Another Man's Shoes

by Victor Bridges

CHAPTER XVIII

It was not York's fault that I took no part in the cricket match. His persistent and pathetic appeals to me at breakfast to fill the vacant place in his eleven were worthy of a more hopeful cause.

"Oh, leave Mr. Northcote alone, Bertie," broke in his sister at last. "You've got ten people already, and that's quite enough for the silly game."

"Ten!" retorted her brother. "What's the good of ten, and half of them village boys? Orbridge are a frightfully hot side."

"They'll be hotter still by the time the match is over," I said, looking out contentedly into the blazing sunshine. "It's no day for violent exercise. I'm going to sit in the shade and criticise."

"You'll get on very nicely, I'm sure, Captain York," put in Aunt Mary consolingly. "You always make such a lot of runs yourself."

"Besides," suggested Lady Baradell, with a characteristic smile, "think of the honour of winning against odds. If Mr. Northcote played, it would be a foregone conclusion."

"Well, it's just my luck," grumbled York dejectedly. "If I'd known Furnivall was going off to London like this, I'd never have got the match up. We shall have no one to bowl now, and we shall probably be fielding all day."

"A most healthy form of exercise," I observed. "Think of the appetite you'd have for dinner."

York, however, declined to be comforted, and it was in a very dispirited frame of mind that after breakfast he marshalled his team in the well-kept cricket field at the bottom of the garden. They consisted chiefly of local talent from Woodford, assisted by York himself and a sporting young doctor in the neighbourhood, who arrived on a motor bicycle. The Orbridge team drove over in a brake, reaching the ground about a quarter to eleven.

While the preparations were on foot, I strolled about with Miss York, keeping a watchful eye for Billy. I don't think I showed any outward symptoms of disturbance, but my interview with Mercia on the previous day had left me very uneasy in my mind, and I was naturally anxious to hear if Billy had made any further discoveries. Besides, I felt sure that in some way or other Maurice's hurried departure for London was connected with my humble affairs—a fact which by no means relieved my perplexity. Whom he could have heard from, unless it was the missing "Da Costa" (whom I imagined to be none other than my old friend "Francis"), I was quite unable to conceive.

Lady Baradell, Aunt Mary, and Sir George came out just before the match started. Baradell himself had been persuaded by the energetic York to don flannels, though as he pathetically observed, he had not touched a cricket bat for a dozen years. The rest of us established ourselves in chairs under the shade of a couple of large elm trees, and resolutely prepared to take an interest in the proceedings.

Lady Baradell glanced across at her husband with an expression of amusement. "Charles looks charming," she observed to Miss York. "Your brother's clothes fit him to perfection. I hope he won't get too excited."

"You're not to laugh at him, my dear," said Aunt Mary. "I think it's simply splendid of him to play. I am sure he is setting an example to all of us—especially to you, Stuart."

"Charles," remarked Lady Baradell, "always sets an example. It's his profession."

Miss York laughed. "Do you set an example too, Mr. Northcote?" she inquired, turning to me.

"Only on the principle of the 'awful warning,'" I said; "but it's just as effective."

"Mr. Northcote," put in Lady Baradell softly, "is a law to himself. It is a very convenient arrangement if one has the strength of mind for it."

"Who's this coming?" interrupted Aunt Mary suddenly.

We all glanced up in the direction she was looking, and there, just clambering over the stile that led into the field, was a figure in grey flannels which I recognised at once as Billy.

I hastened to explain. "He's a man named Logan," I said, "who's staying at the Plough. We met him when we were out shooting, and Maurice asked me to invite him up to the cricket."

Aunt Mary, who was evidently the soul of hospitality, beamed good-naturedly. "Oh, how very nice!" she said. "Perhaps he'd play."

"I dare say he would, if you asked him," I replied mischievously, getting up from my chair.

Billy, who has never suffered from shyness, came straight across to where we were sitting, and took off his hat. In a few words I made the necessary introductions.

"I am so glad you were able to come, Mr. Logan," said Aunt Mary graciously. "Won't you take part in the game for us? Captain York is one man short, and I know he'd be delighted if you would help him."

I watched Billy's face with quiet enjoyment. "I am afraid cricket is not much in my line," he replied politely. "In fact, to tell the truth, I have never even seen it since I was at school. But surely Mr. Northcote is playing."

"Mr. Northcote is doing nothing of the kind," I observed, with a threatening look at Billy. "He knows his limitations."

"Uncommon modest chap, Northcote," put in Vane, with a chuckle, "especially on a hot day."

Our conversation was interrupted at this period by the appearance of the Orbridge eleven, who, having lost the toss, streamed out on to the field, tossing the ball to each other in the most approved fashion. York and one of the villagers, heavily protected against casual concussion, followed them to the wickets.

