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II

The altercation flagged, and, seeing her chance, Mrs. O’Riordan, the head-housekeeper, sixty-two years of age and as slim and natty as a girl in her black artificial silk, killed it with a question. Mrs. O’Riordan, who lived her whole life in two small rooms on the eighth-floor, could only simulate an interest in the appetites of the incomprehensible clientèle. What occupied her incessant attention was the upholstery of the chairs on which people sat, the carpets which they trod, the rooms in which they slept, the cloak-rooms to which the ladies retired, etc. She ate little, and somewhat despised cookery.

“I haven’t got much time,” said Mrs. O’Riordan. “What is going to be done about that mink-fur business?” And her glance said: “You are males. You ought to know. Answer me.”

Mrs. O’Riordan, though she had no disinclination for the society of men, exhibited always a certain slight sex-bias, half-defensive, half-challenging. She was a widowed Yorkshire gentlewoman, had had two Irish military husbands, and still possessed three sons, one of whom regularly sent flowers to her with his best love on her birthday, while the other two, in India, only wrote to her in reply to her rare letters to them. In the solitude of her eyrie on the eighth-floor, absorbed morning and night in the direction of her complex department, she sometimes found a minute to regret that neither of her husbands had given her a daughter. She would have liked a girl in those houses in County Meath. Together, she and a daughter would have formed a powerful opposition to the male ascendancy.

“Mink?” asked Evelyn, his tone conveying astonishment that he should be in ignorance of any happening within the hotel.

“I only heard of it myself an hour since,” said Mr. Cousin.

“You were not in your office at half-past twelve last night, Mr. Cousin,” Mrs. O’Riordan addressed the French manager, with a polite implication of reproach for slackness.

“No,” said Mr. Cousin. “I went home at a quarter to twelve.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. O’Riordan drily. “This happened at twelve-thirty.”

She then related to Evelyn how a lady who had been dining with two other ladies had presented a ticket in the ladies’ cloak-room, and on receiving a fur in exchange for it had asked for her ‘other fur,’ alleging positively that she had deposited two furs, the second one a priceless mink, given to her by a deceased friend in Chicago. The head of the cloak-room (who was better acquainted with the secret nature of women than the most experienced man in the universe), while admitting the deposit of several minks that evening by other guests (who had reclaimed them and departed), denied any knowledge of the fur from Chicago. Unfortunately, the ground-floor housekeeper, Miss Brury, was by chance in the cloak-room, and, being the head-attendant’s official superior, she had taken charge of the dispute on behalf of the hotel. Unfortunately—because Miss Brury was very tired and nervous after an exhausting day of battle with the stupidity and obstinacy of subordinates and she had been over-candid to the guest, who had surpassed her in candour. The episode had finished with a shocking display of mutual recrimination. Both women had had hysterics. Guests of both sexes had paused at the open door of the cloak-room to listen to the language; and finally the owner of the alleged missing cloak had burst through them, and rushed frantically across the hall crying aloud that the hotel was the resort of thieves, that the hotel-staff was in league with thieves, and that she would have the law on the lot of them.

Mrs. O’Riordan concluded:

“Long Sam told me that by the time she reached the doors she was demanding about a million pounds damages. No, she hadn’t a car and she wouldn’t have a taxi—said she wouldn’t, not for a million pounds—another million pounds—be beholden to the hotel for anything. . . . Oh yes, I came downstairs. I was reading. They fetched me—for Alice Brury. . . . No, the two companions of the infuriated lady had left earlier. She’d stayed talking to someone. . . . Miss Brury’s in bed to-day.”

Even Evelyn blenched at this terrible story, unique in the annals of the hotel. It was utterly incredible, but he had to believe it. And it was less incredible than the fact that he had been about, off and on, since four in the morning and yet no rumour of it had reached him. It was not on the night-report. Well, it could not have been on the night-report, whose records did not begin till one o’clock. But Reyer must have heard of the thing. Long Sam also. Suddenly the obvious explanation of the mystery occurred to him. Everybody had been assuming that he was already familiar with the details of the episode, he who always knew everything. And if he kept silence about the horror, what underling would care or dare to refer to it in his presence?

He saw shame on every face in the room. And well might there be shame on every face, for the pride of every person was profoundly humiliated.

