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Lucy Clover, at her end of the line, laid down the receiver, waited a few moments, and then dialled a taxi rank. While the taxi was on its way, she went into her bedroom and put on her hat.

It was a very pretty hat. Some might have thought it a little too pretty, but Lucy Clover had always liked pretty things, and she always would. And, after all, she was only thirty-eight, and that was just nothing at all in these days of beauty parlours. But even without her full war paint, as for instance when she woke up in the morning and blinked her eyes open to another day, she was still attractive and did not feel in the least ashamed when the maid, or anyone else, entered the room. Indeed, it was something of a triumph to be able to hold your own under such obvious disadvantages. Perhaps she did keep a small powder-puff under her pillow.

The figure now reflected in her mirror was rather small and rather plump. Not grossly plump—there was nothing barmaidish about her, though barmaids are not necessarily gross—but just attractively curved to emphasize, without any doubt, the difference between the sexes. The good-looking secretary with whom she had just conversed over the telephone, and whom she was presently destined to meet, had almost the slim figure of a boy. Another difference between her and the secretary was that Madeleine’s hair was very dark, and Lucy Clover’s was very light. In former years it had dazzled the stalls across the footlights, and been responsible for more than one engagement. It may have played its part, for it had a lovely luminous natural sheen, in her final engagement to George Harrington Clover, who took her to the Savoy one evening and earnestly described a succession of sleepless nights.

“I shall never get a full night’s sleep till I am married to you,” he had declared.

“Is that a compliment?” she had queried, opening her wide innocent eyes.

He had barely understood. He had more money than brains, and Lucy would really have appreciated both. But the years were passing, and she did not want to be “the third girl from the left” all her life, and when this had happened she was not the hell of a way off forty. And so, a week later at the Ritz, she had agreed to become Mrs. George Harrington Clover, which may not have been an heroic name but was a marked improvement on the name of Gummeridge with which she had set out.

She had enjoyed two years of married life. After the first raptures had worn off, it had been amusing to discover herself living with someone more brainless than herself. Indeed, to her interest and surprise, the business of marriage increased her intelligence, while with her husband, some years her junior, it seemed to have the opposite effect. For her, therefore, it may have been a blessing in disguise when George Clover fell off a Swiss mountain. She did not realise it, and although she had never possessed any passionate love for George, she mourned him sincerely, and dreaded the prospect of being once more at a loose end. And it was in this mood, after a year of widowhood, that she had met a gentleman named Edward P. Bloggs....

The taxi stopped outside a tall rather shabby building. The shabbiness was accentuated rather than diminished by a smart commissionaire standing on the pavement. In a lower window was a sign: “Offices to Let.” The commissionaire advanced to the taxi importantly and opened the door.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Haines, of Spare Parts Limited,” said Lucy Clover, as she alighted.

“Ah, Mr. Haines,” repeated the commissionaire, still with his air of dignity. No one should learn from Smith that matters were not as they should be. If this were indeed his last duty, he would end with a flourish! “I’ll take you up, madam. This way.”

He led her up the narrow stairs, pushed open a door to back premises—the door was marked “S.P.L.—Enquiries”—and announced in an impressive voice:

“A lady to see Mr. Haines.”

As Lucy entered the outer office she received an impression that four limp people had suddenly stiffened. She wondered whether this always happened, or whether it was due to her forbidding atmosphere. She rather hoped the latter. She felt forbidding.

“What name, please?” asked the dark-haired girl sitting at a desk.

“Lu—Mrs. George Harrington Clover,” answered Lucy. “I have an appointment.”

“Yes, it was I who spoke to you over the telephone,” said the girl. “I’ll find out whether Mr. Haines can see you.”

“Mr. Haines is going to see me, so there’ll be no need for you to find out!” retorted the visitor. “Is that his door over there?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. Don’t trouble.”

And she marched to the door, flung it open without knocking, and passed through, closing it noisily behind her.

“As an entrance, I think that will pass!” murmured Madeleine.

“Sure, I couldn’t do it better meself,” said O’Hara.

“Lummy!” blinked Tonsil.

William Fingleton made no comment. He was still suffering from an earlier shock.

On the other side of the door, Lucy Clover gave the astonished young man she had called to see her most baleful expression. Once, in her musical comedy days, an irate producer had roared at her and five other girls, “Fer Gawd’s sake, stop looking as though someone was giving you sugarcandy, and glare!” Now she glared with a ferocity that would have sent the producer into a seventh heaven of delight. The effect was telling.

“Are you Mr. Haines?” demanded Lucy, without even giving him time to say good morning.

“I am,” replied Jerry.

“Oh! You are! And what’s your position here? Are you the manager?”

“No, the assistant manager,”

“Oh, yes, so they told me.”

“Mr. Bloggs is the manager.”

“Is he!” said Lucy Clover, vehemently. “Well, then, if he is the manager, why isn’t he here to attend to his business?”

The answer was obvious. There was no business to attend to. But Jerry kept this to himself.

“Er—may I know your business, Miss Clover?” he enquired.

“You certainly may,” replied the visitor. “My business is Spare Parts Limited!”

