CHAPTER X
"OH, of course, I'd forgotten." Denise had been reminded of her promise—looked vaguely annoyed. "H'm! I'm short now. Can't ask Cyrrie, can I? I'll bring you two hundred, Esmé! Give you some more in August, my quarter day."
"But I want it. I've run into debt counting on it," said Esmé, sullenly.
"Oh, you've got old Hugh to fall back on now Bertie's the heir. If I could ask Cyrrie—but I can't! Two hundred's a lot, Esmé. You must make it do."
"You'll be away in August," Esmé said. "You can't send me so much in a cheque."
"No. I'll get notes. I'll be sure to. I shall be at home. Wonders will never cease. I've got to keep very quiet just now," said Denise. "It's wonderful—and I'm not afraid."
"Oh!" Esmé sat up. "And—if it's a son, Denise, your own son—you—what will you do?"
"Yet must the alien remain the heir." Denise shrugged her shoulders. "I should never dare to tell. You don't know Cyrrie. He'd send me away somewhere with three hundred a year, and never see or speak to me again. For Heaven's sake, Es, remember that. Besides, it would all take some proving now."
"Be good to my boy or I'll claim him," said Esmé, stormily.
"Hush! Es. Don't!" Denise looked terrified. "And you dare not, either. Your Bertie would not forgive. Look here! I've got a pendant I don't want; take it and sell it. It's worth two hundred. And I'll scrape out three for you somehow. Oh, here's Cyrrie."
The big man came in. There was a sense of power about him and of relentless purpose. His under jaw, his deeply-set eyes, were those of a man who, once roused, could be cruel, and even merciless.
"Hello! Mrs Carteret." He was always cordial to Esmé. "We've missed you lately. Den, the boy's peaky—wants fresh air, his nurse says."
Esmé turned white, clenched her hands until her gloves split and burst.
"Send him to the sea," said Denise, carelessly. "Broadstairs, Cromer, anywhere, Cyrrie."
"No, I think we'll go home. It's better for you too." Sir Cyril's big jaw shot out. "We'll go home, Den. I've wired, and the boy can go on to-morrow. Drive down, it will do him good, in the big car."
"Oh!" Esmé saw that Denise objected, hated going, yet was afraid to object once her husband had decided.
"Oh, I'm glad you're sending him out of London," Esmé burst out. "He looks wretched. I am glad."
"He's your godson, isn't he?" laughed Blakeney. "You were good then, Mrs Carteret. Seen to-day's paper? That little fool of a Cantilupe woman has made a mess of it, and Cantilupe was right to take it to court. Seen the evidence? She forged his name to a cheque for five hundred to give to this wretched man. Trusted to Canty's absolute carelessness. He never looked at accounts. But the bank grew uneasy, 'phoned to Canty, and he said it was his signature all right and paid. Then he found out where the money had gone to, and all the rest, and she defended like a fool. The kindest fellow in the world, but he's merciless now. Told about the cheque so as to shame her."
"She was his wife. He should have remembered that," faltered Denise.
"She had deceived him," Sir Cyril answered. "No man worth the name forgets that. She deceived him. I couldn't forgive five minutes of it, especially as there are no children; not that sort of deceit. I was even too hard on folly once, but that's different." He went out of the room, big and strong and determined.
"Bother that boy!" stormed Denise. "There are three or four things I hate missing. Oh, bother! bother!" She stamped her foot in her impatience, frowning and biting at her fingers. "Oh, here, Esmé. Come to my room."
The maid was there, laying out a new gown.
"You can go, Sutton. Here! slip it away." Denise opened a case, pulled out a heavy pendant, a tasteless, valuable thing.
"Old Susan, Cyrrie's aunt, sent it to me when she heard I was a mother." Denise laughed. "Green said it was worth three hundred. I've loads of others, and no one will miss this. I'll get you the notes."
Denise was friendly again, more like her old self, but moved, as Esmé knew, by fear, and not by gratitude or love.
