HUBERT
Julia Stane Willow passed into the cool library, took off her hat, pitched this on to a table, and flung herself into a chair.
“If you want a drink,” she said shortly, “toll the bell.”
Her fiancé limped to the fireplace, dabbed at a button, turned, sank into the depths of a sofa and closed his eyes.
“What a truly leprous day,” he murmured. “Six fly-blown flats and four houses in five and a half hours. An’ I wouldn’t be seen dead in one of them.”
Julia shook back her curls.
“That one in Sloane Street wasn’t so bad,” she said.
“What, the one with the pitch-pine doors and a bathroom like a priest’s hole?”
“They weren’t pitch-pine,” said Julia. “They were maple. Besides, we could easily have them painted. And I don’t like too big a bathroom.”
“Neither do I,” said Hubert Challenger. “But I hate not being able to get off the cork mat. Why, I’ve been in more roomy limousines.”
“I don’t know what you do in a bathroom,” said Julia, “but I usually bathe. So long as there’s room for a tub . . .”
“Ah, that’s the trouble,” said Hubert. “You see, I dry myself too. Sometimes I even go so far as to put on a good-looking vest before bursting once more upon an expectant world.”
“Of course, if you want a bathroom like the Albert Hall. . . .”
“I don’t,” said Hubert. “That would be too big.” His fiancée choked. “But the Sloane Street appendix isn’t even life-size. Standing in the middle of it, I could bolt the door, lean out of the window, switch on the light, turn on the bath, wash my hands in the basin, and change the bulb—all without moving my feet. Besides, I think two bathrooms ’d earn their keep.”
Julia frowned.
“The first house we saw had three.”
“Yes, and seven floors,” said Hubert. “If it had had a two-way escalator and a couple of non-stop lifts. . . .”
Here a servant entered.
“Gin and ginger-beer?” said his hostess.
“Please.”
“Right,” said Julia. “And, Perkins, I’ll have some tea.”
“Very good, miss.”
As the door closed—
“Of course,” said the lady, “you want to force my hand. You want that flat in Hill Street, and that’s that.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said her squire. “I’m for peace in our time. If you want The Eighty-nine Steps, you have ’em. If you want a midget wash-house, say the blinkin’ word. After all, we can always cut the cork mat down. I’m only out to——”
“You want that flat in Hill Street,” declared Julia. “And you’re out to crab everything else. And I suppose by a process of exhaustion you’ll get your way.”
Hubert Challenger sighed.
“ ‘Exhaustion’ is good,” he said wearily. “Never mind. Let me repeat, my lady, that I do not care. I’ve criticized as a third party, purely to facilitate your choice. As a future inhabitant of the kiosk, you can count me out.”
“Don’t you take any interest in your own—your own——”
“Dunghill?” said Hubert cheerfully. His fiancée stiffened. “To a certain extent. But that extent has been reached.”
“Exactly,” observed Miss Willow. “It was reached in Hill Street.”
“I won’t say it wasn’t,” said Hubert. “First, because it was the forty-second covert we had drawn, and, secondly, because the best is good enough for me. When I’ve been offered a peach, you can bury the cooking apples under the lilacs. But that’s neither here nor there. Bed me down where you like, my dear, and I’ll be all grateful.”
“Let me congratulate you,” said Julia, “upon your sleight of tongue. Of course, it’s been done before. ‘And whispering “I will ne’er dissent”—dissented.’ Still, the way in which your preference for Hill Street worms its way out of every protest you make is rather precious. Never mind. I’ll try and ignore it.” Lazily she selected a cigarette. “I think if we painted those pale doors black . . . and the ceilings. . . .”
“And the walls,” said Hubert. “Don’t forget the walls.”
Miss Willow frowned.
Then—
“It would be very effective,” she continued, crossing her legs.
“One moment,” said her swain. “Are you being serious?”
“Why not?” said Miss Willow. “Black is most decorative.”
“It’s damned suggestive,” said Hubert. “Fancy shaving in a black bathroom. You couldn’t help cutting yourself, could you?”
“I really don’t know,” said Julia. “But if you did—well, the sponge would be within reach, wouldn’t it?” She paused to light her cigarette. “I repeat that, properly done in black, that flat would be most effective.”
“All right,” said Challenger. “I don’t care. Have it black outside, too, if you like. That might tempt them to let us change the name—4, Coroner’s Court, ’d sound very well. Telegraphic address, Morgue.”
Julia waved her cigarette.
“You see?” she said silkily. “Of course it may be coincidence, but I’ve only to mention a flat which isn’t in Hill Street for you to perceive insuperable objections to our tenancy.”
