Part 11

“You see, Betty dear,” he went on, “I have come to a point in my life when I must have money or bust. I am telling you this that you may know I shall not spend half your ill-gotten gains in riotous living. I am tired of riotous living, Betty. I am tired of my life, I am tired of England. And so I am going abroad, far abroad, and there I shall make a new start”--she tried frantically to jump up, but he caught her wrist and held it--“make a new start, as I was saying. You will not see me again for a long time, Betty, and when you do, you will see a rich and generous man, for I shall never forget that I owe you a good turn for the wrong I did you. But to go abroad and to begin an entirely new life I need money. And so,” and his eyes still wandered thoughtfully about the room, “I must find your diamond-ring, sell it for you, and keep half the proceeds as commission....”

“Even if it was here,” jeered the pretty girl, “you’d never find it. You think you’re the only clever one in the world, don’t you?” But there was not much conviction in her voice.

“No, I’ve always said you had brains, Betty. You are no fool; and I shall conduct my investigations on those premises. But don’t move--” and his hand fell sharply on her wrist again, while his eyes still thoughtfully embraced every corner of the room. “Now, if you were a fool, where would you hide a stolen diamond-ring so that your maid would not find it? You would hide it in a far corner of a drawer, or under a pile of linen, or you would sew it into the lining of a dress, or bury it in a hole in the floor--in fact, Betty dear, if you were a fool you would hide that diamond-ring in some secret place which any char-woman or detective searching this room would find at once. But you are not a fool. Now, if you are a student of Edgar Allan Poe, which I doubt, you will remember his tale about a young Frenchman called Duval, or Dupin, I forget which, who found a purloined letter, after the Paris police had searched in vain for it for weeks, in the most obvious place in the robber’s house: which was, of course, the letter-rack. Now what, I ask myself, is the most obvious place in this room in which to hide a stolen diamond-ring? The answer at once leaps to my mind, my eyes wander to a dilapidated-looking arm-chair a few yards away and fix on a hand-bag which is lying in the seat thereof. It is a pretty hand-bag, unpretentious but decorative; and a diamond-ring in your hand-bag would be quite safe from the prying fingers of your maid or char-woman for the simple reason that she has long ago given up hoping that she will find any money in it. But I am neither your maid nor your char-woman, and--oh!” She had bitten the hand that held her wrist, and only by a very quick effort did he restrain her from reaching the arm-chair on which lay the hand-bag. “Allow me,” he said politely, nursing his hand. “I will get it for you.” Swiftly he got it--and the diamond-ring lay in his open palm.

All fight had left the pretty girl; she sat listlessly on the sofa and gave way to her misery.

“Oh, you beast, you beast!” she kept whispering between dry sobs.

The cavalier of the streets stared at the stone in his hand. It winked and glittered, a bright white light on a dingy palm in a dingy room, arrogantly daring the eye with its innumerable carats. He whistled softly, in wonder. “And they say,” he murmured, “that diamonds aren’t fashionable nowadays!”

From the diamond in his palm he looked at the bowed head of the girl. He said harshly:

“Haven’t I told you I’m going to give you half of what I get?”

“I don’t want to sell it,” sobbed the girl. “I got reasons. You wouldn’t understand--_you_ wouldn’t understand anything to do with sentiment. You was born without a heart, Michael Wagstaffe. When young Thomas Felix Waite loved me he promised me that he’d get that diamond-ring from his mother and give it to me. I didn’t want it then, nor believe him, but he went on so about it that I came to fix my mind on it. And then one day he left me--just like that, without a word. He was a weak idiot, but I loved him--_you_ wouldn’t understand. And when he left me my mind somehow ran on that diamond-ring he’d promised me--I wanted it, d’you see, as I might want some money that’s owing to me. God’s treated me pretty rough, I thought, and so He owes me that diamond-ring just so as I can look at it now and then. And I been thinking about it months and months, not thinking to steal it, you know, but just wanting it. _You_ wouldn’t understand how soft a girl gets when she’s eaten up with loneliness in a big place like London. Why didn’t you let me be at Oxford, Michael, living with my father? And so when I saw this garden-party billed in the Society columns this morning, I just thought I’d try to get in and have a look at the diamond on her hand. I never thought she’d be fool enough to take it off in that catch-as-catch-can crowd to show to a friend, and then lay it on the edge of the fight-for-a-cup-of-tea-table to grab a cake which she could have done well without, she being already so fat with over-feeding....” And for the first time she looked up at the young man, who stood above her absently playing with the glittering toy in his hand. She stared at him with babyish, unbelieving eyes. “Gawd, you’re a bad kind of man, Michael Wagstaffe. You’re very bad.”

