“I’ll make the wretch decide, and then send you a wire,” she promised.
Greetland rose. He had given Lady Rotherfield more of the light of his complacent countenance than was quite her due, and should be moving round in his orbit to illuminate and attract the rest of the world. A man passed him with a nod and a casual remark. Greetland turned back to Lady Rotherfield.
“Talking of our friends in Green Street,” he said, “that man has been having an uncomfortable time over the Vaux House affair.”
“He? Who?” the lady asked, putting up her glasses.
Greetland looked up at her with a suspicion of pitying contempt. Really she was, considering her position, very stupid and ill-informed. He had indeed been wasting his time with her, and made a mental note that he would try and hear Tarbosch somewhere else than under her irritating auspices.
“Don’t you know?” he asked, almost tartly. “Aubrey Playford. It is an open secret that he denounced the Countess Alexia to the Daily Comet. Had recognized the dagger hair-pin as being hers, and so got them into all this trouble. They say he and Brailsford nearly came to blows in the Park last Sunday over the affair. Of course Brailsford is trying to whitewash himself with the mob, and particularly to get back into certain houses where he is no longer asked. They say old Lord Clovelly threatened to kick him into Piccadilly if he showed his face at Bude House again. So he thought the best move would be to horsewhip Playford, just to show his bona fides.”
“How amusing!” Lady Rotherfield made a mental tick against that enterprising editor’s name. “But, tell me, why did Mr. Playford accuse the poor Countess Alexia?”
Greetland smiled significantly. “Surely you can guess the reason, dear lady,” he replied, with a trace of impatience. “No need to chercher la femme when she is already there.”
“Ah, just so. A case of pique. But what bad form.”
“So every one thinks.”