Denise was called to the telephone. Esmé was left alone for a time in the luxurious bedroom, standing by the open safe, enviously fingering the jewels. How lovely they were. A necklace of diamonds and emeralds; Cartier work; a jewelled snake with ruby eyes. A rope of pearls. Sapphires, opals, emeralds, all glowing as Esmé opened the cases.
"Oh, I thought her ladyship was here, mem," the maid had come in quietly. Esmé turned with a start.
"Her ladyship went to the telephone." Esmé closed her hand about the pendant, which she had been holding carelessly. She could see the maid watching her covertly.
"Oh, there you are, Denise." Esmé still held the heavy pendant, afraid to put it in her bag before the maid, afraid to show it.
"Yes. I'm late too. Cyril's waiting. We're lunching out. My hat, Sutton, my veil, quickly!"
Esmé slipped the pendant into her bag as the maid turned away. The Blakeneys drove her to Jules, where she said she would be lunching.
But, not hungry, she went on to Benhusan, a well-known jeweller, offering her pendant.
The head man took it, looking at the heavy stones.
"Yes, we could give two hundred for this, to break up. It's tasteless." He examined it carefully. "Came from us, originally," he said. "We all have our private mark, madam. Made to order, no doubt. I'll speak to Mr Benhusan, madam. One moment."
Esmé flushed with annoyance. They might look up the pendant, perhaps speak of it to someone.
She got two hundred and thirty for it and went out.
Mr Benhusan nodded at the heavy bauble. "It was made for the Dowager Lady Blakeney," he said. "I remember it. The centre stone is worth all the money we have given for it."
Absently, with a lack of her usual shrewdness, Esmé went to the door, opened it, and remembered her notes; they had paid her.
She had put three into her bag, when a thin hand shot out, grabbed the rest, and before she could even cry out, the thief was lost in the crowd.
Esmé stood stricken, shaking more with futile anger than anything else. Her brains were quick. If she went back, raised the hue and cry, what then? Bertie would ask her what pendant she was selling. The whole thing would come out.
Esmé walked away, her face white, her hands shaking. She counted what was left at her club in Dover Street; three notes for fifty each. So she was robbed of over a hundred, and someone must go unpaid. Unless Denise would make it up. There was too much loyalty in Esmé to think of working on her friend's fears. She sat brooding, smoking, too much upset to eat. A boy she knew came in, noticed her white cheeks—a thin and somewhat stupid youth, who posed as a Don Juan, considered himself irresistible.
"Not lookin' a bit well," he said. "No luncheon? Come along down to the Berkeley and have a little champagne. Let me look after you, dear lady."
Esmé was a beauty; he walked proudly with her, looking at her dazzling colouring, her well-formed, supple limbs.
She let herself be distracted by flattery, listened to foolish compliment, to praise of her glorious hair, her beautiful eyes.
Wouldn't she come for a drive some Sunday? The new Daimler was a dear. Down to Brighton or away into the country for a picnic. She must let him see more of her.
Angy Beerhaven leant across the table, empresse, showing how ready he was to love, to be a devoted friend.
Over champagne and sandwiches Esmé babbled a little, told of her loss, of how hard up she was.
With sympathy discreetly veiled behind his cigarette smoke, Angy hinted. Pretty women need never be hard up. Fellows would only find it a pleasure to make life easy for them if—there was friendship, real friendship, between good pals.
The restaurant was almost empty; they sat in a quiet corner. With wits suddenly sharpened, Esmé looked at the thin, weakly vicious face, at the boy's eyes glittering over her beauty, already seeing himself chosen. His carefully-tended hands were opening his gold cigarette-case. She shuddered. If she allowed those hands the right to caress her she could be free of debt and care—for a time.
Love affairs were butterflies of a season. Next year it would have to be someone else; there would be the distraction of it, the adoration which always pleases a woman; and then the fading, the breaking free. The meeting again with a careless good-morning, with the shame searing her soul as she remembered.