Jerry’s eyes opened wide. His surprise was so ingenuous that the hardness within Lucy Clover’s breast began to soften.

“I don’t quite understand,” murmured Jerry.

“Then it’s time you did,” retorted Lucy. “Do you know how much capital is invested in your company?”

Jerry knew of £485 2s. 6d., but he did not mention that. Instead he answered, “No.”

“Don’t you?” Lucy looked at him curiously. “I should have thought, being assistant manager, you might have known it. However, Mr. Haines, I’m not a business woman, or I’d never be in my present position. My conscience, I wouldn’t! The capital of this business is ten thousand pounds, and two thousand of it is mine!”

“Was!” thought Jerry, and wished the floor would swallow him.

Lucy waited for the comment that did not come, while Jerry waited for his mind to unwhirl. Two thousand pounds! Two thousand pounds! That made two thousand four hundred and eighty-five, two-and-sixpence. Lucy’s voice broke in on his further calculations.

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“Er—yes—I heard you.”

“Well, then!”

“What?”

“I’ve come to talk about it, and as Mr. Bloggs isn’t here I suppose I’ve got to talk about it to you!” Suddenly she exclaimed, “Where is Mr. Bloggs?”

“I don’t know,” replied Jerry.

“What—you don’t know where he is?”

“I’m afraid not, Miss Flower.”

“The name is Clover, and it’s Mrs.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“That’s all right. But please tell me, Mr. Haines, and don’t think me rude—do you know anything?”

Jerry Haines took a deep breath, and accepted the situation.

“Very little,” he admitted. “If you’re not a business woman, I’m afraid I’m not a business man——”

“Then how——?”

“Do I become assistant manager of Spare Parts Limited? Because, Mrs. Clover, I am a mug. And Mr. Bloggs collects mugs.” He flushed. “I beg your pardon——”

But Lucy Clover had not taken offence. Indeed, by now, she had lost her balefulness, and she almost smiled. She had been told so many lies in her life that the truth always refreshed her.

“Don’t apologise,” she said. “I can take it. But, please, just tell me what is happening here?”

“Yes, of course,” answered Jerry. “You’ve a right to know. But I wonder whether you’d mind giving me your information first? Would you? Mine will follow.”

“Well—so long as it does follow!” She paused, and considered. Things sounded so idiotic in words. Still, things were idiotic, including herself. She plunged. “I had a little capital, and one day I thought it would be more fun to put it into something than to have it in the bank, so I looked through the advertisements of businesses in my paper, there were lots, and chose one with a pin. It was Spare Parts Limited, and after writing to the Box Number, I had an answer from your Mr. Bloggs.”

“Not mine, please,” begged Jerry.

“He’s certainly not mine, either, I thought him pleasant enough, though, when he called to see me at my flat. I thought he’d want me to call at his office, but he said he hadn’t quite fixed up his premises yet. ‘I wouldn’t care to ask a person like you to fall over workmen and paint-pots,’ he said. A person like me! Do I strike you like the Countess of What-Not, Mr. Haines?”

“Not now,” he replied. She lifted her eyebrows. “A little, perhaps, when you first came into this room.”

“Oh! I see! Well, if I seemed like a countess then, and seemed anything like I felt, all I can say is they must be a pretty sultry lot!” She gave a short laugh, then frowned. Was she shedding her sultriness too quickly? She looked at Jerry dubiously, then shrugged and went on: “Anyhow, Mr. Bloggs was most polite, and even when I told him I’d tumbled over plenty of workmen and paint-pots in my time—Mr. Bloggs didn’t know that I used to be on the stage—he went on treating me as if I was a person of importance. One likes that—if one is—a mug? I fell for it properly. But it really did seem what I think you call a good proposition, Mr. Haines,” she added, earnestly, “Spare Parts! People are always needing them, aren’t they? And how often they can’t get them! Don’t trouble to try here, there and everywhere, but just state your difficulty to Spare Parts Limited, and if we haven’t got ’em in stock, which it’s up to us to have, we know where to get ’em at a moment’s notice.” Her voice became Mr. Bloggs’s as she reeled off these details, displaying her histrionic qualities. “Oh, yes, it all sounded fine! I was going to double my capital in six months, and—what’s the matter?”

“Go on, go on!” groaned Jerry.

“No, what was it?”

“Just that the phrase had a familiar sound.”

She shot him a shrewd glance.

“You—don’t mean——?”

“Please go on. I’ve promised to tell mine afterwards.”

“Very well. But there isn’t much more. I told him I didn’t know much about business, and he suggested that I ought to see a solicitor so that everything would be watertight and shipshape. The dear man even sent me one next day. Wasn’t it kind of him? Oh, my God! I wonder how much Mr. Swallow, of Swallow, Bird and Swallow, swallowed of the cheque I made out to him? Or perhaps he was Mr. Bloggs himself with moustache and whiskers! Well, goodness, I’m not going into all the particulars. All that matters is that, after a few days, I found I was a shareholder in Spare Parts Limited to the tune of two thousand pounds, and that after a few days more I was calling myself names, and wanted the two thousand pounds back again. But could I get it?”

