Читать книгу As Other Men Are - Yates Dornford - Страница 7

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“Oh, Simon dear,” said Patricia, “why aren’t you rich?”

“If it comes to that,” said Simon ruefully, “why are you poor? You’ve less excuse than I have. At least, your mother was an American.”

“Yes, but she married for love—and got cut off for it. Which is why her poor little girl must marry money.”

Simon Beaulieu regarded the firmament. This was arrayed in black and silver. There was no moon: only the countless stars at all lightened the darkness, their dim, peculiar radiance turning the countryside into a kingdom of dreams. As though to indorse such witchcraft, the strains of a distant valse stole in and out of earshot, rising and falling into the trough of Silence, intoning a love-sick litany and rendering exquisitely the mystery of the hour. The air was magically still and quick with the sweet perfume of new-mown hay. Midsummer Night had come to Castle Breathless in all her glory.

“You know,” said Simon, extracting a cigarette, “I dare say it’s just as well. We think we’re suited, but we probably aren’t. If we joined up, we should probably scrap like hell.”

“I doubt it,” said Patricia, slipping a bare arm through his. “You’ve got your faults, of course: and so have I. But they’re—they’re quite bearable, Simon.”

“It isn’t a question of faults,” said Simon slowly. “I love your faults, Pat.... It’s a question of temperament. You know. Everything in the garden looks lovely—so long as you’re outside. If we got in, it might be a very different shout. Supposing you didn’t like the colour of my vests.”

“I’m sure I should,” said Patricia solemnly. “And if I didn’t, they could easily be dyed.”

“Yes, but I shouldn’t want them dyed. You see? You’d say you couldn’t stick them, and I should retort that I had to wear the swine, an’ before we knew where we were we should be in over our knees.”

Patricia Bohun frowned.

“What colour are they?” she demanded.

“A warm biscuit,” said Simon.

“You must look maddening,” said Patricia. “And I like biscuit very much. So you see it’s all nonsense to say we shouldn’t get on.”

“Yes, I knew that was coming,” said Simon. “That was easy. But you know what I mean, Pat. Life’s rather like a film, and a friendship like ours is like a jolly good act. But marriage is a ‘close-up.’ Well, I don’t say ours wouldn’t ’ve come off: but there are plenty that don’t.”

“D’you honestly think that our marriage would have been less successful than those we propose to make?”

“I don’t propose——”

“Yes, you do. Simon, you can’t let me down. You’re going to marry Estelle.”

“I can’t bear it,” said Simon. “She’s so—so fidgety. Always chucking herself about. You’re so calm, Pat.... Besides, she wouldn’t look at me.”

“Well, she’s looked at you pretty hard for the last twelve months,” said Patricia sagely. “Besides, you can but try. If she says ‘No,’ well, then, you’ve done your bit. But it’d make it easier for me. I’d like to feel we were both in the same old boat. I know I’ve got your love, but then I’d have your understanding too. I’d feel you knew what it meant. I don’t want you to be unhappy, Simon dear: but I think you’d be less unhappy if you were married. And—and it’d be putting two hedges between us, instead of only one.... You see, when I marry George—as I suppose I shall: we’re supping together, and you know what that means.... Well, when I marry George, that won’t wash you out. I’ll be bound to think of you. And if I think of you single, unmarried—available, Simon, it’ll be ten times as hard to chase you out of my mind. And I want to play the game. One may have to marry for money, but at least one can honour one’s bond.... And I think, perhaps, it’d be the same for you. You needn’t marry money, because you’re a man: but three hundred a year isn’t much, and it’s growing less. And in these days.... Well, Estelle’s got fifteen thousand. Besides, she’s awfully nice. And if you were married, you’d have a game to play. D’you see, Simon?”

“Yes,” said Simon Beaulieu. “You mean that in love, as in everything else in the world, the positive’s easier to deal with than the negative. Better a Dead Sea apple than only forbidden fruit.”

“And you say we shouldn’t get on!” said Patricia deliberately.

There was a silence.

Shoulder to shoulder, the two stood still as statuary, looking into the night. For such an exercise their coign of vantage was superb. The balustrade before them severed the gardens from the park. This for the most part was walled with rising woods, but here the ground fell sharply into a valley which ran like a giant gutter, straight and clean, to the jaws of Peering Gap. Such was the darkness that the gap was not to be seen, but a starlit scallop of sky showed where it lay.

