Part 4

_The object of my visit to Castle Breathless two evenings ago was, as our valuable Press has rightly surmised, to obtain possession of your pearls. That I failed was not my fault. My arrangements were perfect, but the car bringing three of my men broke down on the way, so that two had to try to perform the duties of five. It seems I might still have succeeded if I had used my eyes. Indeed, that the rope was awaiting collection would be a disturbing thought, but for my foresight in taking with me the letter which lay in the drawer which I had time to force. You remember. The one addressed to Mr. Beaulieu._

_I think you would like this back. At least, I do not think you would like it to go to Mr. Persimmon. You may have it for ten thousand pounds._

_If the money is not paid on or before the seventh of August, upon August the ninth the original will be received by Mr. Persimmon and copies by your aunt and uncle and twenty of your intimate friends._

_Just three points more._

_If you call in the Law or seek to avoid my conditions the several communications will be dispatched at once._

_Secondly, overtures are useless. I will not extend the time, nor will I accept one penny less than ten thousand pounds in Bank of England notes._

_Thirdly, I will deal with you or Mr. Beaulieu, but no one else. His production of this note will accredit him: and his production of the ten thousand pounds will bring him a letter which I am sure he will value, as well as twenty-two typed copies, which, if he pleases, I will burn before his eyes._

_I shall be at the above address daily from eleven a.m. until noon._

_Yours faithfully_, _THE MASTER_. _Miss Patricia Bohun,_ _Castle Breathless,_ _Surrey._

Simon put the letter into a breast-pocket and returned to Patricia like a man in a trance.

His brain was trying to cope with too much for a brain to control. Dreams, hopes, mountainous fears—the powers of light and darkness fought like mad to be considered.

The runners were going down, for the Stewards’ Cup.

Simon watched them dazedly.

Grey Ruby was moving well.

“Let’s go to the Lyvedens’ box,” said Simon Beaulieu. “They won’t be there, and I want to see this race.”

Patricia shot him a glance.

Then—

“All right, Simon,” she said.

They passed to the back of the stand and up the stairs. . . .

Simon took out his glasses and put them up.

“I take it,” he said quietly, “that if you had ten thousand, that letter’s worth it—to you.”

“Yes,” said Patricia, “it is. It’s—it’s a question of saving my name.” She hesitated—then burst out. “But what can I do? Of course they think I’m rich. Not rolling, perhaps, but rich enough to get loans—borrow—find the money somehow, as rich people can. And I haven’t two hundred pounds. I’ve got my pearls, but what can I do with them? I couldn’t explain their disappearance. I might pretend I’d lost them, but they’re insured. Oh, Simon, isn’t it cruel? All round us people are sinning—callously, wantonly sinning—sinning for the sake of sin: but they never get caught. And I—I who’ve tried to live clean and play the game—because I love you I write one wretched letter that I’ve no business to write—and get clean bowled.”

A bell stammered, and the tumult and shouting of Tattersalls’ ring, died a sudden death. The race had begun.

Simon put down his glasses and wiped them carefully.

Then he put them back to his eyes.

“That’s always the way,” he said. “Would you like me to take it on?”

Patricia bit her lip.

“Well, _I_ can’t, Simon.”

The field appeared.

Grey Ruby was on the stand side and showing up well.

“No, that’s plain. Besides, it’s a man’s job. I’ll stick to the letter, shall I?”

“Yes, if you will. But, Simon, what can you do?”

Grey Ruby was coming up. Yes, there was no doubt about it. Half the field was beaten, but the grey was coming up.

“Pat,” said Simon, “I don’t know what I shall do. My impulse is to break the gentleman’s back. But I’m inclined to think that he means what he says, and so that wouldn’t help you.”

Grey Ruby was lying third now and full of running. A bay on the rails was leading and going uncommonly well.

“Nothing can help me,” said Patricia listlessly. She shivered. “It’s like a fearful dream. The impossible’s got to be done, lest a worse thing befall.”

Grey Ruby was second now.

A chestnut was leading, and the bay was falling back.

The chestnut was leading by a neck and holding his own.

“Buck up, Pat,” said Simon shakily. “We’re both—both in this. I mean—one second. . . .”

A confusion of shouting arose.

The whips were out now, and it was either’s race.

The chestnut, if anything, was slightly ahead.

The shouting swelled into a roar.

