Part 8

Angell Herald did not like the woman. Her complexion was blue, her face puffy, and she had innumerable chins, which billowed down to meet the black silk of her gown. She was hung with jewellery, and her clothes were most unsuitable to her years. In her hat was mauve and emerald green. She was literally laden with sables, which must have considerably increased her difficulty in breathing, and her feet were pinched into the most ridiculously small patent hoots with enormous tassels that bobbed about every time she moved. Although a man of the world, Angell Herald was appalled at the shortness of her skirts.

She blinked at him through her lorgnettes.

"Well!" she said.

"May I enquire first of all," he enquired, "what methods you have hitherto adopted? I may tell you that everything discussed between us is in strict confidence."

This seemed to reassure her. After a slight hesitation she began to tell her story. It appeared that her husband had made an enormous fortune in the early days of the war by contracting for porous huts and brown-paper boots for the Army. They had lived in Manchester, but now they had come to London and taken what was literally a mansion in Park Lane. She had set herself to work to get into Society, and apparently had been very badly snubbed.

She had subscribed liberally to the Red Cross and similar charities, and attended every charitable entertainment that had been given since her advent. She had engaged, regardless of cost, a number of the most famous artists in the country for a drawing-room concert in aid of a certain hospital, and had sent out invitations lavishly to the whole of Mayfair. The result was that the artists had turned up; but not the audience.

She had to pay the fees and eat the leek. Then she had offered to drive convalescent soldiers round the Park.

"And they sent me common soldiers," she remarked, "although I particularly asked for officers, generals if possible." There was a note of querulous complaint in her voice.

It was with something akin to horror that Angell Herald heard her say she had written to _The Age_, asking what their terms would be to publish a photograph of her daughter, together with a few personal particulars.

"_The Age_, madam?" he almost shrieked. "_The Age_? They never publish illustrations."

"No," she replied. "But they publish advertisements and theatrical notices. My daughter (she pronounced it 'darter') is as good as a music-hall actress, and a good sight better," she added.

She had left cards on everyone in Park Lane, (she called it "The Lane"), and upon a number of people in other fashionable quarters, but had not received a single call in return.

"Your only chance, madam," Angell Herald ventured, "is to get into the public eye. These are the days of advertisement. You must get the public to know you as they know our generals and our politicians."

"I know all about that," she replied, with a certain asperity. "But how's it going to be done?"

"Well!" Angell Herald replied, "I will think it over and let you know. Perhaps you will tell me to whom I can write."

For a moment she hesitated, and then saying, "Of course the whole thing's strictly in confidence?" Angell Herald bowed--she handed him her card. On it he read "Mrs. Biltox-Jones, 376, Park Lane, W.," and in the corner "Third Thursdays." Angell Herald smiled inwardly as he thought of the loneliness of this lady on her "Third Thursdays."

For a minute or two he gazed reflectively at Mrs. Biltox-Jones's card. Through his mind was running the "interview" with Mr. Llewellyn John. He remembered the suggestion of the accident in stepping into his car, how the Prime Minister had suggested that he should be assaulted for purposes of publicity, and finally he recalled the suggestion of the abduction of his daughter. Without pausing to think, he turned to Mrs. Biltox-Jones.

"You have a daughter, Mrs. Biltox-Jones?" he said, taking great care to give her her hyphenated name.

She started.

"A daughter!" she said. "Of course I've got a daughter." Her tone was that of someone accused of lacking some necessary member.

"Exactly," he said. "That may solve the difficulty. In these days," he continued, "publicity is a very difficult matter." Angell Herald put his fingers together in judicial fashion and proceeded, "There are two things that the journalist recognises. One is 'copy,' Mrs. Biltox-Jones, and the other is 'news.' Now news takes precedence over 'copy,' just as birth does over money, at least, it should do."

"I don't see what that's got to do with the matter at all," snapped Mrs. Biltox-Jones. Angell Herald could see that she had not formed a very favourable opinion of him, or of his capabilities. "I don't understand what you mean by 'copy' and 'news.'"