“My dear,” said Hubert, “you’re talking through your switch. If you had suggested putting Hill Street in black, I should have been still more emphatic. Then it would have been sacrilege as well.”
“As well as what?” said Miss Willow.
“Nihilism,” said Hubert, and closed his eyes.
There was an indignant silence.
The two were to be married within the month.
The news of their engagement had been received with general satisfaction, for, while there were many young men in love with Julia and many maidens who could have done with Hubert, both were so popular that such as had lost the race felt that they had been beaten by a better horse.
An only child, rich and of great beauty, Miss Willow might well have been spoiled. Her character, however, was proof against such corruption. She was spirited, liked her own way, but she was not headstrong. Upon occasion she would take the bit in her teeth, but that was as much out of play as anything else. There was no vice in her. Her charm was swift: all she did she did eagerly: if she was careless, hers was a careless age. Her admirable figure was always admirably dressed, her little feet perfectly shod. Some men swore by her eyes, which were grey, others by her exquisite mouth; but all were most proud of her acquaintance and adored her company.
Hubert Challenger was a good-looking man. He had a fine record, a keen sense of humour, and a way of getting where he wanted to go at once more effectually and with less apparent effort than any man about town. His engagement, therefore, to Julia was good for his soul. He was tall, fair, keen-eyed, a beautiful horseman and a sound judge of men. Although a man of means, he was never idle: his small estate in the country was excellently administered: he was his own bailiff. He was generous, did all he had to do handsomely, was naturally amiable, could be most resolute—if occasion arose. His pleasant personality had much to answer for. Whenever he made an acquaintance, Challenger made a friend.
“Good lord!” cried Julia suddenly, leaping to her feet. “We’ve never been to see South Street.”
Her fiancé started guiltily.
“Nor—nor we have,” he stammered.
With a withering glance, Julia sped to the mantelpiece and began in feverish haste to powder her nose.
Hubert stared at his watch.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit late, dear?”
“Why?” demanded Julia over her shoulder. “We said ‘before six.’ ”
“Did—did we?”
“You know we did,” said Julia, seizing her hat.
Challenger smothered a groan.
“Let’s have tea first,” he suggested.
“Then it would be too late, wouldn’t it? Hubert, you make me tired.”
Challenger laughed wildly.
“Supposing,” he said shakily, “supposing I said I was whacked—whacked to the blinkin’ wide, lame, over at the knees an’ ripe for palsy. Whose fault would that be?”
“Come on,” said Julia shortly. “We can pick up a taxi on the way.”
“Just let me have the drink,” pleaded Challenger. “Not all of it. Just——”
“When we get back,” said Julia, opening the door. “I’m going without my tea.”
With a frightful look, Hubert rose from the sofa and followed his lady out. . . .
Five minutes later the two were in South Street.
The flat, which had just been finished, took them by storm. It was ideal. Apart from its excellent style, every convenience that the wit of man can devise seemed to have been embodied in its construction. Its walls were sound-proof: so were its ceilings and floors. Its rooms were invisibly lit: it could be centrally heated at will: there were four bathrooms: the servants’ quarters were paved with rubber throughout: the telephone could be connected to a private exchange: there was even a chute to a private posting box in the common hall. Light, airy, perfectly arranged and admirably decorated, it had only come into the market the day before, and that by accident.
The porter who showed them over was patently proud of his charge.
“She’ll go on Monday,” he said. “If you don’t take ’er, madam, there’s plenty as will.”
It was long after six when at last the two emerged, swearing to be at the agents’ on Monday at nine o’clock.
As they slid back to St. James’s—
“Aren’t you thankful I made you come?” piped Julia.
“You darling,” said Hubert and put her hand to his lips. . . .
An hour had gone by, and Challenger, refreshed and comforted, was on the point of taking his leave when Julia knitted her brows.
“I suppose we’re wise,” she said.
Her fiancé stared.
“What—what d’you mean—‘wise’?” he stammered.
“To take this South Street flat.”
Challenger recoiled. For a moment he appeared about to founder. Then he strove to speak—ineffectually.
At length—
“You’re tired,” he said hoarsely. “That’s all. Tired and overwrought.”
“Rot,” said Julia. “It’s this flat or Hill Street, of course. The question is which. Hill Street is very——”
“But it’s settled,” screamed Hubert. “It was settled two hours ago. The moment we saw——”
“That,” said Julia, “is my trouble. Now that I’ve had time to think, I’m not at all sure that Hill Street wouldn’t be best. For one thing——”
“Look here,” said Hubert uncertainly. “Yesterday we saw Hill Street. We both found it a most elegant, agreeable apartment, more than suitable to our requirements and cheap at the price. To-day we inspected ten of the most bestial lodgments that ever cumbered the earth. When I ventured to compare them with Hill Street I was reviled as a slow belly.”