At length—

“We mightn’t,” said Simon doggedly.

“I mightn’t get on with George. Or you with Estelle.”

“You won’t,” said Simon Beaulieu. “Neither shall I. There won’t be any question of getting on. Our respective unions will be marriages of convenience, business deals. They’ll proceed mechanically, like a couple of cars. Now and again some slight adjustment’ll be made, but, in the ordinary way, so long as they’re watered and fed, they’ll go right on. The chauffeur’ll do his bit and the car’ll do hers. No understanding will be necessary—there’ll be nothing to understand. If you stick to your book of instructions, it’s a fool-proof show. But ours—our marriage would have been like a man on a horse, journeying over the world day in day out, sharing fair weather and foul and getting to know each other inside out. Well, they get on or they don’t—a man and his horse. It’s a question of temperament. And there ain’t no book of the rules for dealin’ with temperaments.”

Patricia laid her head against Simon’s shoulder.

“Yes, there is, dear,” she said. “I’ve studied yours so often. You carry it in your eyes. I wonder if Estelle will be able to read it. I don’t think so. And mine.... Haven’t you ever read mine?”

“Pat,” said Simon gently, “don’t make things worse. We agreed to wash Sentiment out.”

“I know, I know. But don’t say we shouldn’t get on. Leave me my pretty dream.”

“All right, lady. I—I dare say we should. But you never can tell,” he added, “and I don’t know that dreams aren’t rather dangerous things.”

“D’you mean that I mustn’t dwell on what might have been?”

“I think you should try not to. I mean, it’s unsettling. After all, we’re not madly in love. I don’t stop breathing when you go out of the room, and you don’t come over queer when I come in.”

“I feel all pleased, Simon.”

“That’s more fellow-feeling than love. I’m a congenial soul. We’ve fitted in very well, and that’s as much as you can say. We don’t give up things for one another. I haven’t pawned my boots to buy you a wrist-watch or soaked in money on flowerets. When I’ve given you dinner——”

“I’ve chosen the place and the play. And you always give me melon because I like it so. And why have you asked me so many, many times?”

“To please myself. You’re a congenial soul.”

Patricia turned and lifted a beautiful leg.

“Can you see?” she demanded, pointing.

“I see your ankle, Pat, and your little foot.”

The girl leaned back against the stone balustrade.

“I dress to please you,” she said. “Even to-night. I put on light stockings to-night, when I should have worn dark. I like dark better, and I’d ’ve been more in the mode. But you like me in light stockings, Simon, and so I put them on.... I may be only congenial. I hope to God I am. You’ll get off lighter then. But ... Well, Simon, it’s pretty obvious that I love you.”

The man’s arms were about her, and his cheek pressed tight against hers.

“Pat, Pat, my precious, you know I’ve been covering up. You know I’m mad about you and always have been. And you know that whatever happens there’ll never be anyone else as long as I live.”

He breathed the words rather than spoke them. His tone, touch, frame were vibrant as any wire.

The girl slid her arms round his neck and held him close.

“I know,” she whispered.

Caress and word seemed to relieve the strain. The man relaxed sensibly. After a moment’s silence he turned and kissed her mouth.

“I blame myself,” he said quietly enough. “I’m older than you, and I shouldn’t have let it go on. I know we’d an understanding—a blessed, faithful agreement, faithfully kept. There never was, I believe, such natural sympathy. But these things bank up, Pat: and, if we weren’t to marry, we should never have been engaged.... It was defying Nature. In a way it was our affair, but it was out of joint. It’s been—perfect.... But it was out of joint. Well, now that dislocation has got to be reduced. Very good. We knew it must come. Our eyes were open. That was the basis of our understanding—that sooner or later it must end. But I think we forgot—the adhesions ... the seals that Nature sets upon things that are out of joint. They take some breaking—adhesions. ... And—they’ve—got to be broken—to-night.” With a sharp sob Patricia drew in her breath; then she let it go pelting and drooped her head. “We’ve played about so far. You know we have. Feinting, ducking, side-stepping, covering up. Well, now we’ve got to mix it and knock Things out.”