Distraction, a little less time to think, was what Esmé wanted. She saw too clearly for this. She had sold one birthright without thought; but not this second one of her self-respect.
She got up, smiling sweetly. It had been charming of Mr Beerhaven to look after her; she was feeling so much better now.
"But," he stood in front of her in her corner; she could see the eager look on his face. "But—she must let him go on taking care of her. Wouldn't she dine with him to-night? Do a theatre—have supper afterwards?"
Angy unadulterated from seven until one! Esmé smiled.
Unfortunately she was engaged, all day, every day this week. But would he lunch on Sunday? They were having a little party at the Ritz. He would meet her husband.
The eager look changed to one of sulky indecision. Angy Beerhaven was not sure if he could. If she'd have tea with him to-morrow he'd tell her.
Esmé promised to lightly; went away leaving the boy frowning.
"Is she one of your real stand-offs, or just wants to put a value on herself?" he muttered. "Bah! It's too much trouble if she does—pretty as she is."
Clutching the rest of her money, Esmé strolled about aimlessly; she gave up two engagements, would not go to her club because she was too restless to talk to her friends. Turned in at last to a tea-shop, where brown curtains made little alcoves, and thick blinds shaded the light. There were three or four tiny rooms, one opening from the other; the first where the decorous matron might sit and drink tea and eat muffins; the second and third where one could smoke; these rooms were separated by portières of Indian beads, rattling as one passed through.
Tired, her head aching from the champagne, Esmé went to the second room, sat down in a dim corner just by the door into the last, and ordered tea. It made her head clearer; she smoked, thinking deeply.
Voices drifted to her from the inner room. It was a mere cupboard, kept in semi-darkness.
She listened at length, listened with a start.
"Is it safe here by the door?"
The beads rattled. She heard Jimmie Gore Helmsley's voice.
"Only a few people get away. It's early yet. Look here, Syl, meet me at Brighton on Sunday. Do! We'll have a lovely day. I'll have a cousin—she lives there—to do propriety. Make some excuse and get off. We never have a day together."
"But if people heard of it?" Sybil Chauntsey faltered.
"No one will. No one we know goes to Brighton on Sundays, and if they do we are just taking a stroll. Do, Sybil! I deserve something. I—I wasn't hard-hearted over those bridge debts now, was I?"
Poor Sybil, with her hand pressed to her throat. She owed this man two hundred pounds now. If he went to her people she would be sent home in disgrace.
"No," she whispered. "No."
"We'll wipe 'em out for ever if you'll be a good child and have a simple spree. I'll give you back your I.O.U., your letters."
Her letters. Sybil knew that she had written two foolish, girlishly gushing notes, open to several constructions. In one she had spoken of that ripping tea at his rooms. She shivered again.
"I'll let you know," she faltered. "Oh! I'll try to come."
Esmé listened, but heard no more. Moving silently she slipped away to the blind-shaded window and got there just as the two came out. Her back was to them, her head hidden in a hastily-snatched-up newspaper. They did not notice her.
Tragedy and comedy were being played out, to each their lines and part.
Denise Blakeney, dressing for dinner, had to play her part without rehearsal.
"The sapphires, Sutton," she said, "the sapphires and diamonds. They'll go with this cream gown. And the aigrette with the sapphire stars."
Sutton's prim voice rose a little as she bent over the safe.
"Are you wearing the heavy diamond pendant, m'lady?"
"No." Denise flushed, bending over something on the dressing-table to hide her rising colour.
"It's not here, m'lady, and it was here at luncheon-time when I gave you the pink pearls."
"What's that?" Sir Cyril, big-jowled, heavy, strolled in.
Sutton repeated the news of the loss, turning over the cases. "The case is here," she said, "but I noticed it open."
"The pendant old Aunt Sukey sent?" Sir Cyril went to the safe himself. "That's valuable."