"Well," he continued, "I once heard a journalist define the two." Ha was quite indifferent as to what Mrs. Biltox-Jones might think of him. "A friend once asked him the same question, and his reply was, 'Now, if a dog bit a man, that would be 'copy'; but, Mrs. Biltox-Jones, if a man bit a dog, that would be 'news.'"

Mrs. Biltox-Jones was clearly annoyed. She made a movement to rise; but to rise, with Mrs. Biltox-Jones, was a matter of several movements, persistent and sustained.

"One moment, madam," Angell Herald continued. "In your own case, now, in order to obtain the publicity you desire, you must endeavour to give the Press something that it will regard as 'news' in distinction from 'copy.' Now, as far as I can see, there are two ways in which you can achieve your object."

Mrs. Biltox-Jones began to look interested once more.

"First you might arrange to be seriously assaulted."

"Me?" she gasped. "Me, assaulted? What on earth do you mean, Mr. Herald?"

"Well," he continued, "You might arrange for somebody to meet you in a lonely place, and knock you down."

"Knock _me_ down?" The italics fail to do justice to Mrs. Biltox-Jones's look and tone. "Are you mad?" she demanded.

"No," was the response. "I am endeavouring to help you. If you will listen calmly, you will see what I'm driving at. The fact of a lady of your position and wealth being publicly assaulted would appeal to the journalistic mind, and would undoubtedly result in a great deal of Press notice."

"But it would be so painful," she replied.

"Of course, there is always that. It might even be fatal. There is, of course, an alternative measure, which I think, in your case, might be even better: that is, the abduction of your daughter."

"The what?" she shrieked.

"The abduction of Miss Biltox-Jones. Imagine the sensation! Think of the 'copy'! Millionaire's daughter abducted--I assume Mr. Biltox-Jones is a millionaire. I believe all Army contractors who are business men have become millionaires. Yes," Angell Herald added, "I think Miss Biltox-Jones might be abducted."

"That shows you don't know Gertie," said Mrs. Biltox-Jones, smiling grimly. At least, she made certain facial movements which were intended to indicate a smile.

Mrs. Biltox-Jones seemed to be thinking deeply. After fully a minute's silence she demanded, rather truculently,

"Will you abduct her?"

Angell Herald drew himself up with dignity.

"I am a publicity agent, Mrs. Biltox-Jones, not a professional abductor of millionaires' daughters. Furthermore I have a reputation to maintain."

"All right, don't get 'uffy," was her response.

Angell Herald shuddered.

Again there was silence between them.

"Gertie's always complainin' how dull she is," Mrs. Biltox-Jones muttered to herself; "she might like it for a change. P'raps Martin might arrange it. Martin's my butler, he does everythink for me. He's been with the Duke of Porchester, and Prince Carmichael of Dam-Splititz."

"Well," Angell Herald proceeded. "Let us see Miss Biltox-Jones abducted. Imagine the Press the next morning. You would apply to the police, you would intimate the terrible news to every newspaper, and there would be scare headings. I merely offer this as a suggestion. As a matter of fact, it is a little out of my usual line of business. New conditions, however, Mrs. Biltox-Jones, demand new methods." Angell Herald blessed Pearl for that exquisite phrase, and registered a vow not to refuse his next application for a holiday in which to bury, marry or bail-out a friend. He could almost see himself giving him a rise.

"But how could I do it?" she enquired.

"That," Angell Herald replied, "I must leave to you, Mrs. Biltox-Jones. I should gather that you are not lacking in resource or originality. I should try Martin. English butlers are wonderfully resourceful. Get your daughter abducted and the result will be that your name will be sounded throughout the British Empire. I may add, by the way, that I should see she was abducted for at least a fortnight. That would give time for a thorough Press campaign. You would find that all the Colonial papers would copy the story, and if Miss Biltox-Jones happened to be handsome, as I should imagine she would be"--Angell Herald looked very pointedly at Mrs. Biltox-Jones, and she preened herself like a second-hand peacock--"then the sensation created would be the greater.

"I am afraid, madam, that I can do nothing more than make this suggestion; but you may be assured that if you act upon it, you will not lack the publicity that I gather all ladies of your position seek."

For a few moments she was silent, then said, "And what's all this cost, Mr. Herald?"