The match started, and for the next half-hour our comments were chiefly confined to laudatory ejaculations, such as "Good shot, sir," "Oh, pretty stroke." Knowing nothing about the phraseology of the game, I was careful to follow Vane's lead in this respect, a piece of strategy which I noticed that Billy was also adopting.

When York was eventually bowled for thirty-six, in a well-intentioned but misdirected effort to hit the ball into the neighbouring county of Norfolk, I thought the time had arrived for a little private conversation with William. I nudged him gently so as to give him the tip, and then getting up from my chair, I suggested that we should stroll round to the pavilion and congratulate the dismissed batsman upon his impressive performance.

"I'm glad you got a move on," said Billy, as soon as we were out of hearing. "I've some pretty interesting news for you, my son. And what's more, I'm dying for a smoke."

"Well, we'll just go and pat York on the back first," I said. "Lady Baradell's sure to be watching us."

Billy looked at me suspiciously. "Who is Lady Baradell?" he asked. "Seems to me you've been keeping her dark. Another of 'em—eh?"

"Lady Baradell," I answered cheerfully, "is a very charming woman, but she doesn't come into our particular trouble—at least, not officially."

"I see," said Billy.

We caught York at the entrance to the pavilion, flushed with his exertions and magnificent in a red and yellow blazer. I introduced Billy as the gentleman who had rescued me from the marshmen, and we chatted away for a few minutes about the attempted crime, and congratulated York upon his spirited innings.

"You're the hero of the hour," I said, waving my hand towards the small group under the elm trees; "go and receive your laurels."

He sauntered off, protesting with true English mock modesty that he had played "a rotten innings," and Billy and I made our way to a deserted bank on the farther side of the field.

"Not bad news, I hope, Billy?" said I, a little anxiously.

"It's not altogether serene," he answered, in a rather grave voice. "I'm afraid your girl's in a bit of a mess."

My heart seemed to tighten.

"Nothing serious yet," he added quickly; "but those beauties up at the Hollies have found out, somehow, that she met you yesterday, and, unless I'm badly mistaken, they've locked her up."

"How did you hear this?" I demanded.

"Through the window," said Billy. "If it had only been a little wider open I'd have heard a lot more, but fresh air's death to a Dago." He lit his pipe and puffed away energetically for a moment. "I climbed up the drain-pipe," he added. "It was as easy as falling off a tree."

"You're a brick, Billy," I said warmly. "What did they actually say?"

"Well, you know the way Dagoes jabber—half-Spanish, half-English, and going nineteen to the dozen all the time. As far as I could hear—I was hanging on by my eyelids all the time, you must remember—someone had sent a message telling them that you and Mercia had been spending the afternoon together. They were devilish sick about it, and seemed to be discussing what to do with her. The gentleman who plugged you was very vicious. If he'd been running the show, I wouldn't have given twopence for Mercia's chances; but fortunately old Dot-and-carry-one's the top dog there. He stuck it out that there must be no violence at present, and the others finally agreed with him."

"He's lucky," I said grimly.

Billy nodded. "Damned lucky," he repeated. "If they'd come to any other conclusion, I should have plugged the bunch of them through the window. I had my gun on me. As things turned out, I thought it best to postpone the picnic."

"It won't be for long," I said. "We must have Mercia out of that to-night, whatever happens."

"Yes," agreed Billy gently. "I think it's time we led trumps. What's your news?"

Without waste of words, I told him about my conversation with Mercia and the arrival of the mysterious wire for Maurice.

"By Jove!" he said, staring at me thoughtfully, "that does open up matters a bit. Fancy Northcote being that damned villain Prado! I always heard he was an Englishman, but I didn't believe it. No wonder you're unpopular, my lad."

"I'd like to know how he escaped," I said, "and what this infernal League is that's on his track."

Billy smiled. "A man like Prado," he answered ironically, "is likely to be out when people start blowing up his palace. I shouldn't wonder in the least if he did it himself, and used the chance to sneak out of the country. As for the League—well, you know as well as I do what these rotten little South American States are like. Prado probably belonged to some secret society that helped him murder Solano and bag the Presidency; and then, when he'd got the job, I've no doubt he rounded on them. They must have some pretty strong reasons for chasing him round the world like this."

"Well, strong reasons or not," I said, "I'm going to fetch Mercia out of that house to-night and take her up to London. I shan't rest till I know she's safe with the Tregattocks."

"I'm with you," said Billy simply. "How do we work it?"

I thought rapidly. "We'll take a tip from Maurice," I said. "You go back to Woodford, and send me a wire about five o'clock saying that I'm wanted in London immediately. That will give me an excuse for getting away. I'll tell them that I'm going to motor up, and then I'll drive over and meet you at the Plough."

