up.”

Blanche fell upon the file with shaking fingers.

As she peered at their contents, sentence after sentence flamed.

_A barefaced attempt . . . I defy you to take action . . . the most horrifying result . . . brazen impudence . . . I shall do my utmost to expose . . . actuated by malice . . . an offence against decency . . . full particulars to the Commissioner of Police . . . inwardly ravening wolves. . . ._

Blanche let the file go and put her hands to her head.

“And yet he’s gone on!” she wailed.

“Of course he’s gone on,” said Titus. “The vast majority are as pleased as Punch. I tell you, business is wonderful. Last week——”

“You must stop at once,” screamed Blanche. “I won’t have another——”

“My dear,” said Titus, “come home. I’ve a full day to-morrow, and I want you——”

“You haven’t. You shan’t have. You—Titus, for Heaven’s sake——”

“The orange,” said Titus firmly, “is not yet sucked. I’m not going to turn down ten thousand quid a week because two or three gents prefer their taste to mine. My conscience is perfectly clear and my hands are clean. There isn’t a letter there that isn’t libellous. If I liked to take ’em to Court, I could get a verdict on every one of them. What authority have I professed? None. It’s all very well to get excited because they don’t like my advice. I never asked them to take it. I never said it was worth having. But as long as they like to seek it——”

Blanche was down on her knees.

“Ti, I implore you to give it up. By all that’s holy, I beg you——”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t I shall go mad. Because someone else will go mad and try to kill you. Each time you go out to cipher you take your life in your hand. If Blatchbourne had been at home when you went to approve that hall, he’d ’ve broken your back. You’ve not the faintest idea——”

“Ten thousand a week,” said Titus, “is better than any ideas.”

“We’ve made enough,” wailed Blanche. “More than enough. How much have we made?”

“Ninety-six thousand—to date.”

“For Heaven’s sake,” screamed Blanche, “how much do you want?”

“The orange,” said Titus ruthlessly, “is not yet sucked.”

Blanche clung to his knees.

“Ti, Ti, if you love me—if you care in the least whether I live or die—if there’s ever to be any tiny atom of happiness between us again, you’ll turn this down.”

Cheviot appeared to hesitate.

Then he picked up his wife and put her upon the table.

“How much did you spend in Paris?”

Mrs. Cheviot started.

“I—I’m not quite sure,” she said. “I—I think I went rather a bust.”

“Quite right too,” said Titus. “I hoped you would. As a matter of fact, you got away with over five thousand pounds.”

“Titus!”

Cheviot nodded.

“And more also. I put that amount to your credit, and I got a letter this morning saying your account was overdrawn. Don’t think I’m kicking. I’m not. You’ve earned every quid, sweetheart, and I’m only too glad. But that’s a pace, my lady, that only a Crœsus can stand. And so I’ll do a deal with you. We agreed to invest what we made. Ninety-one thousand sounds a good deal of pelf, but when everything’s paid it means, say three thousand a year. Very good.” He drew some paper towards her and set a pen in her hand. “You write as I dictate. And then, if you feel inclined, you can sign what you’ve written. If you don’t feel inclined—well, then you can tear it up. But if you sign—I’ll put up the shutters to-morrow at nine o’clock.”

Mrs. Cheviot slewed herself round and slid on to a chair.

“I’m at your mercy,” she said.

Titus proceeded to dictate, pacing the room.

_In consideration of my husband’s desisting from visiting or revisiting strange houses, surveying rooms, stencilling ceilings or accepting money therefor—a practice which I admit he has found extremely lucrative—I hereby undertake never to demand or expend by way of dress-allowance a sum in excess of three thousand pounds a year._

“That’s all,” said Titus.

Without a word, Mrs. Cheviot affixed her signature.

Then she took a fresh sheet.

“I’ll make a copy,” she said.

“Very well,” said Titus, lighting a cigarette. . . .

When Blanche had finished writing she rose and crossed to a glass.

“Take your choice,” she said over her shoulder. “They are—facsimiles.”

Titus shot her a glance and stepped to the table.

The ‘copy’ seemed longer than the ‘original’—much longer.

_There was once a dear called Titus. He was most awfully handsome and generous, and when he married he spoiled his wife to death. She was as greedy and selfish as he was sweet, and though he gave her everything he’d got, that wasn’t enough. So then, though he was all tired, he took off his shabby coat and began to work. He worked and worked and always swore he liked it, but he loathed it really. And they both knew why he was doing it, but he pretended it amused him, and she pretended to believe him for very shame. And then one day she really did want him to stop. And when he saw that she meant it, he gave her all the gold he had made. “If that’s enough,” he said gently, “why, then I’ll stop. But if it isn’t, dear, I must try to go on.” And when he said that, all of a sudden HER DESIRE FOR RICHES DIED. . . . And she didn’t know whether to laugh or whether to cry because at last she saw that, money or no, nothing could ever alter the fact that she was the richest woman in all the world—because she was_

_TITUS’ WIFE_.

Titus folded the ‘copy’ and slid it into his case.

Then he struck a match and burned the ‘original’ up.

Blanche never turned.

As he put an arm about her—

“Which did you burn?” she said.

Titus laid his head against hers.

“I kept my love-letter,” he said.

His darling flung her arms round his neck.

Summer was in.

* * * * *

‘Cheviot’s’ was closed the next day.

A week later a letter bearing the post-mark of Rapallo was delivered at Malison Hall.

Its contents consisted of a document and three hundred and fifteen pounds in Bank of England notes.

The document appeared to be a bill which the notes were paying.

_PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL._

_Mrs. Titus Cheviot._

_Dr. to J.T. Blatchbourne, Esq._

_December 6th._ _ One brandy and soda_ 105 0 0 _One telephone call_ 105 0 0 _One tea_ 105 0 0 ——————— 315 0 0 =======

PEREGRINE

PEREGRINE

“I sometimes think,” said Mrs. Carey Below, “that you are losing your mind.”

Peregrine Carey Below put a hand to his head.

“I’m not so sure I’m not,” he said wearily.

“Is that meant to be rude?”

Peregrine raised his eyes to meet the glint of steel in those of his wife. For a moment he seemed upon the edge of protest: then the cold, level gaze bore down his spirit. Peregrine felt as though he were seated in cold water. He shifted uneasily.

“No, no,” he said. “Of course it isn’t. I—I only——”

“Because if it is,” said Mrs. Below silkily, “if it is, we shall have to have an understanding.” She bridled menacingly. “I was not bred to rudeness. Selfishness I can put up with—fortunately for me: I can suffer a fool—I’ve done it day and night for seven years: but rudeness is an assault, and that I will not endure.”

“I assure you, Marion——”