A man sat at the uncurtained window of the Black Stag, staring with moody eyes at the deserted smudge of platform. He had arrived that morning on the 12.10. He had partaken of an unpalatable lunch, and had spent the early afternoon strolling about in a purposeless way, smoking incessantly, and almost as incessantly consulting his watch. He had returned to the inn at three o’clock, and had sat at the window till the 3.28 had drawn in. He had watched the two passengers alight, and had witnessed the accident. It had not interested him particularly, because his interest was centred in one thing, and one thing only; every event outside that one thing, every circumstance that bore no direct relation to it, was as unreal and shadowy as the platform at which he now stared. Had the man who had tumbled been seriously hurt? It did not matter. What was the lady doing? It did not matter. The scene was being enacted within a short distance of him, but for all the effect it produced upon his emotions it might have occurred in Siam. When it was over, and the train had gone, and the platform had become once more deserted, he had taken another purposeless stroll, again smoking incessantly, again incessantly consulting his watch. And now he was back again, and a large, heavily-breathing woman had brought in a lamp.
“You’ll be wanting tea?” asked the woman.
He was a rum one, this one was, but even rum ones took tea.
“The next train’s 5.56, isn’t it?” replied the man.
She told him that it was. She had told him the same thing three times already. Then she repeated her question about tea.
“Eh? Yes, I’ll have some tea,” he replied, without interest.
“What would you like with it? Just bread and butter? Or we’ve got some nice seed cake.”
“Anything. Yes. Whatever you’ve got.”
The woman evaporated, and appeared ten minutes later with a tray. She placed the tray on a sideboard, covered a stained table with a scarcely less stained cloth, and moved the tray to the table. The seed cake presided with dejected majesty on a tall, glass-pedestaled dish. Its mission appeared to be to make thick slices of bread and butter look appetising by comparison.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the woman, lingering. “But will you be staying the night?”
“What?” replied the man.
“Will you be staying the night?” repeated the woman. “If so, I could have your bag taken up—”
“Don’t touch my bag!” cried the man, interested at last. (“You’d have thought some one had trod on his toe,” the woman recounted later.) Then the man added: “I’m not sure. Yes, perhaps. I’ll let you know presently.”
The bag, a black one, was on a chair. When the woman had gone, the man went to it, opened it, looked inside, closed it, locked it, and moved it, for no reason that he could have explained, to another chair. Then he returned to the table and began his tea.
From the bar across the passage came suddenly the sound of raucous music. Some one had put a penny in a grotesque piece of machinery, and was receiving his money’s worth. The man plugged his ears with his fingers and glared at his teacup while the music ground on. After a minute he removed his fingers, then hastily shoved them back again. His forehead throbbed. His head seemed on the point of bursting. A poor man’s pleasure was filling his heart with hate.
“God above!” he shouted.
But nobody heard him. The music across the passage was even louder.
When at last the music ended, he found himself laughing. He did not remember beginning to laugh. He stopped abruptly.
“This won’t do,” he muttered. “This won’t do.”
He finished his tea quietly and returned to the window.
Chapter IV. Over the Yellow Cups
The teacups at the Black Stag were thick and white. At Bragley Court they were thin and yellow, and they began their clinking in the drawing-room, a long, lofty room of pink and cream, and then followed the guests to their various locations. If you disliked pink and cream and a preponderance of elderly feminine society, you stayed away from the official headquarters, confident that the yellow cups would find out where you were and come to you. Mohammed, at Bragley Court, would not have been put to the trouble of going to his mountain.
John’s cup came to him at exactly five o’clock, on a brightly-polished mahogany tray. It was brought and deposited on a small, low table by the pretty maid, and John watched her with interest to discover whether she still bore any traces of her recent agitation. Outwardly, she was now quite calm again, and because of her pleasant friendly quality he hoped that her appearance reflected the truth.
“Is your foot better, sir?” she asked.
“I am sure this interest is unconstitutional,” thought John, “but it’s nice.” So he did not discourage it. He told her that his foot was very much better. The lie did not impress itself on him at the moment.
A cushion had fallen to the ground. The maid picked it up and fixed it behind his head with a bright smile. Then she put another log on the crackling fire and departed.