“How dare you?” said Julia. “I never——”
“That,” said Hubert, “was what you inferred. To-night—thanks entirely to your tireless enterprise, which I readily confess I did my best to embarrass—we totter slap into H.M.’s Dolls’ House—life-size. . . . Well, we both go wild about Harry. We rise up and call one another blessed. For an hour we stagger deliriously about our future home, repeatedly disclosing to each other its perfectly manifest excellence and fatuously declaring our relish by word and deed. The idea of comparing it with its predecessors never occurred to me. It wouldn’t have occurred to anyone, because—it is incomparable.”
“So you think,” said Julia.
“So did you. Now—one brief hour after we’ve left it, you begin to boggle at what you call the wisdom of pickin’ the godsend up.”
He flung up his hands with a despairing gesture and subsided heavily upon the club-kerb.
“I’m afraid the gent’s fickle,” said Julia, “as well as selfish.” Challenger set his teeth. “On Friday Hill Street has it. On Saturday South Street’s the peach. I wonder what’ll win it on Monday.”
“Monday?” cried Hubert. “You don’t mean to suggest——”
“Why not?” said Julia.
Her fiancé drew in his breath.
“If you seek sorrow on Monday, you seek it alone.”
“Don’t be absurd,” said Julia.
“I’m not being absurd,” raved Hubert. “The whole thing’s monstrous. One of us is insane.”
“I agree,” said Miss Willow. “But for me, you’d ’ve taken Hill Street. Now I’ve shown you something better you’re all over that. On Monday——”
“You admit it’s better?”
“Not at all. We’ve got to make up our minds between the three. If we had those doors gilded—— Where are you going?”
“I’m going to some place where I can burst,” said Hubert wildly. “I don’t want to do it here. I’ve no quarrel with your parents.”
“Have you a quarrel with me?”
“I soon shall have,” said Challenger, wiping his brow. “It’s eighty-eight in the shade, I’ve walked about sixteen miles over bare boards, and now I’m expected to sit still and watch you tear everything up out of sheer, wanton, blasphemous caprice. It’s enough to induce a blood-clot.”
“Of course,” said Julia, “you’re making me simply hate South Street. That’s my nature, you know. I’m really too easy-going. Treat me nicely, and I’ll eat right out of your hand from morning to night. But if you try and ram something down my throat, it just revolts me.”
“First the truth,” said her squire, “and then the fiction. If you were easy-going, we shouldn’t have visited over half a hundred private residences in six days. Unless I was easy-going and a full-marks fool, I shouldn’t have gone with you. As for——”
“When I said ‘easy-going,’ ” said Julia, “I did not mean ‘indolent’ or ‘labour-shy.’ ”
“And when I called you ‘capricious,’ ” retorted Challenger, “I meant ‘capricious’ with a well-known adverb in front.” Two red spots appeared in Miss Willow’s cheeks. Hubert proceeded vigorously, “For Heaven’s sake, Julia, pull up your socks. By noon on Monday I’ll bet that flat has gone. The next fool that sees it won’t wait. And while we’re sweating up strange staircases, wondering whether we should be wise to have the Sloane Street doors nickel-plated or the bathrooms at Hill Street filled in, the last word in habitations will be signed over. Then I suppose I shall get it for being dilatory.”
Julia rose to her feet.
“Wrong again,” she said. “You won’t even get it for being abusive—because you won’t be engaged.” The man’s lips tightened. “This little episode, Hubert, has opened my eyes. And I fear that life with you in South Street or anywhere else would be just a shade too exacting for this little girl.”
There was a moment’s silence.
Then—
“As you please,” said Hubert carelessly.
The girl hesitated.
“I—I’m afraid I can’t give you back your ring, because I’ve lost it.”
“What?”
“Lost it,” said Julia coolly. “You know. Like ‘mislaid’—only worse. I know I had it this morning when we started out: but it was a bit big, if you remember, and it must have slipped off.”
Challenger swallowed violently.
“When did you miss it?” he demanded.
“About two minutes ago—when you first went off the deep end. I started to take it off then, only it wasn’t there. I’ve been wondering what to do ever since. You see, it’s never happened to me before, and for the moment I was rather nonplussed. Then it occurred to me that, after all, a ring’s only a symbol, and its giving or restoration purely a matter of form—so why worry? As soon as I find it, I’ll send it you.”
