THE WELL-TRAINED SERVANTS GLIDED ABOUT the dining-room in the noiseless fashion peculiar to their class. It was a large perfectly-appointed room, filled with priceless pictures, bronzes and old furniture, and the arrangement of the electric light was a dream. For Stephen Morrison had been wise in his day and generation. A money-maker of the new type, he had no time to become a collector. He had engaged a clever artist who was a connoisseur in such matters, and had given him a blank cheque to furnish his house at Middlesworth. When money and taste go together there is only one result possible, and this result Morrison had obtained. Men of large estate and ancient pedigree envied Morrison his house.
The man sat at the head of his table, strong, resolute, self-satisfied. He had the bulldog face and the strong blunt nose that mark his fraternity. Who he was and whence he came nobody knew or cared. He had made a million or two in South Africa about the time of the war, and that satisfied most people.
Morrison had no wife, but two daughters managed the house. They were not present to-night, for it was a man’s dinner with bridge to follow. Most of the guests were rich, with the exception of Wilfrid Bayfield, who was the son of a neighbouring baronet and a doctor practising in Middlesworth; the handsomest man in the town, so most of the women said, a fine tennis player, and a capital bat to boot. In fact, Wilfred Bayfield shone out of doors rather than by the bedside of his patients.
The dinner broke up presently and the men scattered about the room, some of them adjourning for coffee and cigarettes to the lounge hall where were the big palms and the pictures by Reynolds and others of his school. Bayfield stood contemplating an exquisite portrait by Romney. He half turned as a girl passed across the hall and smiled as he gazed at her. Though not tall, her figure was gracefully slim, but firm and athletic withal. The gleam of the electric light touched her gold bronze hair and lighted up her lovely grey eyes. It was a sweet yet strong and tender face, and Wilfrid’s features softened as he looked after the girl.
“Who’s that?” the man by his side asked. “Not one of the Morrison girls, I’ll swear. Looks like a lady.”
“So she is, Bentley,” Bayfield said, a little coldly. “I have known her for a long time.”
Bayfield spoke with some restraint. He had no liking for Horace Bentley, though he met him everywhere. Bentley was a Middlesworth solicitor, who had some time before succeeded to his father’s practice and was reputed to be rich and not over-scrupulous. He was not bad-looking in a dark effeminate kind of way, only his eyes were shifty.
“But who is she?” the lawyer persisted. “And why did she smile at you like that? How do you manage these little affairs so well, Bayfield?”
Bayfield flushed with annoyance. He had no liking for jokes at the expense of women, and the suggestion of an intrigue with a salaried member of Morrison’s household jarred on him.
“She is—as you know well enough—Miss Freda Everton,” he said, “the daughter of old Josiah Everton, who at one time was one of the richest men in these parts. Miss Everton is a companion to the Morrison girls.”
“I see,” Bentley nodded. “Old Everton went off his head after losing his money in a somewhat peculiar way. Old man always was a bit queer in the upper storey. So is his brother, Jim. Lives alone in a dilapidated cottage in Middlesworth and does for himself. They say nobody is allowed to go near him. But you know all that.”
Bayfield replied that he did. But he refrained from telling Bentley that he had known Freda Everton for years, and that in happier circumstances there might have been the sharing of a great happiness between them. He did not like the leer in Bentley’s eyes as he looked in the direction in which Freda Everton had gone. Somebody called out to Bentley presently, and he returned to the dining-room, to Wilfrid’s great relief.
The door leading to the garden was open and Wilfrid strolled out. It was a perfect spring evening and the air was soft and balmy. Wilfrid passed across the terrace and into the garden beyond. A white figure with a basket of roses fluttered towards him, and he gave a little cry of pleasure. Nobody appeared to be in sight.
“Freda,” he said softly, “I did not hope for a bit of luck like this.”
The girl held out her hands, a shy sweet smile on her face. The moonlight fell on her parted lips as Wilfrid bent and kissed her. Just for a moment he held the girl in his arms. There was nobody there and the half-darkness was full of subtle fragrance.
“Have they made you comfortable here, dearest?” Wilfrid asked.
Freda seemed rather to evade the question. She was fairly happy and contented. The Morrison girls were a little hard and exacting, but the salary was good and Freda had plenty of time to herself.