It was a small, trivial incident, but later on, among a collection of incidents less trivial, John remembered it.
He was staring at the fire, watching the flames crackle upwards towards the chimney, when a voice said:
“Well, how are you getting along? Do you want some one to pour out your tea?”
He did not have to turn his head. Even if he had not recognised Nadine’s voice he would have sensed her personality in the faint silky rustle of her approach and the less faint aroma of expensive perfume. She disturbed the air as she drew near, breaking it up into little emotional ripples.
“Hallo,” he answered. “I’m all right. And thank you.”
“I could have my tea here with you,” she suggested, having already made up her mind not to have it anywhere else. “Shall I?”
“I’d love it,” replied John. “Only I feel I’m upsetting things terribly. You ought to be with the other guests, oughtn’t you?”
“Why? There are no oughts here. We do as we like. Haven’t you noticed it?”
“I’ve noticed they don’t worry you much.”
“Of course you have. The house is run on lines of the most highly-organised freedom. You may flirt desperately or read the Encyclopædia Britannica. Just follow your mood. No one will interfere with you, or display any vulgar curiosity. Even a man with a bad foot isn’t pestered with attention. But you can be quite sure the name of Foss has been looked up in Debrett.” He laughed. “Is it to be found there?”
“I’ve an uncle who fills a dozen dry lines.”
“Lord Aveling won’t find the lines dry!” smiled Nadine, sitting on the low stool lately occupied by Harold Taverley. For the first time he took in her rather daring tea-gown, with its provocative glimpses. It was a compliment that she should waste all this wealth of subtle femininity on him. Or was she wasting it? “Debrett and the old school tie will chain you here for the week-end, however your foot progresses! Lord Aveling can’t run a country—though he wishes he could—but he can run a country house, and he lives for these house-parties, you know. The little thrill of them—the little notoriety of them—the little excitement of them—and the little things that happen in them. And, sometimes, quite big things.”
A desire swept through John to ask, “And what do you live for?” But he quelled the impulse, and asked instead:
“Are any big things going to happen this week-end?”
She regarded him quizzically for a few moments, then replied, “I shouldn’t wonder.”
She turned and nodded to the pretty maid, who had reappeared with another highly-polished little tray gleaming with yellow china. The second tray was deposited beside the first tray. As the maid departed, Nadine’s eyes followed her.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” said Nadine.
“Very,” answered John.
Two people came down the staircase. Harold Taverley and Anne. The signs of the road were no longer upon them, and both had changed to indoor clothes, but John noticed that Anne still favoured green. She was wearing a rather severe, close-cut frock that indicated without exploiting her slim boyish figure. Her dark hair was neat and smooth, and slightly waved. John gained an odd impression as she ran forward to greet Nadine that, while conceding to the moment, her real spirit was elsewhere.
“Nice to see you again, Nadine,” she exclaimed. “Wasn’t the last time Cannes?”
“Yes—drinking coffee at the Galerie Fleuries,” answered Nadine. “Did you have a good run?”
“Wonderful! You must try my new mare. She goes over everything.”
“I’d love to. But you’ll want her to-morrow?”
“Please! You can have Jill, though. We’ve still got her, and you always liked her, didn’t you?” She turned to John. “Do you ride? How’s your foot? Or are you sick of being asked? I’d be!”
“It’s the penalty of being a pampered invalid,” replied John; “and I don’t mind it at all. My foot’s fine, thank you. But I’m afraid it wouldn’t be well enough to join you to-morrow.”
“Beastly shame,” said Anne. “Never mind, we’ll fix you up with jig-saw puzzles. Let me know if I can do anything, won’t you? See you later, Nadine. Come along, Harold.”
Taverley smiled at John.
“We’d stay, but you’re being looked after,” he remarked. “Be good to him, Nadine.”
When they were alone again, Nadine frowned.
“Beastly man, that Mr. Taverley,” she observed. “He’s so hatefully nice!”
“I like him, too,” replied John. “Is niceness a vice?”
“Yes—like water. You must have something with it.”
“I imagine he’s got a lot with it.”
“Rather. All the virtues, and a perfect off-drive. And he hates me!”
“Oh, no, he doesn’t!”