"I—it must be there somewhere. Lock the safe, Sutton." Denise would have told the maid she had sent the pendant to be cleaned. Cyril was one of the men who question closely. It would have been: "To which shop, Den? I could get it for you to-morrow."
"It must be there," she repeated sharply. "It's just muddled away; or I may have lost it. I'm very careless."
"We'll look to-morrow. It's time to go now." But big Cyril Blakeney stood still for a minute, staring at the safe; thoughts which he longed to smother rising in him.
He had seen Esmé Carteret bending over the safe, fingering the jewels. She could not ... it was a monstrous thing!
He put the idea away resolutely as though it were some crawling beast; came down to where his wife was getting into her motor.
"You must have dropped it," he said slowly, "but I thought you never wore the thing. We'll offer a reward."
"Oh, very well," Denise Blakeney answered nervously, pulling at the buttons of her gloves. "Oh, I may find it to-morrow. Wait and see. I often stuff things away into other places, if I am in a hurry."
"Esmé Carteret"—Denise could see the big, heavy face thrust forward, as Sir Cyril lighted a cigarette—"Esmé Carteret is—er—pretty well off, isn't she, now that old Hugh's sons are dead?"
"She says she's racked by poverty." Denise flushed and faltered at this mistake.... "Oh, yes, of course, he makes her a splendid allowance; he must, or Esmé could not go about as she does."
"You're an extravagant little monkey yourself," said Sir Cyril, equably. "I asked Richards a fortnight ago what your balance was, and he said five hundred. Yesterday I was in at the bank and he told me it was only a hundred."
"I paid bills and things." Denise was not enjoying her drive. Supposing this inquisitive husband of hers looked at her bank-book and saw a cheque for two hundred to self. He would ask what she had spent it on; if she had gambled? He was curiously particular about high play, and women losing foolishly.
Denise thought that she would change her bank; then knew again that she would be forbidden to. Cyril was indulgent, almost absurdly generous, but master in his own home. And—if he ever guessed—ever knew—Denise grew cold with chill fear; for, combined with dread, her shallow nature clung now to the big man beside her; she had forgotten her follies in the past.
It is a shallow nature's joy, it has power to forget.
On several separate stages the dramas and comedies were being played out, but in one great last act they might all come together for the finale, and be called true tragedy then.
Sybil Chauntsey was playing her little part. Half frightened, half resentful, trying to call herself a baby, to tell her awakening woman's mind that Jimmie Gore Helmsley was only her pal, that she was a fool to think otherwise. And then the look in the black eyes, the little subtle caresses he had given her, gave this the lie.
Sybil would not go to a dance that evening; she pleaded headache, sat in her stuffy room, looking out across the hot slates, thinking.
She was afraid. Who would help her now to pay this man and so get out of his power? She had learned to dread him.
She jumped up suddenly, ran to her writing-table. Old memories crowded back to her, her first years of coming out, when she had been so happy. She saw the library at the Holbrooks', felt warm young hands on hers, heard a voice saying:
"But if you are ever in any trouble, if you want help, send for me. I shall always be ready."
Her young soldier lover would help her now; and with wet eyes above the paper she wrote on, Sybil knew how she would turn to him again. How gifts of flowers and sweets, expensive dinners and suppers, stolen interviews for tea and subtle flattery, had lost their charm.
She only wrote a few lines, posted it to York, where his regiment was stationed; she wanted his help, urgently; would he come to her at once?
So the hot curtain of night fell on another act for Sybil.
Esmé had gone home after tea, found Bertie there, resting in the flowerless drawing-room.
With nerves strung up, with her hidden excitement wearing her out, she came to him, threw herself suddenly on her knees beside him, laid her face against his, tried to wake the thrill which the touch of his lips had given her once.
Bertie, surprised, drew her to him, kissing the red mouth.