“They are not ladies, my dear old boy,” she said, “and are inclined to regard me as a superior kind of maid. But I have all my evenings to devote to my story-writing. Do you know that for the last six months I have made over thirty shillings a week by my pen! And that is the very sum I require to keep my father happy and comfortable. It seems hard to think that a man once so rich should be now so dreadfully poor.”
“The whole thing has always been a mystery to me,” Wilfrid said thoughtfully. “Your father, one of the most prosperous men in the county, hard-headed and clear-minded, goes to his London office one day in the full possession of his faculties. He comes back the same night, saying that he is utterly ruined and has been a poor, broken-down, semi-imbecile ever since. Freda, did you never suspect——”
“No, Wilfrid,” Freda said firmly, “I never suspected anybody. My father managed his own business entirely and trusted nobody. You may be certain that he was not the victim of anybody’s cunning. He worked too hard and his brain gave way. And the strange part of the whole thing is that he is now as childishly and completely generous as he used to be mean and grasping. You remember the time when you——”
“I know,” Wilfrid laughed unsteadily. “The time when I told him I wanted to marry you and he kicked me out of the house. And Heaven knows that I cared nothing for your money. Rich or poor, it was all the same to me, Freda. I love you far more now than I did then, and it is a bitter grief to me that I cannot offer you a home. People like me and I suppose I am popular in Middlesworth, but somehow they don’t think much of my professional skill.”
Freda nestled closer to her lover.
“Perhaps you are a little too fond of pleasure, darling,” she suggested timidly. “I know that all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, but still——Yet it does seem hard. And you are in the wrong company, Wilfrid; these people are too wealthy for you. Don’t play bridge to-night.”
The girl’s voice was seductive and pleading; the moonlight filled her liquid grey eyes. It was very hard to resist a face like that. It was Wilfrid’s one failing that he liked to stand high in the estimation of his fellow-men.
“I am a good player,” he said. “And, besides, the thing averages out in the long run, no matter what stakes you play. But I’ll be very careful, darling.”
“Indeed, I hope you will,” Freda said timidly. “Some of the men who come here I mistrust. There is that Horace Bentley, for instance. He pretends not to know who I am and ignores me when the girls are by. And yet at other times the insolent familiarity of his manner——”
Freda paused, as if feeling she had gone too far. Wilfrid’s face darkened and his hands clenched involuntarily. He detested Bentley and there were times when it cost him an effort to conceal his feelings.
“Do you mean to say,” he asked, “that the fellow has dared to——”
“No, no,” Freda cried. “He has said nothing whatever. Of course he knows me; was not his late father my father’s solicitor? The elder Bentley was the only man my father ever confided in. But when that man is about I feel like a bird fascinated by a snake. I feel that he is casting a net for me; it is horrible. And yet there is nothing tangible——”
The girl paused and her lovely eyes grew a little darker. She had not intended to say so much, but the softness and glamour of the evening invited confidence. Wilfrid was palpably uneasy. He would have liked to pick a quarrel with Bentley, but opportunity was lacking. Ostensibly the two men were pretty good friends, but under the surface the antagonism was keen and bitter.
“You must let me know if anything happens, darling,” Wilfrid said, as he took the slender figure to his breast. “You are too pure and beautiful to be at the mercy of a rascal like that. And it was brave of you to sacrifice so much for the sake of a father who never regarded you with the affection a parent should feel for a child. I’ll turn over a new leaf, Freda; I’ll work harder and think less of play in the future. And as soon as I can see my way to it——”
He stooped and whispered something in the girl’s ear and her pretty face flushed.
“And yet it is in my own hands,” she said. “Whilst my father is so poor his brother James is ever so rich. You know the lonely way in which he lives. Yet he has offered to provide a comfortable home for me if I will go and keep house for him—if I will abandon my father altogether. I wonder why Uncle James hates my father so.”
Wilfrid was silent. The hatred between the brothers Everton was common talk in Middlesworth. Wilfrid had heard of an old story of a woman engaged to one brother and an act of treachery on the part of the other. And the woman in the case, Wilfrid understood, was Freda’s mother. If the girl did not know, then it was a pity to tell her. Wilfrid looked sympathetic instead.
“I am the only one who is allowed in my uncle’s cottage,” Freda went on. “I have a latchkey and I go and come when I like. It is impossible to describe the confusion and discomfort there. Did ever any one hear of stranger situation than mine, Wilfrid?”