“My God,” said Patricia quietly. And then again, “My God.” She drew in her breath. “I turn to you in my trouble—my hideous, ghastly mess. Not for help, because you can’t give it. I just call to you out of hell—call for a drop of water to wet my lips. And you—_you_ can’t give it me . . . because you’re rather busy . . . _watching a race_.” She laughed wildly. Simon put down his glasses. “And the letter that’s doing me in—— Never mind. What’s won?”

“Grey Ruby,” said Simon shortly, marking his card. “And don’t you worry, lady. You’re out of the wood.”

Patricia stared.

“Out of the wood?” she repeated.

Simon smiled back.

“Clean,” he said. “Bless your pretty bright eyes. Going to the Wakefields’ dance on Tuesday night?”

“I was.”

“Well, go. I give you my word that there and then you shall have your letter back.” He opened the door of the box. “And now let’s find the Club tent and try some tea.”

* * * * *

At a quarter to twelve on the following Tuesday morning Simon was ushered into a private room.

This was an office, smart and well furnished, with ground-glass panes in the windows and three oak doors massively built.

A peculiarity of the doors was that they had no handles.

A large, bland, smooth-faced gentleman, wearing blue glasses and sitting behind a table, rose to his feet.

“Sit down, Mr. Beaulieu.”

“I prefer,” said Simon, “to stand.”

The other inclined his head and resumed his seat.

“As you please. You have your credentials?”

“There they are.” The Master’s letter passed. “I have the money also.”

“But naturally,” said the smooth-faced gentleman. He took an envelope from a drawer and smiled affectionately upon it. “This is Miss Bohun’s letter. I like her handwriting. It reminds me of my dear mother’s.”

“Indeed,” said Simon. “May I see it—as a matter of form?”

The other tossed it across.

“Pray observe that I trust you,” he said.

“Why not?” said Simon Beaulieu.

He took out the letter, glanced at beginning and end, put it back in its envelope and slid this into a pocket. Then he took out ten packets of notes and laid them upon the table.

“Count them, please,” he said.

The smooth-faced gentleman smiled.

“I always do,” he said, “as a matter of form.”

Each packet contained ten notes—for one hundred pounds apiece.

That this was so The Master proceeded to verify, taking his own time.

Simon stood like a statue.

At length the other looked up.

“Quite right,” he said comfortably. He pointed to a pile of envelopes. “There are the twenty-two copies. Will you take them also? Or shall I burn them now?”

“Burn them, please.”

The Master stepped to the fireplace, set the envelopes in the grate, and lighted a gas jet which was fixed beneath the bars.

The papers began to flame almost at once.

In silence the two men stood, watching them burn.

Presently The Master turned and, picking up his own letter, added that to the pyre.

“A distressing incident,” he said, “now happily closed. This little room has seen the dissipation of so many tragedies.”

“You don’t say so?” said Simon dryly. “It’s almost a shrine, isn’t it?”

The other laughed.

“At least,” he said, “its suppliants are very generous.”

“You choose them for their generosity?”

The rogue spread out his hands and put his head on one side.

“That,” he said, with the air of a past-master, “that is the secret of blackmail.”

“Then if I were you,” said Simon, “I should chuck in your hand.” The other stiffened. “If Grey Ruby hadn’t won the Stewards’ Cup, I imagine you would have died about five minutes ago.”

The other stooped to rake the ashes to dust.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But what a magnificent race! Neck and neck for a furlong, and won by a head. I lost a bit on Sweden, but I must confess I enjoy——”

Simon lunged.

“Take my advice,” he said, “and chuck in your hand. You’ve got your money by a fluke—the purest fluke.”

The Master straightened his back, poker in hand.

Two spots of colour burned in the great smooth face.

“I never fluke,” he said majestically.

Simon smiled back. Then he raised his eyebrows and turned to the door.

“I say I never fluke. _Take—back—those—notes._”

Simon turned, still smiling, to look the speaker in the eyes.

“I wouldn’t touch them,” he said, “with the end of a ten-foot pole.”

The Master recoiled. Then he seemed to shrink into himself.

The two red spots spread into deep blotches, and a hand went up to cover the quivering mouth.

For a moment he stood motionless. Then, with a visible effort, he touched the arm of his chair.

A bell throbbed.

Almost at once the door opened, and Simon passed out.

* * * * *

Patricia fingered her letter as though it were unreal.

At length—

“I—I can’t say much,” she said shakily. “And I can’t attempt to thank.”

“You know that I want no thanks,” said Simon Beaulieu.