“How do you know that?”
John coloured at the quick question, and at his clumsiness. He decided not to retreat.
“We talked of you,” he said. “Do you mind?”
She glanced in his cup, noted it was empty, and filled it.
“Of course I don’t mind,” she answered. “What else do people talk about but other people? But don’t tell me what Mr. Taverley said about me. Whatever it was, I am quite sure he forgave me, and so I’d have to forgive him, the beast!”
An interruption occurred. A uniformed nurse—Bragley Court could even materialise that—appeared abruptly and insisted on an application of surgical spirit. Surgical spirit during tea! But the nurse explained apologetically that she had a few minutes now, and might not have later.
“Does she look after Mrs. Morris?” queried John, when the nurse had soaked his foot and gone.
“Yes,” answered Nadine. “Poor old lady. She ought to be dead.”
“You mean—the release?”
“Of course! What’s the use? You shoot a horse or a dog when it’s incurable, but God wants humans to go on suffering!” She shuddered, and for once in her life misinterpreted the expression of a man who was dwelling on the movement of her body. “Oh, don’t think I can’t face pain,” she added almost defiantly. “But I don’t care for it. That’s why I grasp life while it’s here!”
She had spoken impulsively, almost as though thinking aloud. Her hand brushed his. She rose and walked to a window, drawing the long curtain slightly aside to look out into the gloaming. But all she saw was her own reflection and the provocative gown gleaming back at her through the glass.
John watched her, waiting for her to come back. Why was she so long about it? Why was he waiting with such an intense desire for her to turn? A sudden panic seized him.
“Nonsense!” he thought, aghast.
That morning, blind with grief and saturated with its egotism, he had flung some things into a bag and had fled from London. An unexpected letter had toppled his small world over. It had come with the surprising unexpectedness of a poisoned arrow. It had contained poison, too—poison that had polluted the very springs of his faith. And in the first pangs of his agony he had headed for a station—any station—and had taken a ticket to a distant place—any place—so that he might escape the grotesque irony of immediate obligations. Any place would do, so long as it was an unfamiliar place, a place without associations. Somebody ahead of him in the ticket office had said, “Flensham.” So he had said, “Flensham.”
And this was where the somebody had unconsciously led him—to her own reflection standing out vividly and tormentingly in the darkness of a window!
“Nonsense—nonsense!” he repeated in his thoughts. “I’m just in a mess. This is reaction. It doesn’t mean anything. Reaction, and my foot. Lord, how it’s hurting!”
He concentrated on the pain, trying to trick himself. He rejoiced in its re-discovery, and saddled it with responsibility for his condition. Pain played the deuce with any one. It temporarily distorted values, and gave fictitious significance to unimportant things. That was why patients in hospitals so often fell in love with their nurses....
Nadine came back to him as abruptly as she had left him.
“What are you going to do?” she asked. “Stay here?” He stared at her. Her tone was almost harsh. “I mean—well, you’ve spoken so little about yourself, haven’t you? Aren’t you expected somewhere to-night?”
He shook his head.
“Where were you going when I met you at the station?”
“Didn’t you ask that? Anywhere.”
“That sounds morbid!”
“Don’t judge by the sound. I’m fond of roaming.”
“I see. And you roamed—here.”
“Yes.” He had a sense that they were going round and round in a circle, and he tried to smash his way out. “You know, I don’t think my foot’s half as bad as it seems.” Yet a moment ago he had been insisting on the pain of it. “I believe I could get away all right.”
“You think the foot could stand it?”
“I think so.”
“But the question still remains—where do you want to get away to?”
They were moving back into the circle again. He became exasperated.
“Yes, and that’s my question,” he retorted.
“Sorry,” she said.
He was appalled at himself. He had not intended to betray his exasperation. He was not exasperated any longer. He did not understand how he ever had been.
“No, I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Really, you must forgive me. You’ve been terribly kind. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”
Nadine knew. It was her knowledge that had sent her to the window, and that had produced her rather lame effort to readjust the trouble. Something had happened very suddenly. She had sensed the exact moment. It was not the first time the moment had occurred in her experience.
