A woman's debt

by William Le Queux

She opened the door a little wider. “Well, I suppose I ought to send you to the right about, but then you’d only pester me with more of your polite letters. So come in, and let me know what it is you want of me.”

She led the way into a very daintily-furnished little sitting-room, the greater portion of which was taken up with a semi-grand piano on which she, no doubt, practised the vivacious songs that found favour with her public. A cheerful fire burned in the grate. A fair sized round table stood in the centre, and on this was a good sized cake and a decanter of port wine.

“I couldn’t make much of a show at breakfast this morning,” she explained candidly to her visitor. “Some of us were keeping it up a bit last night late. So I’m just picking a little bit now, as I don’t have my meal till five. The profession’s very awkward for meals. Now before you start, Mr. Sellars, try a glass of this port. I’ve had one and I’m going to have another—doctor’s orders, you know.” She laughed her loud, genial laugh, and again the twinkle came into the big, blue eyes.

Sellars hastened to get on friendly terms with her by cheerfully accepting her hospitality, and found the port very excellent. It was evident that Miss Buckley, although a very small light of the profession, was by no means forced to practise rigid economy. All the furniture was elegant and costly. A handsome bronze clock and candelabra adorned the mantelshelf, which was hung with elegant rose-pink drapery. In a word, her surroundings were much more refined than herself.

Yes, there was no doubt she was very comfortably off. And there was every reason she should be, he reflected. The retired builder, her father, must have had a decent income which, no doubt, he had left entirely to her, she was hardly ever out of an engagement, so his club acquaintance had told him, and she would get a decent salary from her profession, even if she was only a star of small magnitude.

When they had drunk to each other’s health, for the lady insisted upon this ceremony being observed, Miss Buckley came to business, speaking in a brisk tone that rather suggested the writer of the brusque letter.

“And now, Mr. Sellars, please tell me the reason that has brought you into this remote part of the world. Judging by what I’ve seen of you so far, I should say you were more likely to be found in Bond Street and Piccadilly than the wilds of Kew.”

While they had been drinking their port and chatting discursively, the keen eyes of Sellars had been taking in the details of the dainty little apartment. Most particularly had he directed his attention to the half-dozen photographs on the rose-pink covered mantelpiece. Two of them he recognized at once as those of Sir George Clayton-Brookes and young Archie Brookes. A third was that of a young girl of about eighteen or nineteen years of age, in which he thought he could trace some resemblance to the present handsome and dignified Mrs. Morrice. Ah, if only his old friend Dobbs were here he could have told him at once. One thing was very evident, there was no portrait of the Mrs. Morrice of the present day amongst the collection.

After putting her question, Mrs. Buckley looked at the young man very keenly while awaiting his reply. He did not answer at once, but rose from his chair, walked to the mantelpiece, took a leisurely survey of the photographs and then turned to the music-hall artist.

“I see you have the likenesses of two men I know a little of, Miss Buckley, Sir George Clayton-Brookes and his nephew. I should say your memories must often carry you back to the old days in the little village of Brinkstone.”