"Oh," he replied, "it's a very trifling matter. Let us say fifty guineas, shall we, especially as I am not able to be of any practical assistance to you."

"I'll send you a cheque." Her jaw snapped with a determined air that convinced Angell Herald that in the very near future Miss Biltox-Jones would be abducted.

III

A little over a week later, Angell Herald had left the office to get his usual simple lunch of everything the food restrictions permitted, and as much in the way of extras as he could squeeze in, when his eye was arrested by a placard of _The Evening Mail_. He had already received a cheque for fifty guineas from Mrs. Biltox-Jones, and had dismissed the circumstance from his memory. This placard, however, brought back the whole story vividly to his recollection. It read

ATTEMPTED ABDUCTION AN AMAZON FEAT

Something seemed to link up that newspaper placard with the fifty guinea cheque, and he purchased _The Evening Mail_.

On the front page of the paper, most of which seemed to be covered with clever headlines, he read the following with something akin to amazement:

ATTEMPTED ABDUCTION OP A MILLIONAIRE'S DAUGHTER A MODERN AMAZON SOCIETY YOUNG LADY OUTWITS TWO DESPERATE RUFFIANS THE ABDUCTORS CAPTURED AN AMAZING FEAT

"Last evening, about 9.15, Miss Biltox-Jones, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Jeremiah Biltox-Jones, of 376 Park Lane, W., was motoring back from Epsom, where she had been lunching with friends, when her car was stopped by someone waving a red light on the middle of the road. The chauffeur, seeing the danger-signal, immediately pulled up, and a moment afterwards, to his astonishment, found a pistol presented to his head, and he was told that if he moved a muscle he would be shot.

"It was afterwards discovered that two masked men were responsible for this outrage. The second man approached the car, and invited Miss Biltox-Jones to alight, which she accordingly did. He then informed her that she was his prisoner, and would be taken away to await the payment of a ransom. But they had reckoned without their host, or shall we say hostess. It appears that Miss Biltox-Jones is an adept at physical culture, ju jitsu and such like things. With a swift movement she had her attacker on his back upon the road; hitting him smartly on the temple with the butt-end of his own pistol, she rendered him unconscious, and before the other ruffian was aware of what had happened, she had floored him likewise.

"With the aid of the chauffeur, the two men were bound, placed in the car, and taken to the nearest police-station. They are to appear this morning before the magistrate, the outrage having taken place on the outskirts of London, when further particulars of this strange affair will probably be divulged.

"In the meantime we congratulate Miss Biltox-Jones on what must be regarded as a remarkable achievement."

There followed an interview with the chauffeur; another interview with Miss Biltox-Jones, together with her portrait. She proved to be a not uncomely girl of muscular proportions and determined expression.

For a moment Angell Herald was dazed at the turn events had taken. He inwardly cursed Pearl and his ridiculous advice. He saw himself involved in a most unsavoury business. He even wondered why he had not been sent for to attend the police-court proceedings. What was he to do? There was nothing for it but to wait for subsequent editions of the paper.

Engagements prevented him from returning to the office until nearly six. As he entered he saw that Pearl was in a state of suppressed excitement. He too had read the wretched story.

"Mrs. Biltox-Jones to see you, sir."

"What?" Angell Herald almost shouted.

"She's been here three-quarters of an hour, sir. She insisted on waiting."

Never had Angell Herald felt such a coward. Why had he not foreseen that she would descend upon him. Could he turn and fly? No: a man must appear a hero before his own clerk. He would lose for ever Pearl's respect if he were to flee at that moment.

Assuming an air of nonchalance, he said he would see Mrs. Biltox-Jones immediately, and, with shaking hand, opened the door of his room, prepared for a blast of reproach such as it had never been his fate to experience.

To his utter bewilderment, Mrs. Biltox-Jones was sitting smiling, and, more wonderful still, holding in her hand a cheque, which she extended to him, as she made certain bouncing movements, which he rightly interpreted as preliminaries to her assuming an upright position.

Utterly bewildered, he took the cheque, What could be the meaning of this new development? Instinctively he looked at the cheque; it was for a hundred guineas. Clearly Mrs. Biltox-Jones was mad.