“But I’d like to beg your pardon for what I said at Goodwood. I might have known, Simon . . . I—I’ve no excuse.”

“I think you had every excuse,” said Simon Beaulieu. “I should have been most bitter. If I’d just shown you my death-warrant out of the blue, and you—you’d said, ‘One moment . . . I jus’ want to see a man about a dog,’ I should have gone off the deep end.”

Patricia stared at the letter.

“I’m dazed,” she said. “Dazed. I owe you more than my life, yet—I can’t thank you, Simon. It—it won’t go into words. . . . I’ll pray for you every night: but, then, that’s nothing. I’ve done that for months. The queer thing is I feel more proud than grateful—proud of . . . my man. . . .”

There was a long silence.

Then—

“Thank you, Pat,” said Simon tenderly. He rose to his feet. “And now let’s go an’ have a dance.”

The girl rose and led the way to the door.

Arrived there, she closed it carefully and swung about.

“Simon!” Her hands were upon his shoulders, and her face three inches away. “Simon, you terrify me! What have you done? From the moment you left me at Goodwood, I’ve been frightened to death. When first I saw you that day, there was something wrong. Then you behaved so strangely—as if you didn’t care. Suddenly you promised me the letter, as one promises sweets to a child. And now—here it is. . . . Simon, for God’s sake tell me! What have you done?”

Simon patted her arm.

“Done?” he said, smiling. “Nothing.”

“But why—how. . . . How did you get my letter?”

“To tell you the truth, I bought it.”

“_Bought it?_”

“Bought it. I happened to have ten thousand and I bought it with that.”

Patricia tried to speak, but no words would come.

She began to tremble.

The man put an arm about her and guided her to a chair.

“Listen, dear,” he said, and told her his tale.

When he had finished—

“Why,” said Patricia slowly, “why did you put so much on? Four hundred on an outsider’s the bet of a desperate man.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Simon, regarding his feet. “I suppose one goes mad now and then. Wonderful shoes Stoop makes. D’you know he made me these before the War?”

“Why did you put so much on?”

The man made fast a shoe-lace before replying.

Then he looked up.

“Pat,” he said quietly, “I’m not going to tell you why.”

“You needn’t,” said Patricia. “I know.”

She took the letter from her dress and put it into his hand.

“Read that,” she said. “And see how minds think alike.”

_July 27th._ _MY DARLING_,

_I’m writing this letter because if I don’t, I shall go mad. My gorgeous engagement ring glares at me: the pearls George has given me sprawl, pale and indignant, by my side. I’ve taken them off. I don’t want his pearls about me; I want your arms._

_Simon, that last night here we buried our love alive—our glorious, blessed passion, we buried alive. I must have been mad. I suppose I thought it’d die—if I thought at all. I was nearly out of my mind that awful night. I did faint once—in your arms, but you never knew it. . . . “Die?” It’ll never die. Think what that means. A living thing immured, that can never die. That can starve, but never to death. . . ._

_I want to unearth it, Simon. I must. I must have it back to dandle and cherish and clasp—to warm my soul and body—bring the blood back into my heart. I must . . . I must. . . . But I can’t dig it up without you. We buried it together, and, if it’s to be unearthed, it’s plain I can’t do it alone._

_Oh, Simon, my king, have mercy. For once in your life be weak. Go back on your word—for once. I’ve spoiled our flower by writing. Well, spoil it, too. We’ll plant another, my blessed, that we shan’t have to pick. . . . Just breathe the word, and I’ll break my engagement off. And we can marry, my darling, and live or starve or die in each other’s arms. I don’t care how I live or whether I live at all, if I can be with you . . . you. . . ._

_Well, there you are. If ever a girl was at a man’s mercy, Simon, I’m at yours. If you’re going to steel your heart—well, I’ll go on. I must, I suppose. There’s nothing else for me to do. Besides, I don’t care. George Persimmon or a tramp I’ve never seen—what does it matter? It’s you—or anything, Simon. Because anything else is nothing. D’you understand?_

_We could live on three hundred a year. And if we couldn’t we could die. I’ve thought of it all. Squalor, dirt, rags—they wouldn’t count, Simon, beside the light in your eyes._

_I know I’ve broken my word. I know, I know. But if you don’t break yours, you’ll break my heart._

_Oh, Simon, I love you so._

_PATRICIA._

Simon dropped the letter and covered his face.

Patricia watched him with the tenderest smile. She was quite calm now. She was out of the wood—in the sunlight. And Simon was close behind. In his own outrageous way, Fate had played into their hands.