“I see,” said Hubert drily. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t quite agree. For one thing, this happened to be rather a good, er, symbol. For another, I might very well need it to offer to somebody else. For another, you’re only human.”
“What do you mean?”
Challenger rose.
“I mean that if the search for a symbol which is no longer symbolic, the discovery of which will only benefit a man you dislike, is to be seriously prosecuted, some incentive is necessary. Pending, therefore, its return, I shall not regard our engagement, however inconvenient, as broken off.”
Miss Willow yawned.
“I’m not concerned with how you regard it,” she said.
“I’m sure of that,” said Hubert suavely. “But I think other people’s views might interest you. Should anybody seem to think that we are no longer engaged, I shall explain the position.”
Speechless with indignation, Julia regarded him.
At length—
“I should bring an action,” she flamed, “for Breach of Promise.”
Mournfully Hubert shook his head.
“I’ve nothing in writing,” he said. “Besides, it’s the symbol I want. So the correct action would be one for Detinue. I wonder which one you dropped it in,” he added musingly. “I seem to remember some felt being down somewhere, and it may have been there. That would account for our not hearing it fall.” He knitted his brows. “Now, where was that blinkin’ felt? Oh, I know. It was at The Eighty-nine Steps.”
“Must you rush off?” said Julia shakily.
“Must, I’m afraid,” said Hubert, opening the door. “Sleep well, sweetheart. I’ll ring up one day next week—just to say I’m alive.”
A moment later he let himself out of the house.
Twenty-four hours had gone by.
“George,” said Miss Willow, “do you love me?”
Setting his elbows upon the severing march of table-cloth, George Fulke crowded into his eyes as much devotion as they would hold.
“You are my star,” he said fervently.
“Good,” said Julia. “Well, now let’s come down to earth. I wired for you because I’m in need of a—a——”
“Knight?” suggested George Fulke.
“Yes, but dismounted,” said Miss Willow. “Don’t be soppy. This table isn’t round. . . . And now listen. Entirely between you and me, I want to break off my engagement.”
“Julia darling!”
“That’s better,” said Miss Willow. “Now listen again. I tell you I want to break it, and so I do. But I can’t do it.”
“Why on earth not?” cried Fulke.
“Because I’ve lost my ring. It was a perfectly beautiful ring—an enormous solitaire emerald. Heaven knows what it was worth. And of course I can’t possibly fire Hubert without handing it back.”
George found his moustache and pulled it respectfully.
“But supposing,” he said, “supposing you can’t find it.”
“I must find it,” said Julia. “At least, you must.” She produced a sheaf of papers. “There are some ‘orders to view.’ The ring’s in one of those flats—or houses: I don’t know which. I may have dropped it in a taxi, but I don’t think so. All you’ve got to do is to go and ask to see over these places as if you wanted to take them. Then, while you’re being shown round, you can look for the ring.”
Fulke received the papers with a bewildered air.
“I see,” he said slowly, counting. “Ten. You’ve no idea which, of course.”
“Not the remotest,” said Julia, sipping her coffee. “But you might find it in the first.”
“I might, of course,” said Fulke thoughtfully. “Have you been to Scotland Yard?”
“Not yet,” said Julia.
“Well, I’ll go there first,” said George. “Just in case——”
“No, I’ll go to Scotland Yard. You must start on the flats. There isn’t a moment to lose. Supposing a caretaker found it.”
“They’d probably take it to the police.”
“They’d probably freeze on to it,” said Julia. “I know I should. It’s a most beautiful ring.”
Fulke drank some champagne.
“I think,” he said uneasily, “I think when I ask to see over, I’d better say why I’ve come.”
“Why?”
“Well, they’ll think I’m mad or something—staring all over the floors.”
“Not if you do it properly. You see, my dear, you mustn’t give it away. If you do, they won’t half show you round, and the moment you’re gone they’ll go through the place with a tooth-comb.”
“All right,” said Fulke gloomily. “I don’t care. Only, if I do find it there’ll be a hell of a row. They’re bound to see me pick it up, and if it looks as valuable as you say it is——”
“Then you can explain,” said Julia, lighting a cigarette. “Once it’s found, you can tell them that that’s what you came for. The great thing is to find it.”
“Yes, I know that,” said Fulke. “It’s the goin’ I’m thinkin’ about. If I don’t find it, they’ll think I’m mad: if I do find it, they’ll think I’m a thief: and if I try to explain, they’ll probably knock me down. . . . However, if it’s going to bring you freedom . . .”
“That’s a dear,” said Julia.
There was a moment’s silence.