Wilfrid admitted the singularity of it all. He would have said more but for the sudden silken rustle of a dress across the lawn. The lovers had been too fondly wrapped up in themselves to notice that they were no longer alone in their paradise. A tall, handsome girl with strong well-cut features stood before them, trembling as if she had been running. There was an angry flash in her eyes and her lips were hard and resolute. Wilfrid perceived the sinister expression and wondered what it meant.
“This is very arcadian,” Grace Morrison said, trying in vain to keep the sneer out of her voice. “Really, Miss Everton, it seems a pity that you should not have something better to do. My sister has been looking for you everywhere.”
“Miss Everton and I are old friends,” Wilfrid said pleasantly, though he was far from feeling as amiable as he talked. “We have known each other for years. I strolled out here to finish my cigarette and we fell into a chat about old times. I’m sorry I detained Miss Everton.”
The speaker bowed to Freda, who turned and walked quietly towards the house. Miss Grace Morrison, in some vague way, seemed to feel that she had got the worst of the encounter. Why did Wilfrid Bayfield never look at her as he had looked at Freda? Grace Morrison would have bestowed herself and her splendid fortune on the young doctor and accounted herself the happiest of women if he had only shown her the slightest encouragement. Unasked and unsought, she had given the whole of her passionate heart to Wilfrid and was consumed with a raging jealousy. She would have stuck at nothing to get her own way. And now she had gone too far; she could see that in Wilfrid’s grave face. The humiliation should have been Freda’s, but she had made it all her own with her bitter tongue.
“The moonlight accounts for it all,” she said, with a laugh. “Perhaps I was a little jealous to find Miss Everton monopolizing our pet bachelor. I hope I did not speak very sharply to the girl.”
“Really, I don’t know,” Wilfrid said vaguely. “It was my fault at any rate, especially as I fancied I heard some one calling me from the house.”
“It was Mr. Bentley,” Grace Morrison said, glad to turn the conversation. “They are waiting for you to make up a second bridge table. I suppose we shall not see any of you gentlemen again to-night. That is why I hate this game of bridge.”
Bentley was waiting in the hall with a significant smile on his lips. He winked at Wilfrid as the two walked towards the library together.
“I saw you,” he said. “So that’s the way the wind blows. My dear chap, it seems to me——”
Wilfrid haughtily cut the speaker short. Bentley’s face darkened, but he did not pursue the subject. He led the way to the card-table.
“We cut in,” he said insolently. “Play the same baby stakes as usual, I suppose?”
“Not necessarily,” Wilfrid said, stung by the sneer at his poverty. “We’ll play any stakes you please.”
WITH THAT UNEASY FEELING THAT something was going to happen, Wilfrid Bayfield followed the others to the library where the card-tables were set out. He was as much annoyed with himself as with Horace Bentley. He had allowed the other to anger him in quite an unnecessary fashion, and had promised to play for any stakes the lawyer liked. He could not retreat very well now, though he felt that had he been firm at first there would have been no pressure on the part of the others, and no reflection on his decision.
But there was that cynical, meaning smile on the face of Bentley. It would be hard to back out of it altogether. There were not enough men to make up three tables, and Wilfrid hoped sincerely that he would be cut out in the turn of the cards for partners.
But his luck was not going to stand him in such good stead. Not only did he cut in with Bentley, but he was the latter’s antagonist. Bentley smiled as he took his seat.
“Lucky in love, unlucky at cards,” he said with a smile that caused Wilfrid to grip his fingers together. “Never knew the old saying to fail, eh? Better draw in your horns when you get the chance and play half-a-crown a hundred.”
“Not I!” laughed Wilfrid’s partner. “Not much fun in that. I’m not much of a player, but I like to get something for my money.”
It was a rich young man who spoke; in fact they were all wealthy men at the table with the exception of Wilfrid. The others nodded approval.
“What do you say to £5 a hundred?” another of the players suggested.
Bentley replied that he left the matter entirely to Bayfield. The man seemed bent upon making himself as disagreeable as possible. It was hard luck, too, that Wilfrid should have a partner who was notoriously a bad and reckless player. Common sense dictated a frank protest to that effect, and a refusal to play for high stakes with so great a handicap. But Wilfrid merely nodded as if he had no care in the world for money, and the game began.
The rubber was a fairly long one and from the first the cards were all against Wilfrid. He played cautiously and prudently, but his efforts were frustrated with a partner who had no self-control and dashed madly to retrieve what the cards had scored against him. A no-trump declaration was promptly doubled by Bentley, only to be redoubled again by Wilfrid’s partner, and doubled again by Bentley.