Billy nodded. "Right you are," he said. "I'll see the car's ready." Then he chuckled. "We ought to have quite a cheery little evening," he added, rubbing his hands together.

"It's business, Billy," I said, "not pleasure. We don't want any fighting if we can get Mercia away without."

"There's a precious fat chance of that," observed Billy. "I can see old Dot-and-carry-one handing her over with his blessing—can't you?"

"He can take his choice," I answered.

There was a short silence. "And what's the next move when we get to London?" inquired Billy.

I shrugged my shoulders. "It's not much good making plans," I said. "Man proposes and Señor Guarez disposes. The only thing I've quite made up my mind about is that I'm not going to give the show away before the three weeks are out. They've got my back up, Billy, apart altogether from my having given my word to Northcote."

Billy nodded. "There's Milford, too."

"There was," I said. "And that's another good reason for hanging on. We'll clear that business up whatever happens." Then I paused. "I should like to put a spoke in Sangatte's wheel if I could," I added reflectively.

"Well, we shan't be dull," said Billy, smiling. "I think I'd better shift my quarters, and come and camp in Park Lane."

"Why, of course," I said. "You don't suppose I'm going to let you out of my sight till it's all over. I want you to be my best man."

"Anything to oblige," returned Billy. "Though I guess I'm more likely to be chief mourner."

As he relieved himself of this encouraging statement, I suddenly spotted Sir George and Miss York strolling round the ground towards us.

"That's settled then, Billy," I said hurriedly. "You get the car ready and send me the wire, and I'll meet you at the Plough at about seven o'clock."

He nodded, and we both got up as the other two approached.

"We've been sent to fetch you back," began Miss York. "Men are scarce in the grand stand, so you mustn't be selfish."

"Doocid good innings of York's—what!" remarked Sir George. "Very pretty shot that late cut of his."

"Charming," I said, with enthusiasm; while Billy, evidently feeling that the ground was dangerous, contented himself with a reflective smile.

We all four sauntered back to the small group of chairs under the elm trees, where York was explaining to Aunt Mary and Lady Baradell some of the finer beauties of the game.

"You'll stay to lunch, won't you, Mr. Logan?" said the former. "We always prepare for an indefinite number on cricket days."

"That sounds distinctly hopeful," I said, with a laugh, as Billy signified his pleasure in accepting. "It's just the sort of lunch that I shall be delighted to meet. Nothing makes one more hungry than watching other people exert themselves."

"What an excellent appetite you must enjoy, Mr. Northcote," put in Miss Vane mischievously.

Lady Baradell laughed dryly. "An excellent appetite," she repeated, "but tempered by a stern sense of self-control. That is why Mr. Northcote is so successful."

At this point, a sudden roar of "How's that?" proclaimed the downfall of another wicket. "That's nine," observed York gloomily. "Nine for ninety-eight, and only Sir Charles left."

"You might have expressed it a little more kindly," said Lady Baradell.

There was a general laugh, and while York was endeavouring to explain his meaning, we saw Baradell come out of the pavilion, looking mightily depressed. He walked to the wicket, took guard, as I believe it's called, and carefully marked the spot with one of the bails. Then he faced the bowler, played forward with belated dignity, and had his middle stump sent flying out of the ground.

"There, but for the grace of God," I remarked, "goes Mr. Stuart Northcote."

"Poor dear Sir Charles," murmured Aunt Mary, getting up from her chair; "at least he tried."

"And that," said Billy, following her example, "is the best of all epitaphs."

With the dismissal of the unfortunate Baronet, the two teams adjourned for lunch.

Cricket lunches, I should imagine, are much alike everywhere, so I will spare you any lengthy description of the repast. I need only say that at Aunt Mary's request, as the leading representative of the family, I installed myself at the head of the table, an honour which was considerably enriched in attraction by the presence of Billy. Whenever I caught his eye in the intervals of carving cold lamb, I felt an almost irresistible desire to burst into a shout of laughter. I could not help picturing the faces of the worthy company if I had only been able to get up and explain the true facts concerning my presence at the banquet.

Such an interlude being unfortunately out of the question, we finished our lunch, smoked our pipes, and after chatting amiably over the course of the match and other exciting topics, sauntered back to the cricket field.

Not being anxious to appear too intimate with Billy, I left him to amuse himself with Lady Baradell and the others, while I promenaded round the ground with Sir George. Billy, who always gets on with women, seemed perfectly contented: indeed, it was not until just on half-past three that he got up and made his excuse to Aunt Mary.