It had been innocent of lip salve when he had kissed them first; her soft cheeks had not been plastered with expensive creams and powder. As hungry people imagine feasts, so Esmé sought for forgetfulness in passionate kisses, in new transports of love. Sought—and found no place. It seemed to her that Bertie had grown cold, that he no longer cared for her. He had never been a sensualist, only an honest lover.
Whispered hints of Gore Helmsley's, little stories he had told her, came to her as she rested her cheek against her husband's.
"Dear old Es," he said affectionately, but not passionately. "Dear old butterfly, it's nice to have my girlie loving again; but we'll be late for dinner if we don't dress quickly. Es, call your maid."
Esmé rang listlessly; she hardly knew what she wanted, save that it was something which would wipe away her bitter thoughts.
Through dinner she was recklessly merry, witty in her flashing way; brilliantly, a little haggardly, pretty. The patches of pink were more pronounced on her cheeks, her powder thicker.
Then, driving home in the cool, she remembered Sybil Chauntsey. Here was another woman about to make a mistake, to realize too late, as she had done, that money cannot repay peace of mind. Deep, too, in Esmé's mind, was a horror of sinning. She was instinctively pure herself; her ideas set deeply in a bed of conventionality. A girl of Sybil's type would suffer all her life if she once slipped, perhaps afterwards grow completely reckless, look on her one sin as so deadly that a host of others could matter little, and might drown thought.
Esmé forgot Sybil until Sunday morning. Angy Beerhaven had proved himself in earnest, had almost insisted on a trip in his new car. "Bring anyone—your husband and a friend," he said.
Esmé had agreed heartily. There was Estelle; she would like the drive. As the huge cream-coloured Daimler hummed softly at her door, Angy asked where they would go to.
"The sea would be lovely to-day," he said. "Or there are the Downs or the Forest."
"The sea!" Esmé shot out swiftly. "The sea!" she said.
"Then Brighton. It's a nice run; there are decent hotels. One only gets cold beef and cutlets in heaps of places."
"Brighton let it be," she said carelessly.
The Daimler seemed a live monster purring as she flew along the smooth roads, laughing at her hills, answering sweetly to her brakes, swinging her great length contemptuously past weaker sisters.
The salt kiss of the sea was on their faces as they dipped into Brighton.
"We'll run out again afterwards," Angy said; "get a good blow."
Esmé had been a merry companion on the way down.
Strolling on the front, Esmé started suddenly. Sybil might be here; she remembered the conversation now. In the huge place it would be almost impossible to find her. Jimmie would not come to the best-known hotels.
But if she could—it would be worth some trouble.
Esmé's fit of boredom vanished. She was full of plans. They would run off for a long run, come back to tea, dine again in Brighton and go home in the cool.
"They'll be quite happy anywhere," she said, nodding towards Estelle and Bertie. "We can go off by ourselves."
Angy's hopes grew deeper. His fatuously ardent glances were more frequent. He whispered eager nonsense to Esmé, hinted at happy future drives and meetings, of lending her the car altogether if she liked.
To have a sixty Daimler at one's disposal would be convenient, but as it would generally include Angy Beerhaven as chauffeur, Esmé shrugged her shoulders. A taxi suited her better, though she did not say so.
After tea she grew restless; wanted to see other hotels, to inspect Brighton. The Metropole was too crowded.
"Come with me," she said to Angy; "we'll prospect, and telephone here if we find some nest which suits me."
A cabman gave her information.
"Quiet hotels, but smart, nice? He'd tell of one, yes, miss, he would."
It was only as they went on that Esmé realized the smirk of innuendo on the man's red face.
"Often driven parties there as wanted to be quiet an' comfabul," said Jehu, taking a shilling graciously. "Thank you, lady, and good luck."
Esmé went to two or three places, read the dinner menu carefully, made Angy wonder what restless spirit possessed her, then came to the jarvey's recommendation, a small hotel facing the sea, standing modestly behind a long strip of garden. The garden was full of roses and shrubs, so that the porch was almost concealed.
The lady peering out of the little office was unmistakably French.