“Don’t go any further,” Wilfrid suggested. “This is pure and simple gambling, and my purse will not stand that kind of thing.”
His partner growlingly refused; there was a further redouble and the hand was played. With ill-concealed satisfaction Bentley made five tricks in spades and then proceeded to play two more aces. His partner having the other ace, the game was easily theirs.
Wilfrid choked down a desire to assault his partner. Nobody who knew anything about the game would have gone no trumps on a hand like that. But Wilfrid said nothing as he made up the score and found he had lost over forty pounds already. He would never be caught like that again, he told himself. He would lose his money this time and there would be an end of it. But could Wilfrid have foreseen what the result of that evening’s amusement would be he would have risen from the table and resolutely refused to touch another hand.
“By Jove, what a lucky chap you’ll be in your love affairs!” cried Bentley. “Nobody else will be in it with you, my dear fellow. But you don’t get a partner like Jackson every day. I shall have to hire him to be my antagonist always.”
“Didn’t see that I made any mistake,” Jackson said sulkily.
“You did no more than throw away something like thirty pounds,” Wilfrid replied coldly. “No child of average intelligence would have declared on a hand like that. If you had only left it to me, I could have easily made the odd trick by my hearts. Have a little more consideration for a partner who is not altogether in a position to fling money about.”
Jackson sullenly declared that he would play as he liked. The cards were thrown out on the table once more, and Wilfrid hoped from the bottom of his heart that he would be cut out to make room for one of the men who stood by watching the game. But Wilfrid was not cut out; that fate befell the man who had been playing with Bentley. Another man came in and cards were drawn again. It was all Wilfrid could do to check down the rage within him when he saw that he had once more been drawn with Jackson.
The latter dashed recklessly into the fray; his declarations were wild and absurd. The rubber was more disastrous than the last, for there were plenty of doubles and redoubles, and when the score came to be made up Wilfrid was another fifty pounds out of pocket.
“Cut for partners once more,” said Bentley, who seemed to be pleased about something.
“No occasion to do anything of the kind,” Wilfrid remarked between his teeth. “I can tell exactly what is going to happen. In any case neither Jackson nor myself will cut out and I shall be his partner again. Fate is dead against me.”
Everybody smiled but Jackson, as cards were drawn once more; then there followed a shout of laughter as things fell out exactly as Wilfrid had prophesied. By the time that Wilfrid had to leave the table from sheer exhaustion he had lost close on two hundred pounds. From the first he had agreed to pay to Bentley, on his left hand. The latter looked at Wilfrid a little suspiciously as he rose from the table. Bentley was reported to be a wealthy man, but he also had the reputation of looking after every farthing of his money. It was pretty well known that Wilfrid’s resources were slender ones.
“You are not going altogether?” Bentley asked.
“I’m not going,” Wilfrid said with a determined look on his face. “I’ll just stroll as far as the conservatory and smoke a cigarette.”
“Better settle up as we go,” Bentley suggested. “It’s only a matter of two hundred pounds, a mere trifle to a doctor in a large practice. Only don’t let people know that you gamble like this—it may do you harm in business.”
The speech and the manner were very offensive. Wilfrid had thought of asking for a little time to pay the debt. He offered a cheque now.
“A cheque,” Bentley sneered openly. “One does not pay in cheques in affairs like this; at least, I don’t unless I have had other dealings with my man. Always seems to me that such things are very unsatisfactory. Still, if you persist——”
All the blood had rushed to Wilfrid’s face, and for a moment it looked as if there would be a scene between the two men. But with a great effort Wilfrid recovered himself. He thrust his hand into his breast pocket and produced a flat Russia leather case.
“As you please,” he said coldly. “You have done me the honour to question my integrity and to insinuate that I am prepared to win if I win and not to pay if I lose. A man in my position does not usually carry large sums in his pocket, but it so happens that I have money on me to-night. Will you please take it out of that?”
Without the slightest suggestion of apology, Bentley extracted a packet of notes from the case. They were five-pound notes, and he took forty of them and handed Wilfrid two sovereigns back, which made the transaction complete.
“Much obliged to you,” he said. “As a matter of fact, Jackson should have paid your losses. If he had recouped you every penny of your outlay he would have done no more than was his due. ‘Pon my word, I should sue him for it.”
Wilfrid walked out of the room and into the hall beyond. He looked aged and haggard as he stood by the table. Instinctively he had come out into the hall with a hand of cards in his grip. He could not have looked more miserable had he stolen the money to pay Bentley. His lips were compressed as if he suffered physical pain.