Then—
“Look here,” said George suddenly. “Why did you send for me?”
Miss Willow, who had been about to drink, set down her cup.
“Because I knew you would help.”
“Why?”
“Because you love me,” said Julia boldly.
Fulke emptied his glass.
“If I find it,” he said, “will you marry me?”
Miss Willow started. This was not according to plan. For a moment she thought very fast. Then—
“You’re too young, dear,” she said gently. “You shall take me about, I promise—until I’m engaged again. And I’ll be awfully nice. But I couldn’t marry you, George.”
“Then where,” said George slowly, “where do I come in?”
There was a pregnant silence.
At length—
“I thought,” said Julia coldly, “that I was your star.”
“You told me to come down to earth,” said Fulke doggedly.
“You called yourself my knight.”
“You told me to dismount,” was the disconcerting reply.
“You said you loved me,” said Julia.
“So I do. But I’ve had some. When you got engaged to Hubert, it broke me up. And now I’m wise, Julia. I’m not going through it again.”
“D’you mean you won’t help me?” cried Julia.
“I’ll go to Scotland Yard.”
There was another silence.
“But, George darling,” purred Julia, “you don’t understand. Marriage is merely a form—a worldly ceremony. Sooner or later every girl has to take her place. It’s a cruel law, but then Convention is cruel—where girls are concerned. And so I’ve got to conform. But that doesn’t mean that I want to. My heart will always be in your care.”
“Nothing doing,” said Fulke shortly. “You mightn’t think it, but I’ve already got Sarah Pardoner’s and Nell Herrick’s. I reminded Sarah of that about six weeks ago, but all she said was that she was glad it had a good home: and when I told Nell she only shrieked with laughter and said that if it wasn’t claimed soon I’d better sell it to defray expenses.”
“Of course, you’ve changed,” said Julia shakily. “You’ve become commercial. I used to think you were the one man I knew who wasn’t out for himself.”
“Nor I was—once. But it’s worn off. You’ve no idea of the dirty work I’ve done—all women’s, of course. And often enough before I was through they’ve forgotten they asked me to do it. As for being grateful . . .” He let the sentence go and struck a match with great violence. “Look at Madrigal Chichele,” he added.
“What about Madrigal?”
“She told me she was tied up for money and wanted to raffle her Rolls, and would I sell the tickets, as it was awkward for her? Well, I went to no end of trouble. Got the car photographed and went all over the place selling tickets at a quid a time. I touched people all over the Continent—complete strangers. Once a week I wrote to Madrigal to say how I was getting on. One day I ran into her in Bond Street. ‘Oh,’ says she, ‘I’ve been meaning to write to you, George. I’ve sold the car.’ ”
“What did you say?” said Julia, struggling with laughter.
“I don’t know what I said,” said George wearily. “I know I damned near died there and then. I tried to explain it was fraud: but she said that was all rot, and that it often happened, and that all I had to do was to give the money back.”
“How—how many tickets had you sold?” said Julia tearfully.
“Over six hundred,” said Fulke. “Half of them haven’t seen their money—never will see it. I don’t know where they are. I tell you, complete strangers came in on the deal. I’m afraid to go abroad. . . . Well, that sort of thing’s learned me. I like to know where I am and where I come in.”
“But I can’t say I’ll marry you, George. I’m engaged to Hubert.”
Fulke handed the papers back.
“Sorry,” he said, “but this is no ordinary job. If you wanted me to take you to Goodwood or Lords or The Zoo or something like that, I should be tickled to death. But I’m not giving any more pints of my blood away.”
“George,” pleaded Julia, “you’re not going to let me down.”
“I shouldn’t think of such a thing,” said Fulke. “But I’m not going to help you out of one preserve into another. It’s not good enough. You seem to forget I love you.”
“But if the ring isn’t found I shall have to marry him. D’you want me to do that?”
George shrugged his shoulders.
“Hubert’s all right,” he said. “I’d just as soon it was him as somebody else. I rather like Hubert.”
Miss Willow sat back in her chair and regarded her hands. These were small and beautifully shaped. She remembered that Hubert had once said that he would rather kiss her fingers than any other woman’s lips. Suddenly it occurred to her that she rather liked Hubert too. . . .
Of course, his behaviour had been monstrous. It had been very hot, certainly. Abnormally hot. But that was no excuse. Still. . . . He had had no right to do it—not a shadow of right, but he had spoken the truth. She had been outrageously capricious—for the love of the thing. She had meant to pull his leg, and had twisted his tail. She had deliberately devilled him just to see how far she could go: and, before she knew where she was, she had gone too far. . . . Of course, that was no excuse. Still . . .