Suddenly Simon turned.

“Oh, Pat—my lady . . . could you bear it?”

His voice was shaking: his eyes, the eyes of a man looking into the promised land.

“I couldn’t bear anything else,” said Patricia Bohun.

“No cars, no servants, no clothes——”

“No cares,” said Patricia tremulously. “I’m getting all excited. Besides, I’ve had my whack. And——”

“But, Pat, think. We’ll be beggars. With that ten thousand behind us we might have put up a show, but——”

“You only wanted it, dear, to spend upon me. And now—you’ve had your wish. Besides, I don’t care a damn. I want to be poor. . . . But, Simon dear, how like you to turn that money down! When he offered to give it back. Only a giant could have done a thing like that. But, then, you are a giant.”

“My dear,” said Simon, “I’m the weakest——”

“You’re not weak at all,” said Patricia. “Neither am I. We’ve played a splendid game. _It happened to be the wrong one_, but we were so mad to play it that we never saw that. . . . We’re a couple of shorn lambs, Simon—and that’s the truth. We sheared each other that dreadful night at Breathless—and went out into the cold. I was a fool, and you who knew better—you wouldn’t open my eyes. And then the wind blew—a wind like a knife. . . . That was to cure us of our folly. And now the good God has tempered the wind. . . .”

“That’s right,” said Simon slowly. “You’ve driven the nail, Pat. We put up a show all right, but we were trying to play an impossible game. It was when I realized that that I decided to put the money on. I didn’t know how you felt, but I wanted to have it ready—in case you moved.”

“In case I moved?” said Patricia, knitting her brows. Suddenly she sat up. “D’you mean you’d ’ve waited on me?”

“Of course,” said Simon. “Even with the money behind me, I couldn’t ’ve given tongue. I love you better, Pat, than heaven and earth, and I wouldn’t give you up now for fifty rolling worlds—but if you hadn’t spoken I couldn’t have opened my mouth. But then you did speak, lady. You wrote me the sweetest letter that ever—— What is it, Pat?”

Patricia put a hand to her head.

“This,” she said faintly. “If that letter hadn’t been stolen, it wouldn’t ’ve gone.”

“_Pat!_”

The girl nodded.

“I hadn’t the heart to destroy it: but I’d locked it away and thrown the key into the garden, because—I was so anxious . . . to play the game.”

* * * * *

Six months had gone by, and Simon Beaulieu had earned three hundred pounds.

The little flat at Chartres was becoming a luxurious apartment. Now that the tiles were down, the tiny bathroom alone was a flashing chapel of ease. . . .

Sitting at work at his table, Simon looked out of the window with a thankful heart.

“I’m one franc out,” murmured Mrs. Beaulieu. Pencil to lip, she regarded the cornice thoughtfully. “Now what did I spend that on?”

Her husband surveyed her profile with some emotion. He may be forgiven. Its beauty was really startling.

At length—

“Cream?” he suggested.

“No. I’ve got that down. Oh, I know. There was a poor woman at the butter-stall with the cutest little boy. She was getting the cheapest butter, and when they told her eggs were seven francs—they’ve gone up, you know—she wouldn’t have any. And there was I, getting the best butter and a pot of honey and some cream. It seemed so awful. . . . And the little boy was watching me with great, big eyes. So I asked him if he liked honey. . . . D’you know, wrapped up in paper he’d got a little empty jar? And his mother said that he always took it when he went to the market with her, and that if ever she had a little money over, then they spent it on honey, and his little jar was filled. She said he was wonderful—never complained. For weeks he’d brought his jar back empty, but he’d never cried or asked for anything. And he was only four. . . . You ought to have seen his face while it was being filled.”

“I’d rather ’ve seen yours,” said Simon Beaulieu. His wife blew him a kiss. “By the way, I’ve always meant to ask you and I’ve always forgotten till now. That night at Breathless, as we were going in, you said I was unlike my namesake because he would have plunged.”

“I remember,” said Patricia.

“And then you qualified that, and said that in a way we were alike.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve always meant to ask you—what did you mean?”

Patricia crossed to her husband and set her cheek against his.

“I meant that you had the keys of heaven,” she said. “And I was perfectly right.”

TOBY

TOBY

“You know,” said Cicely Voile, “you’re a great relief.”

Her companion opened one eye.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t make love.”

Captain Toby Rage folded his hands upon his stomach and regarded the blue heaven. This the April sun had to himself and, making the most of his monarchy, set the whole firmament ablaze.