“You don’t want to sell it, then?” he asked sardonically.

“I want the diamond--my diamond!” she whispered. “Give me back my diamond-ring, Michael Wagstaffe. It’ll do for the sun you’ve took from me since we met at Oxford....”

He smiled at her suddenly. “Here you are, pretty Betty,” he said, and held out the diamond.

But Betty was afraid; she didn’t believe the _beau geste_. Few _beaux gestes_ had come pretty Betty’s way. “Don’t play with me,” she whispered.

“Go on, take the damn thing. I’ll swim the Channel.” There was no doubt about it now. She stretched out her hand to his, to the glittering thing in his palm; but her hand never reached the glittering thing. He followed her staring, terrified eyes to the door behind him.

“Evening, _Mr._ Wagstaffe,” said the plain-clothes man with a grin; and he fixed a delighted eye on the glittering thing in the palm of Mr. Wagstaffe’s hand. “How’s business with diamonds to-night?”

“Rotten,” said Mr. Wagstaffe slowly. “Girl’s afraid even to touch it.”

The plain-clothes man was delighted with himself; he didn’t hurry; he turned to the two constables who filled the doorway behind him. “See, boys! There’s not a thief in the world who won’t take a stolen jool to show off to his best girl. That’s why I’ve kept you chasing this smart young man all evening--I knew he had it, but I wanted to catch him in _flagrante delicto_, which is Latin for making a fool of himself.” He possessed himself of the ring from the young man’s hand. “Sorry to have disturbed you, miss. I didn’t like doing it, but he was such a long time in here, and he’s given us the go-by so often, that I thought I’d come up and fetch him, as he and I are going the same way home to-night. Come on, _Mr._ Wagstaffe.”

The pretty girl, who had sat like a numbed thing, stirred violently; she opened her mouth: “But----”

“I’m glad,” said the cavalier sharply, “to see that you took my advice about bringing a posse with you. I’m coming.”

“But I----” began Betty, incredulously, desperately.

“That’s all right, miss,” the detective soothed her. “He won’t be any more trouble to you for sixteen months or so.”

“Look here, I took----” began Betty furiously, as they moved to the door.

“Good-night, pretty Betty,” called the cavalier of the streets. “I’m sorry about the wrong I did you at Oxford. But I’ll do you a good turn one day....”

Betty rushed frantically towards them, but the detective slammed the door in her face; and through the flimsy panels she heard the gay voice of the cavalier of the streets:

“Come, gentlemen, remove the body.”

XII: THE SHAMELESS BEHAVIOUR OF A LORD[B]

I

This is quite a simple story, but it is about a lord. The lord in question was John Tiberius Vincent de Guy, second Viscount Paramour, and he was wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. He was, in fact, so wealthy that Mr. Otto Kahn stood at attention when speaking to him and Mr. John D. Rockefeller burnt his tongue with his hot milk at the mere mention of his name. Of course, young Lord Paramour had not made the money himself; he merely decorated it. His father, the late Watt A. Guy, will be remembered as the inventor and promoter of the Paramour Safety Hairpin: which, it has been said, has made a deeper impress on contemporary life than any other invention except Beecham’s Pills. It was thought pretty decent of the old man that, when one day as he lay on his death-bed the Prime Minister dropped in to hand him a Viscounty, he instantly took as his title the name which had made his millions, and died Lord Paramour; in which choice some people of the meaner sort have professed to find a particular aptness, for had not (they asked) the most famous advertisement of the Hairpins, that one which has for more than a decade been emblazoned in coloured lights across the eastern end of Piccadilly Circus and has raised advertisement to the majesty of an institution--had not those letters of fire beseeched: “Buy Paramour, Lord of Hairpins. No Woman Should be Without”? Whereupon, to be sure, no woman was.