“What a fool I have been!” he muttered to himself. “Worse than a fool, a criminal. And yet I had completely forgotten Saxby. And my sacred promise I gave him, a promise that I had pledged myself to fulfil in eight-and-forty hours. And to think that the poor fellow’s future may be wrecked before I can save him. Why have I allowed myself to gamble? If only Freda——”
Wilfrid crept to the front door. It seemed as if the household and the servants had gone to bed, but the door was open. Wilfrid passed out into the garden and to the side of the house. One of the upper windows was open, for the night was warm and a light was burning. It was Freda’s window as Wilfrid knew. He gave a soft whistle after he had scribbled a message on one of the cards and tossed it through the window. Then Freda looked out and whispered something about the conservatory. Wilfrid crept back into the house again, a house now quite silent save for the shuffle of cards and the muttered comments of the players in the library.
It was dim and sequestered in the conservatory; the fragrance was soothing. Wilfrid had not long to wait, for Freda came in the next moment. She looked white and scared, and Wilfrid’s heart smote him with a new compunction. He had no business to bring the girl down like this. Suppose that any of the family came in, Grace, for instance. Wilfrid told himself bitterly that he had lost his head to-night.
“What is it?” Freda asked. “Wilfrid, what has happened?”
“I’ll tell you everything,” Wilfrid replied. “My dearest girl, I am not fit to touch you. After all I promised you, I have been gambling in that room yonder. True, I was unfortunate in my partner, but the blame is mine. Bentley taunted me into it, and I played for high stakes. Since I was with you last I am the poorer by two hundred pounds.”
Freda’s face grew pale, but no word of reproach escaped her. She merely asked how the thing had happened and where the money had come from. Wilfrid groaned as he proceeded to explain.
“It was all I had,” he said; “all that I had saved. The loss of it renders me penniless. I had drawn the money out of the bank to lend to Frank Saxby. Frank has been robbed by that rascally young brother of his and the money was a client’s money. He has to pay it over the day after to-morrow to Bentley’s people. Bentley hates Frank, as you know, and if he gets an inkling of this he will have no mercy, and Frank will be struck off the roll of solicitors and perhaps go to gaol. The worst of it is that Frank is relying implicitly on me. I forgot all about him; I ought to have been dishonoured myself before I betrayed Frank. But I was mad with rage and parted with the money without thought of Frank. It was only when I came out of that hated room that the thing struck me like a blow. It’s a dreadful, shameful confession to make, dearest, but I know you love me and forgive me for——”
“Oh, yes, yes,” Freda said with quivering lips. “It would be no use to blame you now. This money must be found; there is no time to lose. I must get it, Wilfrid.”
Wilfrid stared at the speaker in surprise. He could hardly believe his ears. He had not expected to look to Freda for assistance.
“You, darling,” he said. “This thing is impossible. I would as soon expect to retrieve my position——”
“Hush!” Freda said; “I will get the money, or its equivalent in value. Wait here till I come back. Anything rather than that your honour should be shamed.”
And Freda vanished, leaving Wilfrid in a blind, staggering state of utter astonishment.
WILFRID WOULD HAVE REMONSTRATED, BUT Freda gave him no opportunity. She vanished in ghostly fashion from the conservatory, so that Wilfrid could not have followed her if he would. The whole thing seemed wild and ridiculous to a degree. Here was Freda, earning barely enough to keep her father and herself, talking of finding two hundred pounds as if they had been as many pennies. Just for a moment the grotesque idea that Freda was going to borrow it from one of the Morrison girls crossed his mind.
He was very uneasy and very uncomfortable. The shadow of tragedy seemed to loom vaguely but large before his eyes and the atmosphere of wealth by which he was surrounded appeared about to stifle him. The tropical luxuriance of the flowers suggested something false and artificial.
And, moreover, Wilfrid was heartily ashamed of himself. He had promised that money to an old school-fellow and friend to get him out of a grave difficulty. Wilfrid had drawn the money from the bank that afternoon for that very purpose. He would have found it difficult to explain why he had carried it here in his pocket. Anyway, it was gone now and a young life stood to be ruined, because the late owner of those notes had not enough strength of mind to decline a proposal of high stakes.