"Madame wished to see the dinner menu—but certainly! Madame would want a private room, no doubt; the coffee-room was small and the tables already crowded."
"It is a hotel of private rooms," said Esmé to herself. She went on to a small, dimly-lighted veranda, set with huge palms and cunningly-placed nooks. She paused abruptly.
"I must go back! Oh, I must!" said Sybil's voice. "We shall miss the train—please let me."
"My cousin cannot be any time. Most annoying her being out all day. Don't spoil a perfect day, little Sybil. There's a late train we can catch. Or, better still, hire a car and drive up."
Esmé turned swiftly to her somewhat bewildered cavalier.
"Oh, Mr Beerhaven," she said. "Will you go to the telephone—order dinner at the Metropole, and see if they have quails—and peaches. It's the best place, after all. I'll wait here for you. Hurry, or they won't have shot the quails."
Angy left, ruminating on the logic of women.
"But give me my letters," she heard Sybil plead. "Please do! You promised them if I came here to-day."
"I promised—I will fulfil. After dinner you shall have your letters, little girl. Now, don't get silly and nervous."
"Of course I'll send you that money when I can," Sybil faltered, "but—"
"I won't ask you for the money. You were a good child to come here, little Sybil."
Esmé looked in.
Sybil was lying back in a long chair, her face white, her eyes half resentful, half fascinated. Jimmie Helmsley, bending over her, began to stroke her hands softly. His dark eyes bore no half thoughts in them.
"After dinner," he whispered. "I won't tease you any more about that silly debt."
Esmé pushed aside a spiky frond; she was righteously angry.
"Oh, Sybil," she said. "Your mother asked me if I came across you to take you home in our car. I was sampling hotels and luckily ran you to earth."
Sybil sprang up. Resentment, fascination, merged to sudden wild relief. She had told her mother that she was spending the day with a school friend.
"But—How very lucky your running across us." Gore Helmsley's teeth showed too much as he smiled; it made his greeting exceedingly like a snarl.
"Oh, yes, so lucky." Esmé listened to Helmsley's pattered explanation. "His cousin, Mrs Gore, etc. Very awkward. Out of Brighton. They had come here to wait for her."
"Very awkward," said Esmé, drily. "Well, you must join us at dinner. You can't wait here—alone."
A waiter padded noiselessly in. Dinner would be ready in ten minutes in Number Twenty-seven. They had procured the roses which Monsieur had ordered.
It amused Esmé a little to watch Gore Helmsley fight back his anger, mask himself in a moment in a thin cloak of carelessness. He followed the waiter into the hall.
"Sybil," said Esmé, sharply, "this is not wise, not right."
"We came to meet a cousin," Sybil whimpered. "She never came. I had to come—I had to. And now he's angry." She shivered a little, half tearful, half frightened.
"No, she would not come," said Esmé, drily; "but lie as I lie, my child, or there may be some pretty stories floating about London."
"Oh! you've ordered dinner," she said to Angy, "and I've just found Miss Chauntsey. She was dining with Captain Helmsley's cousin, Mrs Gore. But she is putting her off and joining our party at the Metropole."
Mr Beerhaven opened his mouth twice without emitting any particular sound.
"She's just gone home, hasn't she, Sybil?" said Esmé. "Quite a pretty woman. Come along."
Again Angy opened his mouth and shut it. It was not his part to say that he knew Mrs Gore to be in London. Angy was not altogether bad-hearted and he disliked Jimmie Gore Helmsley.
"Rotten!" said Mr Beerhaven, speaking at last.
"Eh?" said Esmé, sharply.
"Rotten luck, y'know, on Mrs Gore, but so glad. We'd better drive back. And a rotten chap," said Angy, forcibly. "You're a brick, Mrs Carteret." This speech made Esmé understand that Angy Beerhaven was not as big a fool as he looked.
In the cab Sybil leant back, frightened. She was afraid of Gore Helmsley's too-pleasant smile—afraid of the look in his eyes.