Of young Lord Paramour it must be said that he was a gentleman of spirit; the war found him no laggard; but he was not ambitious in the arts of peace. It pained some of his most worthy friends to see with what indomitable energy he pursued the professions of leisure and luxury; that he used his immense fortune and unusual parts--which it has always been the pleasure of worthy persons to discern in the immensely rich--to no other advantage than the decorations of his various palaces and castles, the lavish entertainment of his friends therein, and only the most unthinking exercise of charity; but those nearest to him were most of all displeased at his evasion of his duty to his line and to society, for young Lord Paramour showed a strong disinclination to marry. A pageant of young ladies of quality was passed before him in review, but he either heeded them not or remarked, in a most amiable manner, on the imperfections of line, carriage, and cosmetics which, he said, were apparent in the most recent generation of young ladies. There were not, of course, wanting a few ladies of determination to make a formidable attack on his celibacy on behalf of their daughters; but young Lord Paramour withstood them with what can only be called a humiliating ease.

II

The Albert Hall Ball, in aid of the hospitals of London, will be remembered by many people as one of the most brilliant entertainments of the brilliant season of 1922. But it will be remembered by Mrs. Lyon-West--she was a New York Lyon before she married a Hampshire West--for a remarkable conversation with young Lord Paramour, who, after dancing with her beautiful daughter, had drifted into her box. The word “drifted” is here used in its strictly nautical sense, for Lord Paramour had not the faintest idea into whose box he was entering. He had, after having danced with Miss Lyon-West (whose name he did not know, which is a grave reflection on the present state of society) discovered a distaste for the company of his guests in his own box, and had wandered to the first door he saw and shoved it open. Lord Paramour was an abstemious young man, but that night he had indulged in a glass or so of wine, wittily remarking to a friend that “a chap can’t dance in cold blood.”

“Why, good-evening, Lord Paramour!” cried Mrs. Lyon-West brightly.

“Ah,” said Lord Paramour. “’Evening. Sorry, I’m sure.” And he proceeded to drift out of the box again.

“But please don’t go so soon, Lord Paramour! I am _delighted_ to see you. Only a moment ago I was remarking how _beautifully_ you and my daughter were dancing together!”

“Your daughter? Ah!” And Lord Paramour, who couldn’t for the life of him remember the lady’s name, nor where he had met her, sat down and regarded her benevolently. “Better call her madam,” he thought to himself.

“Enchanting girl, madam. Enchanting dancer. Enchanting lines. Enchanting everything. In fact, madam, a very adequate girl, your daughter.”

“I am _so_ glad you like her,” said Mrs. Lyon-West brightly. Mrs. Lyon-West had a reputation to keep up as to brightness.

“Like her, madam!” cried Lord Paramour. “I like her enormously. Most girls, I find, are rather tiresome--but your daughter, madam, is most unusual. And she is witty, which is remarkable in a girl. Please don’t deny it--I distinctly heard her say something witty while we were dancing. She said, if I remember aright: ‘The art of dancing is not to dance but to avoid other dancers.’ Now that, madam, is a _mot_, in fact it is a _bon mot_. I am very partial to a bon mot, madam. And considering that I had just bumped the back of her head into some ass’s elbow I think it was very apt of her. I was much impressed by your daughter, madam.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Lyon-West, “looks aren’t everything. A woman should be clever as well as beautiful----”

“Exactly,” said Lord Paramour. “Exactly. Or quite.”

“She reads such a lot!” sighed Mrs. Lyon-West.

“Well, well, there’s nothing like reading,” said Lord Paramour. “Personally, I can never find anything to read these days. Lot of septic trash.”

“But you are so fastidious, Lord Paramour!”

“Oh, not at the moment, madam!”

“Well, then, why are you so long getting married?” asked Mrs. Lyon-West with a bright smile.