Well—could it be helped? And did it matter? She thought of old Mrs. Morris upstairs. One day she might be like that! She thought of the hunt on the morrow, and of the hunted creature doomed to die, as every one at Bragley Court was doomed to die! But at this moment the hunted creature was not conscious of its fate, nor was any one at Bragley Court, saving Nadine Leveridge herself. She was always conscious of it, and of life’s demand for compensation.
“Don’t apologise, Mr. Foss, and don’t worry,” she said. “It will be all the same five hundred years hence. Meanwhile, since it’s obvious you can’t move, and would have nowhere particular to move to even if you could, remember that we are two very small dots in a very large universe, and finish your tea.”
Chapter V. The 5.56
The 3.28 had brought two visitors to Bragley Court. The 5.56 brought four. The man at the window of the Black Stag watched them alight.
The 5.56 shared with the 12.10 the distinction of being a fast express, and was, therefore, favoured by the majority of Lord Aveling’s guests. It was pleasant to arrive by the 12.10 in the morning, when the sun was at its highest and the sky was at its brightest; you reached your room at Bragley Court by half-past twelve, and your bag was unpacked and your brushes were out by the time the luncheon-gong sounded at half-past one. The 3.38 had its points, too, despite a tedious change, for there is always rather a jolly feeling when you arrive at a country house at tea-time. Tea is an occasion to look forward to after the dust and grit of travel; you flop into soft things and regain your belief in the harmony of life’s rhythm.
But the 5.56 was the train-de-luxe. You could pass a reasonable portion of the day in London before catching it. You spent the minimum of time in it, and although you missed the yellow cups of Bragley Court, a smiling attendant brought you blue ones. And when, at 5.56 to the minute, the gravel sounded in your ears and the train slackened speed, you found Flensham station at its peak—the station-master at his most dignified, the porter at his most obliging, and Old Jim (who never troubled to meet the 3.28, his horse, like himself, being a veteran and needing afternoon rest) at his most hopeful. Not that Old Jim ever expected to get a fare to Bragley Court. His horseflesh was not of the Bragley breed, and Lord Aveling supplied cars for all his guests who did not bring their own. Still there were other destinations, and sometimes a passenger on the 5.56 was bound for one of them.
Of the four guests deposited on the platform on this particular evening, the last to enter the waiting Rolls was a tall, slightish man mid-way between thirty and forty. His name was Lionel Bultin, and he stood, silent and aloof, and purposely lingering, to watch a little incident.
His three companions were, as he had established in the restaurant car, Zena Wilding, the actress, and a married couple who lived an unenviable existence under the name of Chater. Bultin, a ruthless reader of character, had needed only two minutes to decide that an additional “e” slipped between the second and third letters of their name would have described the Chaters more accurately. When the husband looked straight at you he seemed to be seeing you round a corner. The wife hardly ever looked straight at you. She was a silent creature whose moroseness appeared to form her protection against a perpetual desire to scream.
Zena Wilding, on the other hand, was lively and talkative, and while she worried vivaciously about her luggage, she never missed an opportunity to advertise her dentist. Later on, the solemn station-master paused in the important business of writing “We could do—” to recollect her dazzling teeth before concluding “—with new fire-buckets.” And the porter actually dreamt of the teeth, earnestly filling a freight train with tooth-paste to keep them white. But the dazzling teeth made no impression on Lionel Bultin, saving as possible matter for a theatrical paragraph. He felt no personal emotion about them. He had done with personal emotion ten years ago....
In order to understand Bultin’s attitude, and the detachment with which his trained intelligence now absorbed an incident frightful with suppressed emotion, it is necessary to travel back those ten years to the day when, an eager and unsuccessful young journalist, he came to his great decision. In a not-very-attractive bed-sitting-room he had faced his mirror frankly, and had said:
“You’re making a hash of things. Why is it?”
Yes, why was it? Why did people pay no attention to him? Why had an editor refused, for the third time, to see him that very day? Did eagerness and tenacity count for nothing? Willingness—obligingness—sensitiveness? Bultin possessed all these qualities, plus an average capacity to string words together. So why was he living in this faded bed-sitting-room? Why could he not go across to the restaurant opposite and order a wing of chicken? Why was he hungry?