Suddenly she remembered that Hubert had a game leg.
All those miles with a knee that wasn’t sound, that, when it was tired, hurt. . . . And he had never pleaded it . . . never so much as referred. . . .
And George Fulke was demanding to occupy Hubert’s stall. . . . George Fulke . . .
Julia sat up in her chair and picked up the reins.
“What are your terms?” she said.
“Marriage,” said George laconically. “Our engagement to be announced within one month of yours and Hubert’s being called off. Then I’ll spread myself, Julia. Hang it, I shall have something to sweat for.”
“Of course you’re spoiled,” said Miss Willow. “Utterly spoiled.”
“In other words, I’m not such a mug as I was. Well, you can thank Sarah and Co. for that.”
“D’you still pretend you love me?”
“I’m mad about you,” said George. “It’s just because I’m so mad that I can’t and won’t go and hand you to somebody else. Why, I’d—I’d never get over it.”
“But if this is how we get engaged, what will our marriage be like?”
“Julia,” said Fulke earnestly, “I’ll do you a blinkin’ treat. I really will. You know me pretty well, and you know it isn’t my nature to want to see your money before I deliver the goods. I’m only doing it now in self-defence. If you’d been stung like me, you’d be doing it too. Once I’ve got you I’ll never bargain again.”
“Would you be kind to me, George?”
In a trembling voice George protested that he would be insanely kind.
“Very well,” said Julia, returning the ‘orders to view.’ “I accept your terms. Find the ring, and a month after my engagement to Hubert’s been officially cancelled——”
“Oh, you darling!” said Fulke rapturously.
“Hush,” said Julia. “You’re not there yet, you know. Listen. There’s a house with no end of stairs in Prince’s Gardens. I think I should try that first. But between the others there’s really nothing to choose.”
“Good,” said Fulke enthusiastically.
That Julia was as wise as she was pretty is a true saying. But, what is more to the point, she was wiser than Fulke.
George made an admirable swain. As a husband, he would have been a complete failure. This was generally recognized. Mrs. Pardoner had seen it, and so had Mrs. Herrick. Miss Willow was no whit less shrewd. Besides . . .
When, therefore, she accepted his terms, she knew what he did not suspect—that of his innocence he had left her a loophole of dimensions so ample that it was resembling a grand entrance.
In a word, while she very much wanted her ring—it being a beautiful gaud and of great value—she had not the slightest intention of becoming disengaged.
That Fulke’s cake, then, was dough is perfectly plain.
Secured by this comfortable reflection, Miss Willow was in very good cue. The bargain struck, George had recaptured his former excellence and had made very seasonable love. She held great expectation of his finding the ring, and was more than thankful to be spared the grisly ordeal of revisiting her haunts of Saturday upon such a delicate quest. As for Hubert, her peace must be made with honour: but that, she decided, should not be difficult. Indeed, by the time she had parted with George and was once more at home she had become quite hopeful that Hubert would make the first move.
The sight of a note addressed in his well-known hand set the seal upon her content.
She opened it with a faint smile.
My dear Julia,
I’m afraid I didn’t play the game yesterday evening.
What does the rotten ring matter? It’s served its turn. If it doesn’t turn up, let it lie. If it does, keep it ‘with my love.’ Any old way I’ve written to The Times, telling them to insert the usual notice. You know. ‘The marriage arranged, etc., will not take place.’
Yours,
Hubert.
After one frightful moment, Julia fell upon the telephone.
Two minutes later she was curtly informed that Captain Challenger was out of town.
“It’s no good you seein’ over,” said the porter at Sloane Street. “The flat’s took.”
“I see,” said George thoughtfully. “I see. It—it wasn’t took—taken on Saturday.”
“Oo said it was?” said the porter, who was of the new school.
George felt for a note.
“Look here,” he said. “I want to see over this flat. I don’t care whether it’s taken or whether it isn’t. I think it’ll just suit me—provided the floors are good.”
“They aren’t,” said the porter. “They’re rotten.”
George swallowed.
“Well, you let me see for myself. If you’re busy, you needn’t come. You won’t lose by it, you know,” and with that he fingered a note.
The porter leaned against the wall.
“Now, wot are you gettin’ at?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” said George indignantly. “I just want to see that flat. From what—what I’ve heard, it’ll suit me down to the ground.”
“But I tell you it’s took.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said George. “If it suits me I’ll square the other fellow somehow.”
The porter looked George up and down.
As if without thinking, George reinforced the note.