The girl clung to him desperately.

“Oh, Simon, I can’t, I can’t. Not all at once like this. I know they’ve got to be broken, but they needn’t be torn. Just once or twice we can be alone again. I shan’t be married at once. Let’s break them gradually, darling. Then I’ll have something to look for—to buoy me up to-night. Life looks so terribly dark, Simon. Let me have just a ray of light. Just once or twice—that’s all. You know. Just a word and a kiss. Don’t smash my world to-night. Even the torturers, Simon, never did things like that. They worked by degrees—gradually, so that the torture could be borne.”

The man smiled into her eyes.

As a moment ago her touch had soothed him, so now her weakness seemed to have made him strong.

“Pat, this isn’t like you. We must keep troth. If we didn’t end it to-night and go down smiling, we should spoil everything. Together we planted the prettiest little flower: and it’s grown so lovely, Pat, and smelled so very sweet: and now—it’s time to pick it.... Well, we must pick it properly—not drag it up piecemeal. And then—for ever, think what a memory we’ll have—that we weren’t afraid to pick our pretty flower ... when it was in full bloom. We’ll be so proud and happy to remember that. It won’t have faded or died. It’ll ’ve been just perfect—all the time.... And we must pick it smiling, Pat—just for each other’s sake.”

“Oh, Simon, Simon, I shall break. It’s like Death. I can’t face it.”

“You can with me. We can face anything. What’s death to us, so long as we go out well?”

Patricia lifted her head.

“You’re right,” she said quietly. “We—we must go out well.” For a moment her eyes wandered over the heaven. Then they returned to his. She put up a little hand and touched his hair, setting it back from his temples and patting it as she pleased. Then she smiled very tenderly. “Let’s pick our flower now, darling.”

The man smiled back.

For a minute they kissed and clung—while the world rocked.... Then he loosened his hold, and she fell away.

He picked up her hand and kissed her finger-tips.

“My beautiful darling,” he said. “My sweet, my sweet.”

Then he leaned back against the stone-work and took out a cigarette.

For a moment he fingered this, smiling thoughtfully.

Then he looked up.

“Pat,” he said, “what about a glass of champagne? Between you and me, I think we’ve earned it.”

“My dear,” said Patricia Bohun, “your brain’s in your head.” They started to stroll towards the mansion. “By the way, did I tell you to back Grey Ruby for the Stewards’ Cup?”

“Who gave you that?” said Beaulieu.

“No one,” said Patricia. “I dreamed it. I dreamed I saw the posters—Stewards’ Cup Result. I was wondering what had won when I woke to see Matilda with my letters and tea. The first letter I opened was from a girl called Ruby Grey.”

Simon grunted.

“I should have a bit on sans doute,” he said lightly. “But these ’ere indications are treacherous things. Look at poor Barley McFinn. Two nights before the St. Leger he dreamed he was giving bananas to a baboon; and as fast as he gave them the brute kept shaking its head and slinging them back. Well, Barley woke up and rushed off and put his binder on Monkey Nut.... Well, I don’t know where Monkey Nut finished, but a horse called Peelam won. Barley couldn’t see it for weeks.”

Patricia laughed gaily.

“You’re not a bit like your namesake, Simon,” she said. “He would have plunged. And yet ...”

“Yet what?”

“In a way you are. I mean ... Never mind. I’ll leave it there. What’s this they’re playing?”

Conversing evenly, they came to the flagged walk and the windows belching ragtime and blazing lights.

By one consent they turned and looked back into the night.

Then they passed up the steps and joined the carnival.

Let who will throw a stone at Patricia Bohun.

She certainly promised to marry a man whom she did not love. But if George Persimmon believed that such a lady would consent to bear his name for any earthly or heavenly reason other than to share his riches, then he deserved to be confined. But George was no fool. You may take it from me, Sirs, she did her neighbour no wrong. Whether a woman should sell herself is another matter. From the age of twelve Patricia had been schooled—cleverly schooled to take that unpleasant fence. Her aunt, Lady Coblow of Breathless, had not only shown her that she must marry money, but had taken care to surround her with the paraphernalia of wealth. From the age of twelve Patricia had lived and lain soft. Footmen, tiled bathrooms, French cooking, sables, limousines helped to create the atmosphere in which she moved. Use of that sort holds hard. By the time she was twenty-two she had come to regard the idea of parting with Luxury much as she looked upon that of committing suicide—a step taken only by the temporarily insane.