A mile away the Atlantic simmered contentedly—a rolling, laughing steppe of blue and silver; the lazy murmur of its surf gladdened the ear. To the left the mountain-sides smoked in the heat, the comfortable haze blurring their grandeur to beauty. To the right the coast of France danced all the way to Biarritz, her gay green frock flecked with the dazzling white of villas, edged by the yellow road that sweeps to Spain. Behind, the countryside, a very Canaan, basked in the earnest of summer, peaceful and big with promise of abundance to come.

From the moor where the two were sitting all these things could be enjoyed. It was, indeed, a superb withdrawing-room, for, while an occasional snarl told of a car flying on the broad highway, no one essayed the by-road which led to the yellow broom.

“The art of life,” said Toby, “is to be fancy-free.”

Cicely Voile clapped her sweet-smelling hands.

“We’re going to get on—you and I,” she cried excitedly. “I can see that.”

“Why?”—suspiciously.

“Because our outlook’s the same. Think of the friendships that have been wrecked by love.”

Captain Rage groaned.

“Don’t,” he said. “It’s too awful. But I’m thankful you see my point. Conceive some cheerful little playground—Honolulu, for instance—peopled by an equal number of youths and maidens, all reasonably attractive and all proof against affection.”

“I can’t,” said Cicely Voile. “It’s too—too dazzling. Never mind. Go on.”

“Well, what a time they’d all have. No jealousies, no heart-burnings, no schemings, no inconvenience. . . .”

“I can see,” said Cicely, “that you have been through the hoop.”

“Haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, isn’t it a curse?” said Rage heartily. “When I look back and think of what I suffered, I go all goose-flesh. Turning out when I wanted to stay at home, staying up when I wanted to go to bed, going to plays I didn’t want to see, sloshing money about, writin’ letters, travellin’. . . . I tell you, Love’s a mug’s game. It’s—it’s buying trouble at a top price. That’s the wicked part. If you must buy trouble, you may as well get it cheap. But Love’s a disease. One becomes temporarily insane. I’d a very nice Rolls then, and I actually let her drive it.” He sighed memorially. “It was never the same car again.”

“That,” said Cicely, “was probably imagination. Still, I know what you mean. The misery I went through, trying to be in time! Alfred couldn’t bear being late.”

“Exactly,” said Rage. “Yet I’ll bet he used to wait by the hour, poor devil. I know. I’ve had some. I tell you, Love’s a disease.”

He sighed comfortably, settling his head upon its pillow of broom.

Cicely regarded him, speechless with indignation.

At length—

“I was endeavouring to point out,” she said coldly, “that I was the sufferer. Being fool enough to worship Alfred, I used to wear myself out—humouring his whim.” She paused dramatically. “Then, again, I used to leave parties early. He used to say one should be asleep by two. Time and again I’ve left a dance in the middle so that Alfred could go to bed.”

“I think,” murmured Captain Rage, “that I should have liked Alfred.”

“I quite expect,” flashed Cicely, “that I should have got on with—what was her name?”

“Rachel,” said Toby. “And I’m quite sure you would. In fact, I think you’d probably ’ve been fast friends. The silly part of it is that so might she and I. I did get on with her—extremely well, until I fell to Love.” He sat up there and set his hands on his knees. “Still, I’m not ungrateful. One attack like that does you a lot of good. But for the doing I’ve had, you’d almost certainly ’ve knocked me out.”

“Do look out,” cried Cicely.

“It’s all right,” said Rage. “Don’t you worry. I’m not within miles of making love. But I’ve watched you for months, I have; and there’s something very charming about you. Besides, you’re quite beautiful.”

“As beautiful as Rachel?”

“Oh, much more. Look at your throat, for instance. Oh, you can’t, can you? Never mind. What——”

“Oh, but I do mind,” said Cicely, wriggling. “This is a perfect experience. For anyone to tell me I’m beautiful, except as a prelude to familiarity, is something I’ve never known.”

“Surely, Alfred——”

“Oh, I always had to kiss him, or something. Not that I minded particularly. I rather liked kissing Alfred. But a compliment without any sort or kind of corollary is really delicious.” She whipped off her hat and put her chin in the air. “Don’t you love me like that?”

“Oh, gorgeous!” said Toby. “Now, Rachel’s stockings weren’t silk all the way.”

Hastily Miss Voile adjusted her frock.

“I was referring,” she said stiffly, “to my profile.”