“Lot of trash,” again sighed Lord Paramour. “Young women very inferior these days, madam. Always, of course, excepting your daughter.”

“Don’t except her. Marry her,” said Mrs. Lyon-West wittily.

“Not bad, that!” chuckled Lord Paramour. “But not good, either. Would she, d’you think, consider my advances favourably?”

Mrs. Lyon-West thought she would, and Lord Paramour sighed.

“Shall I tell you,” he put to her, “something that I have never told any one else? Shall I tell you why I have never married and why I cannot marry your daughter, enchanting though she is? Are you sure you will not be offended?”

“Tell me,” said Mrs. Lyon-West. “Oh, please tell me!” She had not dreamed of getting so far.

“Well, it’s like this,” began Lord Paramour sadly. “But I must put it delicately. If you have read or seen _Trilby_, you will remember that the three artist fellows were terribly upset on hearing that Trilby had sat to another artist fellow for the ‘altogether.’ You get my meaning, madam? You are not offended?”

Mrs. Lyon-West said she did and she wasn’t.

“Well, then, it’s like this. I am, madam, incapable, constitutionally, physically, and mentally incapable of marrying any one whom I have not seen in the ‘altogether’----”

“Sir,” said Mrs. Lyon-West, “how dare you?”

“That’s just the point,” sighed Lord Paramour. “I daren’t. And that’s why I can’t marry any one.” He rose, saying sadly: “I knew you would be offended. Women are odd. Good-night, madam. Sorry, I’m sure. Enchanting girl, your daughter. She has promised me this dance. Good-night, madam.”

“Sir,” said Mrs. Lyon-West, “good-night.”

III

Now a digression here on the attitude of worldly mothers to their daughters might be of interest, but would not further this story. Let it suffice, in the chronicle of the shameless behaviour of young Lord Paramour, to say that Mrs. Lyon-West was a mother after the Roman model, and exacted from her offspring no less than abject obedience in all matters which might obtain to her welfare; in which she was helped by the fact that her beautiful daughter, in the days following the Albert Hall Ball, showed a pleasing inclination for the company of the witty and elegant Lord Paramour. Whereupon Mrs. Lyon-West asked him down to the Lyon-West place for the week-end.

The omission of Mr. Lyon-West from this story may seem marked; and if we are going down there with Lord Paramour politeness demands a glance at him. Meet Mr. Lyon-West. He is a little gentleman with an amiable eye and a hard and soft tennis court on his head. He does not matter very much.

Among the other guests at the house-party, as they revealed themselves after dinner on Saturday night, were Lord Pro and Lady Con--who, as of course you know, is a Beaver in her own right. That amiable baronet, Sir Courtenay Langouste, sat in a secluded corner reading the 68th edition of _If Winter Comes_, while his lady near by cut the pages of the 69th edition. Major General Sir Auction Bridges was with Mr. Soda, hotly contesting Mr. Soda’s theory that hiccups was an infectious disease and could be prevented by inoculation. Lady Savoury, our first female M.P. and a great Improver, went about from group to group, indignantly remarking that it served Oscar Wilde right if only for saying that work is the curse of our drinking classes. Mrs. Custard, on the other hand, retired early, complaining that she was very short of long gloves.

During a break in the conversation, which was witty and sustained, Lord Paramour was understood to say that he would not be going to divine service the next day; and his hostess was obliging enough to say that, in that case, she too would not go to the morning service, but would walk Lord Paramour round the grounds; which would, she said, repay an early morning visit. Miss Lyon-West was understood to say that she came to the country for rest.

As, next morning, the countryside sweetly echoed with the songs of birds and church-bells, Lord Paramour and his hostess stepped out of the house upon the velvet sward. The broad sweep of park and woodland lay before them, soft and mellow in the haze of the morning sun, and Lord Paramour suggested a brisk walk, but Mrs. Lyon-West begged to be excused, saying she was enamoured of her rose garden; in which direction, skirting the spacious house, they leisurely betook themselves, talking of this and that in an elegant way.