And then, suddenly, his reflection had changed. The despair and the eagerness had left it. Something quite new had entered and, because he was intelligent as well as hungry, he studied it. The new thing was a queer, cold callousness. A callousness that, because it had lost its faith in humanity, was independent of humanity. He felt as though, all at once, his sensitive soul had died, giving a new functioning power to what remained.
“This means success or the river,” he thought soberly.
He put on his hat and he went out, undecided. The river lay on his right, and the office of the inaccessible editor on his left. He turned to the left. The commissionaire whom he had interviewed thrice saw him coming, and exclaimed, “Can’t you take ‘No’ for an answer?”
Bultin wrote something on a slip of paper. “Give that to your fool of an editor,” he said, and left the office. He had written on the paper: “I could have given you a signed article by Bernard Shaw. Now you can sing for it. The above address will find me.”
Next day the signed article appeared in a rival paper. The editor, a weak man who spent his life in fear of a dropping circulation, never learned that Bultin had not supplied the rival paper with the article. Two hours before Bultin had scribbled his rude note, a friend of his had sold it elsewhere. The editor sent for Bultin and offered him a commission. Bultin turned it down.
He managed to borrow fifty pounds. He began a life of curious isolation. He was ever present in journalistic and social circles, but he remained aloof in his attitude. His manner indicated personal circumstances that did not exist. You would have thought, if you had met Lionel Bultin during those weeks, that he had suddenly come into a large fortune, although he showed no generosity in spending it, and that he could now snap his fingers at life. A successful man attracts success.
Whether Bultin would have achieved his purpose without the assistance of a small social column is not certain. This column was the last remnant of his evaporating work at the time of his decision, and it was itself on the verge of evaporation. Now, however, it began to wake up. It ceased to be soft and kindly. Amazing bits about amazing people appeared in it. Startling bits. Rude bits. With still a few complimentary bits, as bait. All signed Bultin.
“What does Bultin say?” people started asking.
An actress in the Savoy grill-room—yes, Bultin now went there—left her table to tell him of a pearl necklace she had lost. Two or three weeks earlier he would have travelled five miles to the actress. Now she had travelled five yards to him. Twice the alleged value of the necklace was given exclusively in his column next day, with an account of how the actress had left her pâté de fois gras to tell him of the loss. It had really been tomato soup, and the necklace had never been lost at all; but such minor matters were unimportant. The important matter was that the concluding sentence of Bultin’s paragraph was nearly, but not quite, libellous.
Bultin’s column grew to two. Then to a full page. In a short while the fifty pounds was repaid. Bultin had killed himself, and never had a moment’s financial anxiety afterwards. His carcass grew rich....
And, just as the actress in the Savoy grill-room had angled for his publicity, so Zena Wilding posed for him now on Flensham platform, striving to create a paragraph out of her luggage, her Paris hat, and her teeth.
“Oh, dear! Am I keeping everybody waiting?” she gushed, as Mr. and Mrs. Chater moved towards the car.
“Yes,” answered Bultin. (His column should mention later how he had agreed with her.)
Then Zena forgot all about her luggage and her hat and her teeth. She also forgot Bultin. The man who had waited for hours in the Black Stag was standing before her.
She gave a gasp. For an instant she looked almost old. She stared at the man without moving, but Bultin gained an impression that she was arching her back like a cat. Then she turned swiftly, and dived towards the car. Mrs. Chater was just getting in.
“Is anything the matter?” inquired Mrs. Chater, apathetically.
“No, nothing!” cried Zena. “Which corner would you like?”
Mr. Chater turned, and saw the man. He also stared. But his manner was considerably more composed than Zena’s. His expression of surprise changed to a smile, and he walked up to the man. The man had an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
“Want a light?” inquired Mr. Chater.
The man looked livid. Mr. Chater struck a match. The man blew it out.
“See you presently,” he muttered.
“I wouldn’t,” answered Mr. Chater quietly.
Two seconds later, Mr. Chater was entering the car.
About to follow, Bultin changed his mind and strolled casually up to the man.
“You might as well,” he remarked, taking out his lighter. “You’re supposed to burn one end, you know.”
The man switched round violently. Ten years previously Bultin would have dreamt of the expression in the man’s eyes. Now he merely found it undoubtedly interesting.