"Mr. Herald," she began, in her wheezy voice, having got to her feet, "you've done me a real service, you've got me what I wanted. You're a wonderful man."

"But--but--" he stammered.

"No, no," she continued. "No modesty. The idea was entirely yours. Of course I didn't anticipate Gertie upsetting things like that; but then you never know what Gertie will do, and the poor child so enjoyed it."

Angell Herald pictured the Gertie whose photograph he had seen, "enjoying it." Then his thoughts turned to the nefarious abductors.

"But the men," he asked, "Who were they?"

"Oh! Martin arranged that. One was his brother, and the other was John's second cousin. John is my first footman. But, of course, a great general has to be prepared for everything, as you said the other day." (Angell Herald had no recollection of saying anything of the sort.) "So when I heard these two men had been caught by Gertie, I decided to turn the whole thing into a joke. Gertie was delighted, and said that she hadn't enjoyed anything so for a long time. The magistrate, of course, was most rude about it."

"But the butler's brother and the--"

"They've been released. The magistrate pitched into them; but still, it's all right, although Martin's brother has a big bump on his head, which will cost a good deal, and John's cousin can be squared. The teeth he lost were not really his own, although he said they were until I threatened to ring up my dentist and have his mouth examined."

"Yes," she continued, after a pause, "it was really a brilliant idea of yours, Mr. Herald, and I thank you for it. I shall recommend you to my friends. My husband has great influence in the city, and he shall know what a remarkable man you are."

"And," began Angell Herald, "have the er--er----"

"Oh! I've had heaps of callers. Sir Jacob and Lady Wanderlust, Mrs. Hermann Schmidt, Mr. Gottinhimmel, Mr. Lueftstoessel, Miss Strafestein, and a lot of the best people in The Lane. And they're so patriotic. They do _so_ hate the Kaiser, and they simply _love_ England. We have become great friends."

Angell Herald congratulated her. "And now I must be going," she said, "I've got to arrange about compensating those two poor men. If you knew Gertie as I know her, you'd know they didn't come off without severe er--er--contoosions, was what the doctor called 'em."

Mrs. Biltox-Jones sailed out of the office wheezing and smiling. Angell Herald saw Pearl looking at him in a bewildered fashion, and he almost fainted when handed the cheque and told to pay it into the bank.

The late evening papers were full of this extraordinary "joke." By a lucky chance, there was no news from anywhere. The German Emperor had not been patronizing the Almighty, and no one had shown on any of the fronts the least inclination to push. The result was that the photographs of the Biltox-Joneses, of their butler, the butler's brother, of John, and John's second cousin, filled every newspaper. The scene of the "outrage" was pictured, with a cross marking the spot on the road where Martin's brother's head had been tapped.

In Angell Herald's heart there was a great gladness and a deep gratitude to Mr. Llewellyn John! He had the greatest difficulty to restrain himself from giving Pearl a rise.--Instead he gave him the cigar he had received from Trumpet a few days previously. There are no half tones about either Trumpet or his cigars.

At the conclusion of the story Angell Herald, sat back with the air of a man prepared to receive the congratulations that he knows are his due. He was obviously disappointed when the only remark made was Sallie's.

"Poor old thing."

"I should like to meet that clerk of 'is," "whispered" Bindle to Windover. "'E ought to be able to tell us some things, wot?"

"Ha, yes," muttered Windover abstractedly, "but it's casting Pearls before swine though."

*CHAPTER X*

*THE NIGHT CLUB VISITS BINDLE*

One Sunday evening on arriving at Dick Little's flat I was greeted with the announcement "J.B.'s ill." I looked round at the gloomy faces. It was then that I appreciated how the Night Club revolved round Bindle's personality.

From a note Dick Little had received it appeared that Bindle had hurt his ankle and been forced to lie up for a week. His letter was characteristic. It ran:--

"DEAR SIR,

I been kicking what I didn't ought to have kicked, and I got to lay up for a week. Cheero! I shall think of the Night Club.

Yours respectfully, JOE BINDLE."

We wondered what it was that Bindle had kicked that he ought not to have kicked. There was, we felt sure, a story behind the letter.

We looked at each other rather helplessly.