That Beaulieu’s outlook was different is natural enough.

He had no patron to pave his path with gold, and it was all he could do to keep his head above water. The man had gone hungry. Had he stepped out of his world, he might have waxed fat and kicked. But that would have meant leaving every friend that he had—including Patricia Bohun. He worked hard, driving a promising pen, but the promise was shadowy stuff, and his earnings were fitful and slight. It follows that while he perceived the extreme desirability of riches, he knew that they were not essential to life and more than suspected that happiness could be found without them.

Marriage itself Patricia and Simon viewed in much the same light. Wedlock for them was an earthy business, the Solemnization of Matrimony differing but a little from the conveyance of land. In the actual service they saw a fine old tradition well worth preserving in these degenerate days. Had they been bidden to witness a Livery of Seisin they would have gone in the same spirit. I do not know that I blame them. Few of the unions with which they were brought in contact were made in heaven; some were patently home-made; many were fearfully and wonderfully made; while one and all were discussed as worldly engagements the letter of which should not be flagrantly dishonoured. To them the plighting of troth was a common or garden contract and nothing more. It is to their credit that it was nothing less. What lifted them out of the ruck was that to their way of thinking all common or garden contracts were sacred things. Their word once passed must be religiously kept. With the letter they were not concerned; the spirit was the thing. The game had to be played.

Simon did not ask Estelle to become his wife. Had she asked him, he would, I believe, have consented to become her husband. But then, somehow, the doctrine of caveat emptor would have applied. It would have been her look-out. Whereas, if he approached her, his very approach would suggest a regard which he did not feel. Besides ...

A month limped by.

Patricia and Simon were meeting continually—by chance. From their easy, casual fellowship no one would ever have dreamed that they were in love. But then no one ever had suspected anything. They were just carrying on—with hearts of lead.

Presently the date of Miss Bohun’s wedding was announced and invitations were issued.

Then two things happened—simultaneously.

The first was that Castle Breathless was entered by burglars while the household was at meat. The burglars, however, were disturbed and made good their escape. A footman was knocked down and a maid-servant frightened to death. Apparently Miss Bohun’s bedroom was the only room which had been entered. There a drawer had been forced and a gold bag taken. Curiously enough, the thieves overlooked what they were undoubtedly seeking. This was a magnificent rope of pearls, ‘the gift of the bridegroom,’ which was lying where Miss Bohun had left it upon a bureau.

The second was that Simon in some excitement began to do sums.

For the sake of brevity, let us look over his shoulder.

Unearned Income	£300	a year
Earned ”	£250	”
Grey Ruby	£450	”
	————
Total	£1000	a year

You see, now, what was in the man’s mind.

That morning had brought him a cheque for seven pounds and a request to be shown the next tale that he wrote. Simon reckoned that he could write three tales a month.

So much for Earned Income.

Simon had just been left three hundred pounds. The money lay at the Bank. If he put it all on Grey Ruby at thirty-three to one and Patricia’s dream came true, Simon would win nine thousand nine hundred pounds.

So much for Grey Ruby.

As for the total, the man shall speak for himself.

“A thousand a year. It isn’t too much, but supposing we lived abroad. Say, Paris. I think she could stick it all right. I think she’d be happy. I believe, in a way, she’d find it rather fun. Of course she’d miss all the show—flunkeys and cars and the rest. We might run to a Citroën. And she could have half a maid. Clothes’d be the snag. We couldn’t put up a fight where clothes were concerned. But if she could rule them out—I don’t think she really cares about anything else. The idea of Life without luxury’s never entered her head. It doesn’t follow that if it did she’d fire it out. I don’t think she would. I don’t think Patricia’s that sort. If it weren’t for the clothes question ...”

Simon rose to his feet and fell to pacing the room.