“I am Lionel Bultin,” he said. “I am spending the week-end at Bragley Court. I shall be there till Monday morning. I pay for material—provided, of course, that I use it.”
For the second time that evening, the man escaped a brainstorm by the breadth of a hair. The first time it had nearly been caused by a penn’orth of mechanical music.
“Bragley Court,” he repeated, suddenly calm. “You’re going there, too, eh?” He bent forward and accepted the light. As he withdrew his head he added, “You’ll get something to write about.”
Chapter VI. Spottings of a Leopard
The drive to Bragley Court was stiff and uncomfortable. Bultin never did anything to put people at their ease, and Zena Wilding’s forced vivacity was as unhelpful as Bultin’s silence. The one subject that most vitally interested the majority of the party was studiously avoided.
“Don’t you think there’s always a sort of a thrill, going to a new country house?” exclaimed Zena, trying nervously to be brilliant. “Something like the curtain going up on a play?”
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Chater dutifully.
It was not encouraging, but Zena prattled on:
“And then the guests—they’re like the characters—and you wonder what’s going to happen. Of course, nothing particular ever really does happen. Just as well! Suppose it did—a fire, or a burglary, or a murder! No, thank you, we’ll leave that to the dramatists!”
She glanced at Bultin. She was speaking partly for his benefit, though partly also to drive her mind from the disturbing moment just before she had entered the car. If she made her conversation scintillating, Bultin might report it.
But Bultin was gazing out of the window, inventing headlines, although his ear did not miss a word Zena said, and it was Mr. Chater this time who broke the silence with a murmured:
“What? Yes, quite.”
Mr. Chater was able to talk fluently on occasions, but this was not one of the occasions. He, also, was recalling the moment just before he had entered the car. Unlike Zena, however, he was not trying to forget it. He was dwelling on it, probing its meaning.
The actress made one more effort.
“I suppose I can’t help seeing drama in everything,” she said, forgetting that her drama rarely rose above the level of musical comedy. “Even when I was on the Riviera—do you know the Riviera?—it was there I met Lord Aveling—yes, even on my holiday I was always inventing plots about everything and everybody. Your mind just goes on working, you know, without your knowing it.” She glanced again at Bultin. He was still staring out of the window. It was very disappointing. Well, she must give him some definite news—perhaps that would wake him up. “Yes, but one wants to get back to work. Of course, I enjoyed my holiday immensely—after my illness—but it was far too long. Do you know, it seems years and years since I put on any make-up.” Bultin did make a mental note of that phrase. “But—well, I don’t believe it will be very long now. As a matter of fact—in strict confidence—I’ve got the play in my case at this moment!… Only perhaps you’d better not mention it just yet, Mr. Bultin?”
“I promise I won’t,” he answered.
The man was just a beast! She hoped earnestly that he would break his promise.
After that she gave up, and the journey continued in silence.
They reached their destination as Lord Aveling was greeting another guest who had just preceded them, and who had made the trip from London by car. “Earnshaw,” Bultin identified. He also noticed that Lord Aveling was welcoming him effusively.
“Delighted you were able to get away, Sir James,” said Aveling. “You’re staying till Monday, of course?”
“Unless I’m called back,” replied the Liberal member, his large rich voice filling the hall. He gazed about him as he spoke, leisurely and unflurriedly. He had all the solid assurance of a well-groomed, well-fed man. “Land question, you know.”
“It’s the eternal question,” smiled Aveling. “I expect we’ll talk about it. State or private ownership. Communism or—common sense, eh? No middle course these days.”
The Liberal member looked at his host sharply. He, too, was doubting the wisdom of the middle course. Moderation was in a disconcerting minority at the moment. But it was not this reflection that had arrested him. It was “Communism or Common Sense.” He revolved the words in his mind. A slogan there, somewhere. Communism or Common Sense. Communism or Common Sensism. House of Commonism....