“I’ve just been talking to O’Connor,” said Mr. Cousin, impassible. “He’s coming at once. He says he thinks he may have heard of the lady before. He’s calling at the Yard.”

O’Connor was the private detective of the hotel.

“I daresay he has,” Evelyn observed. “The woman is almost certainly—well, doesn’t matter what she is. She may get away with it. And if we have to pay her her million pounds or the National Debt, of course we shall pay it and look pleasant, and that will be that. It’s that scene that matters. You’re sure Miss Brury started it, Mrs. O’Riordan?”

“She admits it herself,” answered the Irishwoman. “But when you think of the provocation——”

“There can’t be any such thing as provocation in this hotel,” Evelyn interrupted her blandly. “There never has been before, and there mustn’t be again. If the customer is Judas Iscariot, he’s still the customer till he’s safely outside the hotel. That’s a principle. The hotel turns the other cheek every time. I’m afraid we shall have to find another job for Miss Brury.”

Murmurs of assent.

“The poor thing says she wouldn’t stay on here for anything.”

“Well then,” said Evelyn. “We must struggle on as best we can without her.”

“Yes,” retorted Mrs. O’Riordan, rendered audacious and contrarious by nerves. “It’s all very well for you men to talk like that. But if you knew the difficulties——” She glanced at Mr. Semple, the Staff-manager, as if for moral support. But the prudent Mr. Semple gave no response.

“We’ll have a chat later,” said Evelyn.

He was thinking that at least a year was required for the training of a housekeeper, and that Mrs. O’Riordan had referred not long ago to the dearth of really good candidates. Mrs. O’Riordan was in favour of engaging women of her own class, her theory being that gentlewomen could exercise better authority over chambermaids and valets, and also could deal more effectively with peevish and recalcitrant visitors; and Evelyn had agreed with her, had thought that he agreed with her; at any rate he had expressed agreement. Miss Brury was of a lower origin. She had failed to stand the racket. Her failure had seriously smirched the hotel. Would a gentlewoman have done better? Possibly, he thought. But he was by no means sure. Still, he would support Mrs. O’Riordan’s desire for gentlewomen on the Floors. Mrs. O’Riordan, invaluable, irreplaceable (not quite, of course, but nearly), showed the independent attitude which comes from the possession of a small private income. He had known himself to accept her ideas against his own judgment. The fact was that she had a certain quality of formidableness. . . .

Delicate situation, this, arising out of the scene and out of the dearth of good candidates. But he had complete confidence in his ability to resolve it. What a damned nuisance women were, gentlewomen as well as their social inferiors! He knew that the Banqueting-manager was boiling up for a commotion with the head-housekeeper about the use of a room near the ball-room. Tact——

The telephone bell rang, and Miss Cass answered it.

“S O S. from Weybridge, sir,” said Miss Cass to Evelyn. “Some difficulty with the contractors over the alterations to the restaurant. The work is at a standstill. Mr. Plott would be very much obliged if you could run down there at once, instead of this afternoon. But you can’t. You are due at the Laundry at eleven. It’s after half-past ten.”

“Why can’t I?” said Evelyn instantly. “I could go to the Laundry this afternoon. Tell them I’ll be there at three—no, four. And tell Mr. Plott I’m coming to him now. And ask if my car is waiting.”

“It’s bound to be, sir. Brench is always early.”

“I’ll leave the rest to you, Cousin,” Evelyn murmured to the Hotel-manager.

In twenty seconds he was quitting the office, with gay nods and smiles, and a special smile for Mrs. O’Riordan. He was not gravely alarmed about the Wey restaurant. Nor was he flinching from problems at the Palace. Nor was his gaiety assumed. Problems were his meat and drink. He saw in the longish drive to Weybridge an opportunity for full happy reflection. He knew that he would return to the Palace with detailed solutions whose ingenuity would impress everybody. His life was of enthralling interest to him. No other kind of life could be as interesting. To-morrow, in addition to the General Meetings of the Company, there would be Sir Henry Savott to manipulate. Perhaps if he conferred with Sir Henry in the latter’s suite, as he properly might, he would encounter Gracie again. But the figure of Gracie had slipped away, like a ship standing out to sea.