“One thing’s clear—a thousand’s the rock-bottom figure. I must make up my mind to that. Under a thousand a year it can’t be done. It could be, of course. We shouldn’t starve on five hundred. But ... No, a thousand’s the lowest possible. With a thousand I could temper the wind. Unless Grey Ruby comes up and unless I can get thirty-threes ...

“What’s the alternative? The alternative’s plain hell—for me, any way. I suppose I can plough through, but face it I can’t. I’ve tried and I can’t—can’t pretend to ... if she was in love with Persimmon, if she was going to be happy—happier than with me—well, I could stomach that. As it is ... I don’t know why I didn’t see it that night at Breathless. I came pretty near, too. I said we’d defied Nature. But for some fool’s reason I assumed the adhesions could be torn. That that was further defiance I never saw. I suppose I was exalted, drunk with a sort of heroism. That’s all right to die on, because you’re dead before it wears off. You can take a life-sentence with a laugh: but you don’t laugh much when you’re in prison, and after the first month....

“The point is I may have to go on. No, it isn’t. The point is I may have a chance—a chance of being happy and making her happy too. I wish to God she and I could thrash this out. But that’s impossible. For one thing, her opinion’s valueless. Whether she’d be happy, poor, she hasn’t the faintest idea. And so I’ve got to decide for both of us....

“ ‘Got to decide’? The point mayn’t ever arise. Unless she makes a move, everything goes by the board. And as like as not she won’t.... Well, then—finish. If she can get through, I must. She’s free to change her mind, but I can’t do another man down. I can’t reopen things. That’s plain. Heaven or burning hell, my mouth’s shut and locked, unless and until she speaks. If she says she can’t go on, an’ if ...”

He passed to the open window and stood looking down upon the fading street and men as trees walking and lamps beginning to come into their own.

After a little he laughed.

“I’ve lost my balance, I think—leapin’ about like this before I come to the ditch. The first thing I’ve got to do is to raise the wind.”

He sat down then and there and acknowledged his cheque. Then he rough-hewed the themes of another two tales. Finally, he retired—to lie awake until dawn.

That morning he visited a firm of bookmakers.

Grey Ruby, however, was being mentioned. They would not lay him more than twenty-five sovereigns to one.

After a little reflection, Simon wrote them a cheque for four hundred pounds—an act which reduced his balance to eleven pounds ten.

Goodwood was looking superb.

It was a perfect day, airy yet cloudless. Rain had fallen in the night and, stopping at cock-crow, left everything refreshed. Distance was clean-cut. For such as had eyes, the sheep grazing in the valleys made sharp white dots upon the green, the Isle of Wight rode like a ship at anchor between earth and heaven. Background, indeed, had much to answer for, lending the meeting the air of the old prize-ring, rigged like lightning, deep in some unsuspecting dingle of the suspected countryside. The artifice of gardens and playgrounds, jealously kept against the builder’s hand, had here no place. Time had stepped back into an England where men passed out of doors on to the open road and, lifting up their eyes, beheld more meads than bricks and woods than mortar, where parishes were worlds and London Town was half a fairy-tale.

After a last look at Grey Ruby, Beaulieu strolled out of the Paddock and back to the Lawn. There he encountered Miss Bohun almost at once.

“Where’s George?” he said, taking her hand.

“In bed with a touch of the sun. It’s nothing serious. I want to go to the Paddock. Will you come with me?”

The man hesitated before complying.

Patricia knew him so well that, unless he could smother his feelings as never before, she would be certain to see that something unusual was afoot. Then she would question him: and Beaulieu did not want to be questioned—till after the Cup had been won.

He need have felt no concern.

As they passed to the back of the Paddock—

“Simon, I’m up against it.”

The man braced himself. The time was not yet.

“Hush, my lady. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Listen. You don’t understand. It’s—it’s not what you think, Simon.” The man looked at her sharply. “I’m in the most awful trouble. I’m—I’m being blackmailed.”

“Blackmailed?”

The girl slid a letter into his hand.

“Read that,” she said. “Sit down here and read it. And then come and find me again. I’ll be in front of the weighing-room.”

Simon lifted his hat and turned away.

Mechanically he took a few steps: then he sat down on a seat and tilted his hat over his eyes.

12, Clock Lane,

Crutched Friars.

July 29th.

Dear Miss Bohun,

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.”