Esmé had whispered a few swiftly-spoken words to him, directing that their lies should be alike.
"It was exceedingly awkward," she said drily.
Angy had ordered everything he could think of. They began on iced caviare and finished up with forced peaches. He was exceedingly rich, and a snare wrought of gold was the only one he knew of.
Sybil was quiet through dinner, eating nothing, visibly unhappy.
Afterwards, as they sat in the cool, smoking, Gore Helmsley slipped to her side.
"Was there ever anything so unlucky?" he said.
"It was—very unlucky," said Sybil, dully.
"That woman hunting round for dinner, so she says. She's fairly decent, I fancy, won't blab. She lied brilliantly. It was so very awkward, and now Cissy will be quite disappointed. She 'phoned to say she was just starting to meet us. It was a lovely day together," he whispered. "Come to tea with me to-morrow, Sybil."
"You promised me my letters," she shot out, her heart thumping, "and my I.O.U. Give them to me."
"To-morrow," he said lightly. "I would have given them to you to-night, Sybil. Silly child ever to sign things."
Sybil's lip trembled; the snare was about her feet.
A tall man pushed his way through the crowd, looking anxiously at the tables. He was covered with the dust of a long journey; he came quickly, staring at each group.
"Oliver!" Sybil sprang to her feet, rushed across to him. "Oh, Captain Knox, why did you not come yesterday?"
"I only got back to York this morning. I motored to London, and it took me hours to find your mother. Who is that—in the shadow?"
"Captain Gore Helmsley." Sybil's voice grew shrill.
"And Sybil is here with me," said Esmé, coming out of another shadow. "Take her for a walk before we start. I want to talk to my friend here."
"Sybil—why did you write for me like that?"
"I wanted you to save me, and you never came," she faltered.
"But I am not too late. My God, not that!"
Then, stumblingly, she told him her story of sorrow.
"I was going to ask you to pay the debt for me," she said, "to get me clear. I dare not tell my mother or father."
"I brought money, as you said you wanted it; and there is nothing more, Sybil?" he said, taking her hands.
"Nothing. We spent the day here—waiting for Mrs Gore. And oh, I was afraid."
"Mrs Gore is in London. I saw her as I was looking for your mother."
"In London!" Sybil's cheeks grew very white. It had all been a lie. She would have dined at the small hotel, waiting for the woman who could never have joined them. And afterwards, alone with the man she feared and yet who influenced her.
Sybil was no innocent fool; the blackness of the chasm she had just missed sliding into was plainly before her eyes.
She flung herself suddenly into Knox's arms.
"Oh, Oliver, if you want me still, take me," she sobbed, "for I am a fool, and not fit to look after myself. I don't mind being poor; I only want you."
Captain Gore Helmsley, meanwhile, was listening to a few softly-uttered home-truths from Esmé Carteret.
"You might have ruined the child's reputation," she said angrily. "She was a fool to come here with you. Married women are fair game, Jimmie, but a girl has not learnt how to guard. It's not fair."
Sybil, with the frightened look gone from her eyes, came back to the table on the veranda.
"I owe you some money, Captain Gore Helmsley," she said clearly, "for bridge debts. It was good of you to let it stand over." She laid a cheque on the table. "Will you give me back my acknowledgments? Oliver is paying for me—we are going to be married."
Jimmie, smiling sweetly, pulled out his pocketbook, took from it a neatly-folded paper.
"And—two letters—referring to the debt," said Sybil, steadily.
"Not altogether to the debt." Jimmie laughed. "You are as unkind now, Miss Chauntsey, as you are dramatic."
"I want them," she said coldly. "You gave me your promise that I should have them back."
Jimmie took out the letters.
"I am giving them to Oliver to read, and then we'll burn them," she said simply.
"Oh, hang it!" said Gore Helmsley, blankly; "this has been a nice evening!"
"In which you got your dinner and desserts," flashed Esmé, laughing openly.