"Shall we begin?" asked Angell Herald. One of his stories was down for that evening.

"We must wait for Miss Carruthers," said Jim Owen, a cousin of mine and rather an ass about women.

At that moment Sallie and Jack Carruthers turned up and were told the direful news.

"Oh! poor J.B.," cried Sallie, who had quite drifted into our way of speech.

"What shall we do?" asked Jack Carruthers.

We all looked at each other as if expectant of a solution anywhere but in our own brains.

"I have it!" cried Sallie suddenly clapping her hands, her eyes flashing with excitement.

"Out with it, Sallie," said Jack, putting his arm round her shoulders. Many of us envied him that habit of his.

"We'll all go and see J.B.," cried Sallie.

Dick Little nearly got notice to quit through that idea of Sallie's. The yell that went up to the ceiling above was as nothing to the things that fell from the ceiling below. Tom Little was in a mad mood, and he insisted that we should all form a ring round Sallie, and hand in hand we flung ourselves round her; "flung" was the only word that describes our motions. There were sixteen of us, and Dick Little's rooms are not over large. It was a mad rout.

We were interrupted in our acclamation of Sallie's inspiration by a tremendous hammering at the door of the flat. Dick Little opened it and let in a flood of the most exotic language to which we had ever listened. It was talk that would have made a drill-sergeant envious. It had about it the tang of the barrack-square. It silenced us and stilled our movements as nothing else would have done. It poured in through the door like a flood. It gave an intensely personal view of ourselves, our forebears and our posterity, if any. It described our education, our up-bringing and the inadequacy of the penal code of England. We stood in hushed admiration, especially the men from Tim's.

Sallie listened for about half a minute, quite unperturbed. It is a strange thing; but "language" has no effect on Sallie. I have seen her listening quite gravely to the inspired utterances of a Thames lighterman. This evening, at the end of half a minute, she walked to the door, we crowding behind her to see the fun, for we had all recognised the voice of General Burdett-Coombe, who lived immediately beneath Dick Little. Suddenly the General's eloquence stopped. He had seen Sallie.

"Won't you come in," she said looking at him gravely, with eyes a little larger and a little grayer than usual.

"I--I--" stammered the General, then seeing us all gazing at him he burst out.

"God bless my soul, what on earth have I done? I had no idea there was a lady here. I--I--"

"Please come in," said Sallie, "I want you to tell these men how horribly badly behaved they are. You were doing it quite nicely; but I am afraid they didn't hear it all."

The General looked from Sallie to the men, who had now streamed out and were filling Dick Little's small hall. Then seeing Sallie smile he suddenly burst out laughing, showing a set of dazzlingly white teeth beneath his grizzled grey moustache.

"Routed, by heaven! routed and by a woman. My dear young lady," he said, turning to Sallie, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I--I'm afraid I rather let myself go. These young hooligans have knocked down my electrolier. I thought the whole blessed place was coming on my head," and he laughed again out of sheer boyish enjoyment.

From that day Sallie and General Burdett-Coombe became great friends, and that was how it happened that the General came to join the Night Club.

As he went down to his flat he once more apologised; but Sallie said that he was quite justified in what he had said and done.

"Well, well," he cried after a swift glance to see if she were pulling his leg, "Boys will be boys I suppose; but I wish they would leave my electrolier alone. Good-night all," and the chorus of "good-nights" was almost as great in volume as the shouts that had greeted Sallie's inspiration.

"Now then you fellows, taxis," cried Tom Little.

Three men dashed downstairs to commandeer all the taxis in the neighbourhood. Tom Little and Bill Simmonds disappeared; but the rest of us managed the crowd into the four taxis that were available. As we sped along to Fenton Street, Fulham, where Bindle lives, each empty taxi that approached was hailed and some of the party got out and entered. Eventually when we arrived at Fenton Street the procession numbered eight vehicles.

The sensation we caused will go down to posterity as the greatest day in the annals of the district. Neighbours flocked to their doors. Gramophones, which were tinnily striving to reproduce masterpieces they had mis-heard, were allowed to run down, and soon what portion of the street that was not occupied by taxis was filled with open-mouthed residents.