"You will come and see us again, won't you, Mr. Logan?" urged that hospitable lady. "My nephew will be back to-morrow, and I want you to meet him."

"I want to myself," said Billy heartily. "I've heard so much about him."

He shook hands all round, lingering a moment over the operation when it came to Lady Baradell, and then strode off, waving a cheerful farewell to York, who was perspiring freely in the outfield.

"A delightful man," observed Aunt Mary. "I wonder what he can be doing down in this part of the world."

"He thinks of buying a place," explained Miss York. "He says he's tired of wandering about, and wants to settle down."

I repressed a chuckle just in time.

"That would be very nice," said Aunt Mary complacently. "He is just the sort of man we want. I was telling him about the Primrose League, and he was most interested in it. He would be quite an acquisition to the neighbourhood—don't you think so, Lady Baradell?"

Lady Baradell smiled.

To me, the rest of the afternoon dragged in the most distressing fashion. Even if I had been able to take an interest in the cricket, I should still have been feverishly impatient for the evening. The thought of Mercia, helpless in the hands of that precious pack of scoundrels, filled me with a horrible restlessness that made the effort of sitting still and exchanging semi-humorous banalities about the match almost intolerable. I longed for Billy's wire, so that I might have an excuse for escaping into the house to put my things together.

As it was, I was compelled to sit matters out, until the game terminated in a glorious victory for the visitors by sixty-three runs. There were the usual congratulations and chaff,—poor Sir Charles Baradell coming in for a rather unfair share of the latter,—and then, after filling themselves up with tea to an alarming extent, the triumphant Orbridge warriors clambered into their brake and departed. It was while the rest of us were slowly making our way back up the garden that the telegram arrived.

I saw Maurice's butler advancing from the house bearing the inevitable silver tray, and all my muscles seemed instinctively to tighten. It's good to feel that the time for action is at hand, when you've been chafing your heart out all day.

I took the wire and opened it, with an apology to Aunt Mary.

"Must see you to-night. Important business in connection with the Company. JACOBS."

I gave a nicely calculated laugh, just tinged with annoyance.

"It never rains but it pours," I said ruefully. "First Maurice is called off to town, and now I've got to go."

"What, to-night!" exclaimed Aunt Mary and Miss York simultaneously.

"I'm afraid so," I admitted; "it's a matter of business." And then I read the wire out aloud. I couldn't very well show it them, considering that the somewhat awkward statement, "sent off from Woodford 5.40," was decorating the left-hand corner.

"Oh, dear, dear, I am sorry," cried Aunt Mary. "And there's no train till the 9.30, too."

"Oh, that doesn't matter," I said. "If you can give me a lift into Woodford, I'll motor up."

"But what about your dinner?"

"After that tea," I declared, laughing, "dinner is a minor consideration."

Aunt Mary looked genuinely distressed. "But, of course, you must have something to eat," she said. "I'll tell cook to put you up some sandwiches and a flask. They'll be ready by the time you've packed."

And without waiting to hear my protests, the dear, kind soul hurried off into the house.

I followed, courteously declining the butler's proffered assistance in packing, and going up to my room, proceeded to stuff my belongings into the handsome Gladstone bag and dressing-case which Northcote had bequeathed to me. I had just finished when I heard the trap roll up to the front door.

The whole party had assembled in the porch to see me off.

"You'll come back, Stuart, if you possibly can," said Aunt Mary.

I felt rather a scoundrel, though it really wasn't my fault.

"Why, of course," I said cheerily. "Miss York has promised to teach me tennis. You don't think I am going to miss such a chance."

"You might ring up Maurice at his rooms and come down with him to-morrow," she suggested.

I nodded. "That's a good idea," I said, "if he'll trust himself to the motor. Well, good-bye, everybody."

I shook hands with them all except Lady Baradell, who was standing by the trap patting the horse's neck. As I stepped out and the butler put my bags in, she came up to me.

"Good-bye, Stuart," she said, in a low voice. "Will you do a little commission for me?"

"Certainly," I said.

With a quick movement, she handed me a scrap of folded paper. "You'll find it there," she whispered. Then, as she gave me her hand, she added aloud some laughing remark apparently for the benefit of the others.

Thrusting the paper into my pocket, I climbed up into the trap beside the coachman. A farewell wave, a chorus of good-byes, above which there came some vague words from Aunt Mary about "the sandwiches—under the seat," and I was spinning off down the drive through the long avenue of beech trees.

It was not until we were well out on the high road that I took out Lady Baradell's "commission." It consisted of a few words scribbled hastily on half a sheet of the Ashton notepaper—

"Maurice's message last night concerned you. I think you are in great danger, but I don't know what."

And there are some gentlemen who profess to understand women!