The Honourable Anne appeared on the stairs. Slogans vanished as he strode forward to meet her. Meanwhile Lord Aveling’s polished voice droned on:
“Ah, Miss Wilding! How are you? I hope the journey was not tiring?” He took the actress’s hand and held it for an instant. “We have something to chat about, have we not? Ah, Bultin—how is the world treating you? Or perhaps we should say, how are you treating the world? Have you brought your large note-book? Be careful of this man, Miss Wilding! He can make or ruin one in a single paragraph. We all try to keep on the right side of Mr. Bultin.”
Bultin smiled faintly. He knew that, behind his polished badinage, Lord Aveling was just a little anxious about him. This week-end was a sort of bribe. The tobacco and beads for the naughty Indian with the scalping-knife.
Then Lord Aveling turned to the last of his guests to enter through the front door. Sir James turned also with a sudden sense of responsibility. He was still leisurely and unflurried, but a little of the rich warmth left his tone as he said:
“How well we have arranged this! I arrive just in time to perform the introductions. Mr. and Mrs. Chater, Lord Aveling.”
John Foss had said he was not superstitious, but he had been watching the front door from his couch, and counting. Zena Wilding, ten. Lionel Bultin, eleven. Who would enter first of the last couple?… The man—no, he had paused on the threshold. The woman preceded him. Mrs. Chater, twelve. Mr. Chater, thirteen....
The new guests dissolved to their respective rooms. Dinner was at eight, and bags had to be unpacked and clothes changed. Lionel Bultin followed a servant up the soft stair-carpet to a room on the second floor. The artist, Leicester Pratt, wagged a hand from an easy-chair as he entered.
“Hallo, Lionel,” said Pratt. “We’re to be stable lads together. I hope you don’t mind? There’s no way out, if you do. It was my idea.”
Bultin did not mind. His invitation to Bragley Court had also been Pratt’s idea. It was Leicester Pratt who had lent Bultin fifty pounds ten years ago, at the critical moment of the journalist’s career. Pratt was then an unknown artist, doing infinitely better work than he was doing to-day. Pratt had discovered Bultin, and in return Bultin had discovered Pratt. No two men had helped each other more, or understood each other better.
“Well?” queried Bultin, after five minutes of silence.
Pratt laughed.
“You know, I’m quite a little child at heart, Lionel,” he answered. “I love to call you Lionel, and even more I love to make you say, ‘Well?’ I believe I’m the only person who can do it outside the King and Mussolini. Lionel Bultin, purveyor of world news, world gossip, world washing, authority on Eden’s size in collars and Greta Garbo’s lip-stick, asking me for information! Admit it’s a score!”
“I don’t ask even little children twice,” observed Bultin, removing one of Pratt’s coats from a hook so that he could use the hook for one of his own.
“You’d ask this child twice, if it were necessary,” retorted Pratt. “You see, I have the advantage of not being a sentimentalist. You’ve grown so fond of life that you will woo it with any weapon. I dislike life so much that I’m without fear. Once life begins bargaining for my heart, I’ve done with the jade! Yes, and here’s an interesting thing,” he added. “You couldn’t commit suicide if you tried. If ever I decide to, I won’t hesitate. Posthumous opinion can find me out, if it’s amused—I shan’t be here.”
“The little child is objectionably precocious,” commented Bultin, quite unmoved. He rather enjoyed being thought a sentimentalist. “Get on with it.”
“I understood you never asked twice!” jeered Pratt. “‘Get on with it,’ is your second ‘Well?’ camouflaged. All right. Here goes. News from the advance guard, for Bultin’s column, ‘How the Wind Blows,’ preferred by ninety-nine per cent. of the population to Hamlet, the Bible, and Omar Khayyám. Paragraph One. ‘Miss Zena Wilding, age thirty-two by the kindness of her friends, forty-two by the unkindness of her enemies, and thirty-eight by the justice of God—’”
“Thirty-seven,” interposed Bultin.
“‘—is an interesting visitor at Bragley Court this week-end. She has long awaited the really big theatrical chance she so thoroughly does not deserve. My little leopard informs me that, if she is very good, but perhaps not too good, she may receive the promise of the necessary backing by Monday next.’”
“I already knew that,” said Bultin.
“Your comment was inevitable,” replied Pratt.
“She first met the backing on the Riviera,” said Bultin, “where she went to recuperate after a serious illness. Cause and nature of illness not known.”