“Penelope--” said Mrs. Lyon-West, for such was her daughter’s name--“Penelope loves gardens. Especially rose gardens.”

“Indeed,” said Lord. Paramour. “Well, there’s nothing like a rose garden.”

“_How_ I agree with you!” said Mrs. Lyon-West brightly. “Penelope, however, carries it almost to an infatuation.”

“’Pon my word!” said Lord Paramour.

“Yes, Lord Paramour. During the rose season, for instance, she _insists_ on occupying a suite on the ground floor, from which she can at any moment step out and bathe herself in the beauty of the flowers....”

“You turn a phrase very prettily, madam.”

“Oh, _thank_ you, Lord Paramour,” breathed Mrs. Lyon-West. “But, as you will understand, her occupying a bedroom and a bathroom just _there_ makes things just a leetle awkward. For she _insists_ on having her blinds drawn open, that she may enjoy the roses over her toilet, and so _of course_ the gardeners cannot enter the rose garden during the morning, as it distracts them from their work.”

“Lazy dogs!” cried Lord Paramour.

“Ah, here it is!” cried his hostess as, rounding an angle of the house, they came upon the rose garden. “It is supposed to be the best rose garden in the country.”

“Enchanting,” said Lord Paramour. “Enchanting, considering the gardeners do no work in it in the mornings.”

“Oh, there’s Niblick, the agent!” cried Mrs. Lyon-West. “I _must_ speak to him for a moment. Do excuse me a moment, Lord Paramour. I will be back in _one_ moment.”

Lord Paramour, of course, excused her; and very pleasantly whiled away twenty minutes with a cigarette in the rose garden. He paced about.... He saw the roses.... He saw a rose in particular, a white one....

IV

The day passed in elegant conversation, as is the way with the landed gentry all the world over. Lord Paramour and Miss Lyon-West, beautiful in vermilion _organdie_, went for a walk in the afternoon; but on their return Mrs. Lyon-West observed on her daughter’s cheeks none of those signs of pretty confusion which denote a happy consummation; they were still the pale cheeks of a young lady of fashion; they were unmantled.

Now it has frequently been said of Mrs. Lyon-West that she is indiscreet; but never that she is not brave.

That night, when the gentlemen had joined the ladies, and Mrs. Custard had retired, saying she had to go to Paris early in the morning as she was very short of long gloves, Mrs. Lyon-West addressed herself to Lord Paramour brightly:

“I hope,” she said, “that you enjoyed your walk in the rose garden?”

“Enchanting!” said Lord Paramour. “Enchanting.”

“I’m _so_ glad you liked it,” breathed Mrs. Lyon-West; and she looked at him steadfastly, the brave woman. “Well, Lord Paramour?”

“Ah,” said Lord Paramour thoughtfully.

She created a diversion by requiring a light for her cigarette, which Mr. Soda, with his well-known _galanterie_, instantly supplied.

“The only thing I’m not sure about,” whispered Lord Paramour, “is whether I like her nose. Sorry, I’m sure.”

XIII: THE LOQUACIOUS LADY OF LANSDOWNE PASSAGE

This is a story about my friend George Tarlyon, who is a brave man and no bigger liar than most. Of course, George Tarlyon ought to know better than to be afraid of walking through Lansdowne Passage at night. But you can tell him that until you are blue in the face and he will smile at you and agree with you, but still he will not walk through Lansdowne Passage at night, saying that he is afraid. And when you ask him of what he is afraid, he will smile a shameless smile and reply that he gives Lansdowne Passage a miss because he is afraid of meeting a woman in it. At that you will at once express impatience, disbelief, and disgust, for on no female occasion whatsoever will you have noticed upon George Tarlyon’s brow that cold sweat which denotes a decent bashfulness in a man. And then, maybe, you will jeer at George Tarlyon, forgetting for a moment that he is a head taller than any quick-tempered man should be, and thinking to goad him into revelation of the reason or reasons why he, a noted warrior on many fields from Ranelagh to Vimy Ridge, should be afraid of meeting a woman in Lansdowne Passage. And maybe George Tarlyon will tell you, and maybe he will not.