“Yes, that’s all right,” said the porter. “I see the two ’alf-quids. But I’m goin’ to get into trouble over this show. Once a flat’s took, it’s took. I ain’t got no business to let you inside.”
“No one need know,” said George thoughtlessly.
“Yes, they need,” said the porter. “Wot if you wants to ’ave it? The firs’ thing the agent’ll say is, ‘ ’Ow did you get inside?’ ”
George began to hate the porter very much.
“That’s easy enough,” he said. “I shall say I saw it on Saturday afternoon.”
There was a silence.
“Let’s ’ave a look at that ‘order,’ ” said the porter suddenly.
For the ninth time that day an ‘order to view’ passed.
“Are you Keptin Chellenger?”
“That’s right,” said George boldly.
The porter folded the ‘order’ and put it away.
“Right-oh,” he said shortly.
They passed to the second floor. . . .
“This is the ’all,” said the porter supererogatively.
“I see,” said George, raking the floor with his eyes. “It’s—it’s not very light, is it?”
“Depen’s wot you want to see,” was the dark reply.
George began to wish that he had given Sloane Street a miss.
That the porter’s suspicions were aroused was manifest. He stuck to Fulke as a policeman sticks to his prey. Thus embarrassed, the latter’s endeavours to behave like a prospective tenant lost much of the life which they had begun to acquire, while any proper prosecution of his search was out of the question. The tour of the gaunt rooms became a hideous business—costly, futile, critical. What he should do in the actual event of discovery, Fulke tried not to consider. He supposed vaguely that there would be a free fight. All the time an inexplicable feeling that he was what children call ‘warm’ pricked the unhappy youth into the cannon’s mouth. . . .
Presently they came to the bathroom.
This was laid with cork carpet of dark green hue. Falling upon it, a ring would hardly be heard: lying upon it, an emerald might well escape detection.
Fulke’s eyes almost left his head.
The chamber was small enough, but one’s view of the floor was obstructed. The basin got in the way: the bath could have hidden about five hundred rings.
Frantically George sought an excuse for dalliance.
“I—I like this room,” he said, looking up and around as though he were in a cathedral.
“No accountin’ for tastes,” said the porter, folding his arms.
Fulke frowned.
Then he tapped the linoleum with his foot.
“Does this go with the flat?” he said.
“Wot?” said the porter, staring.
“This linoleum.”
The porter eyed Fulke with a supreme contempt.
“Oh, less of it,” he said. “Ten feet o’ secon’-’and lino in a six-’undred-quid flat. An’ you ask if it goes. Why, it ain’t worth——”
“I happen to know something about linoleum,” lied Fulke furiously. “Why, if I told the Stores to put a new piece down, they’d charge me about ten pounds.”
“Would they, though?” said the porter. “They must ’ave got your number.”
There was an unpleasant silence.
At length—
“I—I take it the bath works all right,” said George desperately.
“It don’t leak,” said the porter, “if that’s wot you mean.”
Once more George looked round, racking his brain and trying to remember that one day the porter would die.
Then he turned to the basin and pushed back his cuffs.
“I think I’ll wash my hands,” he announced. “Can you get me a towel?”
“An’ then you’re wrong,” said the porter. “There ain’t no water.”
George could have broken his neck.
Instead, he turned to the window, trying to keep his head and wondering vaguely what constituted ‘justifiable homicide.’
Suddenly the idea flashed, and he swung on his heel.
“Who’s that?” he said sharply, and listened.
The porter started.
“Ooze wot?” he said.
“Somebody closed the front door.”
The porter slipped out of the room and tiptoed towards the hall.
Instantly George fell upon his face. . . .
He had one arm beneath the bath when the porter reappeared.
“Thort as much,” said the latter, “you young cunnin’ brute. An’ now I ’ave got yer—cold. You’re for it, my son. I wouldn’ give much fer your chances. ’Tempt ter commit a felony—that’s wot it is. Stolen ‘order to view’—passin’ yerself orf as Keptin Chellenger—temptin’ ter bribe . . . an’ all fer a little green stone as don’ belong to yer.”
George extricated his arm and rose to his feet.
“Don’t be a fool,” he said shortly. “When was it found?”
The porter entered the bathroom and approached to Fulke’s a perfectly furious countenance.
“ ‘Fool’?” he breathed. “ ‘Fool’ did joo say?”
George recoiled, and the face proportionately advanced. Its eyes were blazing: its chin protruded out of all reason.
“You ’as the blarsted nerve to call me a fool. You ’as——”
There was not much room to duck, but Fulke did it.
As the fist sang over his shoulder, he landed a vicious punch.
The porter staggered backwards. Then the porcelain rim caught him under the hocks, and it was all over.