“And possibly not for publication when known,” added Pratt. “Paragraph Two. ‘The celebrated artist, Leicester Pratt, who has the world of portraiture temporarily at his feet, who calls a scarcely less celebrated journalist by his Christian name, and whose bow ties become increasingly flowing, has been at Bragley Court for several days, and is now completing a portrait designed for next year’s Royal Academy of Lord Aveling’s only daughter, the Honourable Anne Aveling.’ Kindly turn that paragraph into a column.”
“Does this window look out on the back?” said Bultin.
“It looks out on the studio,” answered Pratt, “where the aforementioned masterpiece is in process. Paragraph Three. I think you’ll like this one better. ‘It is interesting to find Sir James Earnshaw among the guests at Bragley Court. It is well known that he does not hunt stags for the pleasure of it. Is he hunting anything else? My little leopard informs me that, if Sir James is to survive politically, he must turn Labour or Conservative, and he would be given the hand of the Honourable Anne Aveling if he decided to survive as a Conservative. This would not outrage Sir James’s private political convictions, because he hasn’t any, and then Lord Aveling might himself survive as a Marquis instead of a mere Baron, in virtue of the additional vote he brought to the Conservative Party.’”
Bultin condescended to turn away from a wardrobe he had been examining, and fix Pratt with a rather fish-like eye.
“Really?” he said.
“Really,” nodded Pratt. “Thank you for your passionate interest. I charge 3/10 for that one. But you can have the next paragraph for nothing. ‘Miss Edyth Fermoy-Jones is studying Nobility at first-hand. This is a pity, because we shall now lose those delicate flights of fancy that have illuminated so many of her previous volumes on High Life, and which once caused a Countess to bathe regularly in expensive hock. My little leopard tells me that her next novel will open with an accident to a young man at a railway station. A very beautiful widow will convey the young man to an ancestral home, will fall in love with him, and will discover that he is really a necklace thief. When a celebrated artist is murdered for painting a mole on the neck of a débutante, the young man will be arrested for the crime, and only the beautiful widow will know that his heart was too pure to devise anything worse than stealing necklaces.’”
“Will it come out that the real murderer of the artist was a famous journalist?” inquired Bultin.
Leicester Pratt laughed, and ran on:
“But the next paragraph is worth another 3/10. I might even work you up to four bob. ‘If Lord Aveling, already secretly harassed for funds, becomes a Marquis, how will he meet enhanced expenses? Perhaps—my little leopard tells me—Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Rowe, who have made a fortune from pork and who are anxious to emerge from the sausage-skin that has encased them so long, could supply the answer. They and their charming daughter, Ruth, have been staying for some days at Bragley Court, and if Ruth were launched into Society with a Capital S, it is possible that Lord Aveling would be able to support a marquisate. And, incidentally, to justify the expense of backing a show, while waiting.’”
Bultin refused to register any gratitude.
“Who is the attractive widow?” he asked.
“Nadine Leveridge,” sighed Pratt, in mock disappointment. “Well, if I can’t interest you above-stairs, let me try below-stairs. Leopards also prowl in basements. Do not be surprised if you are given bamboo-shoots for dinner to-night. We have a Chinese cook. No good? I’ll try again. We have something in the domestic line more attractive than a Chinese cook—a very pretty maid. Name, Bessie. Delightful figure. Make a good model. But when this was suggested to her, she was filled with charming confusion.” He rose and stretched himself. “I shall waste no more time over you, Lionel. You’re not worth it. I shall take a stroll before dressing.”
“Do,” said Bultin. “Since you can’t tell me anything about the most interesting people here.”
“Who?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Chater.”
“Ah, the Chaters,” answered Pratt. “Yes, there I’m beaten. The little leopard knows nothing about the Chaters.”
“Nor does Lord Aveling,” replied Bultin. “But James Earnshaw does. And, unless I am reaching my dotage, the Chaters know something about James Earnshaw. Which is my bed?”
“That one over there.”
“Good. I’ll have the other one.”
Pratt laughed and left the room. Outside he paused. Harold Taverley, the one man he had not mentioned, was entering his room opposite, and threw him a smile.
“Why does that man always make me see red?” wondered Pratt.
He went downstairs thoughtfully.