“It would surprise me.”

“I couldn’t even get Mr. Bloggs or Mr. Swallow! All the interviews had been at my flat, and when I called to see Mr. Swallow, whose address was on some of the papers, though not his telephone number, my taximan couldn’t find the road because it didn’t exist! What do you know about that?”

“And what about Mr. Bloggs’s address?” asked Jerry.

“He said he was moving, and wouldn’t be there till next Monday.”

“Was it 19a, Fenner Crescent, W.2.?”

“That’s it.”

“Well, that doesn’t exist, either.”

Lucy Clover swallowed.

“But didn’t he give you his previous address?” asked Jerry.

“Yes, the hotel where he was staying.”

“Oh! You got that?”

“Why not?”

“He didn’t give it to us. I suppose you tried it?”

“Several times, but he was always out.”

“Did you phone?”

“I couldn’t get him.”

“Did you write?”

“He didn’t reply. And the last time I tried the hotel I was told he had gone, and had left no posting address. Of course, I ought to have got advice. But if you want the bloody truth—yes, bloody—I was so ashamed of myself that I couldn’t pluck up the courage to let anybody else know it!”

Jerry nodded sympathetically.

“I know the feeling,” he said. “But, look here, there’s something else you could have done—what you’re doing now! This office. Why not before? I should have thought you’d have tried here first.”

“I did try it first,” answered Lucy.

“What, you called here? I don’t remember——”

“I didn’t say I called here. I said I tried to. But the address on my papers was not the address I’ve now come to. It was 156, Rolliter Way, Balham. There isn’t any Rolliter Way, Balham.”

“Whew,” muttered Jerry, and wiped his brow. “No wonder he’s flown while the flying’s good! When did you find that out?”

“First of all. Then I tried Mr. Swallow and then the hotel. After that I seemed sunk, because even if the firm was on the telephone it wouldn’t be in the book yet. It was only this morning that I got the brainy idea of getting on to Telephone Enquiries. They told me there was a number, and they gave it to me. And then I rang you up. It’s a wonder he gave you a telephone, but I suppose he couldn’t have fooled his own staff without that, and perhaps he meant to keep the game going a bit longer and has only flitted now because it’s been getting too hot? Well, anyhow, Mr. Haines, that is my story—so now what is yours?”

“Unfortunately it isn’t mine only,” answered Jerry, rising from his chair. “It’s the story of five others, as well. If you don’t mind, I’ll bring them in.”

During the next half-hour Lucy Clover learned first-hand from the staff of Spare Parts Limited all they were able to tell her, but the one thing she wanted to know most of all was not known by anybody—namely, the whereabouts of Mr. Edward P. Bloggs. When the sad tales were told, and mutual sympathy had been expressed all round, she put the blunt question.

“Then what are you all going to do?”

“Wind up, I suppose,” answered Jerry, “and then look for new jobs.”

“What I’m going to look for,” declared Lucy, vehemently, “is Mr. Bloggs!”

“I don’t imagine you’ll be alone in that,” remarked Madeleine. “There’s a little pile here of unpaid bills. By the way, do we have to pay them?”

“What a terrible idea! What makes you think that?”

“I don’t think it—I just want to be quite sure we don’t! It would be awful if, having money in the business, we were responsible!”

Fingleton cleared his throat, and they turned to him as the member with most experience.

“The debtor is the firm,” he stated, “and claims against a limited company can only be settled out of the firm’s assets. If the firm hasn’t any assets, that would be the misfortune of the creditors.”

“Cheers!” murmured Madeleine. “Thank you for those comforting words!”

“Always assumin’,” put in O’Hara, “this is a limited company? We’re bankin’ on it without any evidence.”

Fingleton again came to the rescue.

“In any case,” he said, “there could be no claim against any of us individually unless we had signed any document which—so to speak—established us as partners. I take it, none of us have signed such documents?”

None of them had.

When the depressing conference ended they had reached only one decision. This was to make assurance doubly sure by seeing the week out—there was only one more day to go—and then to leave the sinking ship before they went under with it. After that? No one knew. Their weary minds were too tired to explore the dismal future. Lucy Clover returned to her flat. Five members of the staff went out to lunch. But Tim O’Hara stayed behind to hold the fort, and also to hold Mr. Bloggs if by a miracle he put in an appearance.

He spent the time smoking, yawning, and reading a newspaper. Just before the lunchers came back, he read something that arrested his attention. It had nothing to do with Mr. Bloggs. It had nothing to do with Spare Parts Limited. Probably no one but a wild Irishman would have thought twice about it. But his interest in what he read was so absorbing that Madeleine had to touch his shoulder before he realised his lonely vigil was over. He looked up, with a grin.

“Of course, I’m mad,” he said.

“But we’ve always known that, darling,” replied Madeleine.

She had recklessly had wine with her lunch.

“Faith, ’tis fine to be in agreement!” laughed O’Hara, “Good afternoon. I’ll be seein’ ye in the mornin’.”

And, stuffing the newspaper in his pocket, he ran out of the building and leapt into his car.