As he fell into the bath, George slid out of the room and, finding a key in the door, turned it gratefully.
A moment later he was streaking up Sloane Street. . . .
It was, perhaps, ten minutes later that Julia, frantic, ran Hubert Challenger to earth.
“Hubert, where have you been?”
“Hurlingham,” said Hubert calmly. “How lovely you look.”
“Not all day?”
“Very nearly. I came up to town this morning, did one or two jobs of work and——”
“At your rooms they said you were in Bucks: at Bucks they said you were in town: I wired to each of your clubs and half the restaurants in London: I——”
“You also warned the barber,” said Hubert. “Only a genius would have thought of that. I’ve come straight along.”
“Can you stop that notice going in?”
“With the acme of ease,” said Hubert. “I haven’t posted the letter.”
“But you said——”
“I said I’d written, dear. I didn’t say I’d posted it.”
Torn between relief and indignation, Julia felt rather faint.
“Hubert,” she said weakly, sinking on to the arm of a chair, “I may tell you you’ve shortened my life. Last night I dined with George Fulke.”
“Naturally,” said Hubert, sitting down. “They all do. As a second string, George’s position is unique. And I’m glad you did. I rather like George.”
“Well, I don’t,” said Julia. “He’s—he’s utterly spoiled.”
“In other words,” said Hubert, “he’s getting wise. Don’t say he’s done it on you.”
“He behaved abominably. I told him to find the ring. D’you know he actually tried to bargain with me?”
“Quite right too,” said Hubert. “Why shouldn’t he have a look in? What was his price?”
“Only me,” said Julia. “If he found the ring I was to marry him.”
Challenger nodded approval.
“It is clear,” he said, “that George is finding himself. What did you say?”
“I said that if he found the ring he could announce our engagement one month after yours and mine had been cancelled.”
Challenger opened his eyes.
“You must like George very much.”
“I wouldn’t be seen dead with him.”
“Then where,” said Hubert, “is the snag?”
Julia hesitated.
“I—I said ‘officially cancelled.’ You know. Put in The Times. But I never meant it to be done. I—I thought we could just tell people.”
“Oh, what a dirty one,” said Hubert.
“It wasn’t at all,” said Julia indignantly. “Besides, he asked for it. He tried to do me down. . . . And then—then I got your letter.”
“Ah,” said Hubert. “That shortened George’s price.”
“It was two to one on him,” cried Julia. “You’d disappeared: he’d only to find the ring—and that he did, my dear, quite early this morning.” She held up a delicate finger, at once adorning and adorned by a magnificent gem. “A messenger-boy——”
Challenger looked down his nose.
“As a matter of fact, he was scratched at half-past nine. I found the symbol, my lady, and sent it along.”
Julia started to her feet.
“You—found—it?”
“I,” said Hubert, “with my little eye. I found the ring. I happened upon it, as they say, in the course of a job of work.”
“Where?”
Challenger rose to his feet.
“Julia,” he said, “after the barber had cleansed me I was going to call upon you. I was going to beg your pardon and ask you very humbly to have another dart. I don’t want to stimy George, but I’ve taken Sloane Street on a seven years’ lease, and——”
“Hubert, you haven’t!”
“Why not, dear? I took it first thing this morning, and, being so close, I just felt round for the ring. There it was—in the midst of the bathroom. I gave the porter a fiver just for luck, and——”
“But, Hubert, I’ve taken South Street.”
“Julia!”
Miss Willow nodded. Then she put out her hands, and Challenger caught them in his.
“You were perfectly right,” she said. “You always are. South Street is incomparable. And I thought, perhaps, if you didn’t think me too capricious to live with . . . in South Street . . .”
“My blessed darling,” said Hubert, with his cheek against hers. “My beautiful——”
Here the telephone stammered an interruption.
Challenger kissed his lady. Then he lifted his head.
“George,” he said, “for a monkey.”
Miss Willow picked up the receiver.
“Is that you, Julia?” cried Fulke.
“Oh, George,” said Miss Willow, “I am so glad you rang up. I want you to do something for me.”
There was a choking noise.
At length—
“Not—not really?” said Fulke hysterically. “What about the ring?”
“Oh, I’ve got the ring all right. This is instead. Among those ‘orders’ I gave you was one for a flat in Sloane Street. We took it this morning, but now we’ve seen one we like better. Will you go and tell the porter to go on showing the flat? Just mention Hubert’s name, and—— Hullo, hullo! Are you there? Are you there?”
But George had rung off.
And now Julia Challenger has superseded Madrigal Chichele.