“What a criminal fool I have been!” Wilfrid muttered as he strode up and down between the banks of bloom. “I should have refused; what do the taunts of a blackguard like Horace Bentley matter? And I should have asked for time to pay. I should have had to submit to a few more gibes from Bentley and a suggestion that I did not pay my debts of honour, but better that than that poor old Frank should be disgraced. But it is too late now—too late!”
The words were none the less bitter because they were true. Wilfrid was still cogitating in the same sad strain when Freda returned. The girl was taking a great risk for the sake of her lover—she was perilling her reputation in the eyes of the Morrisons, who would not have scrupled to act had they only known what was taking place. And the girl had a father more or less dependent upon her.
Freda had uttered no protest; her eyes were still sweet and loving as she looked up at Wilfrid. Her face was flushed, but a suggestion of triumph played about her mouth.
“I told you I could manage it—and I have!” she said. “You must take this, Wilfrid. Sell it for me and pay the money to Frank Saxby. I believe the trinket is a valuable one. In one of his fits of generosity my uncle gave it to me, taking it from a box full of such things. I put it by for a rainy day. Do you think it will fetch the money?”
Mechanically Wilfrid held out his hand for the thing that Freda offered. It was a small brooch with an exquisite miniature in the centre, the whole surrounded by two rows of diamonds. Wilfrid had a love for beautiful things like this, and he had some little knowledge of them, too.
“It is lovely!” he said. “I never saw anything more perfect. I am pretty certain that the miniature is by Watteau; anyway, the setting is an old one. If I were asked to give an idea of its value I should say that four hundred pounds——”
“So much as that!” Freda cried. “I had no idea it was worth so much. Sell it, Wilfrid, and keep the balance of the money for me.”
Wilfrid made no reply for a moment. The pure delight of the gem held him to the exclusion of more material things. Then he resolutely placed the thing in Freda’s palm and closed her little pink fingers very tightly over it.
“My darling!” he said—"my dearest, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I cannot express what I feel when I think of your confidence in me. You ought to be hard and cold with me; as it is you heap coals of fire upon my head. But I can’t take your brooch. If I could see the smallest prospect of paying you back I would not hesitate. But your poor afflicted father is dependent upon you. Suppose you fell ill, or found yourself out of a situation, you would then have nothing to fall back upon. And if I thought that I had been the cause of your suffering in a case like that——”
Wilfrid paused, feeling he had said enough. There were tears in Freda’s eyes as she looked up at her lover. She liked him none the less for this refusal, though it was evident that it filled her with pain.
“It is not the time to think of oneself!” she said. “If ever there are times when one’s bread should be cast on the waters, this is one of them. And your honour is at stake, Wilfrid.”
Wilfrid inclined his head sadly. He was feeling the humiliation of the bitter truth. The temptation was a strong one, but he kept firm.
“Put it away, darling,” he said. “I must bear my own burden. Why do you waste your favours and love on an object so unworthy as myself?”
Freda’s only reply was an unsteady smile, but it was more eloquent than words. She laid down the brooch on the rustic seat by the fountain, so that the light might play upon its facets. For some little time both stood looking at it.
“It seems a pity,” Freda said sadly, “especially as there is such an easy escape from the difficulty in that little thing there. My dear Wilfrid, what was that?”
A sudden snap close at hand caused them both to jump. Their nerves were at high tension. Wilfrid looked round him, but could see nothing. Just for a moment it seemed to him that somebody had crept into the conservatory and was spying on their movements. Wilfrid looked round, but could see no signs of anybody.
“We must have imagined it,” he said. “My dear child, please put that in your pocket and go to bed. If you were found here with me like this——”
Wilfrid had no occasion to complete the suggestion. Freda’s pretty face flamed.
“I quite understand,” she said. “And yet there is no harm whatever. We are going to be married some day, and we love each other dearly. Wilfrid, I want to save you; I want to show you what a girl can do for the sake of the man she loves. Never mind me, think only of your duty to Frank Saxby.”
The pleading wistfulness of the girl’s voice assailed Wilfrid like a fierce temptation, but he managed to crush it down. It all seemed so strange and unreal to him; those lovely flowers mingling their sweet scent with the odour of cigarettes; the silence of the house broken every now and then by a voice from the library, where the card-playing was still going on.
“Once more I am forced to say no,” Wilfrid replied. “Please put your diamond brooch away and——”
Wilfrid broke off suddenly and started. Somebody was calling him loudly from the library. There was a shuffle of feet and the sound of a disturbance. Some dispute seemed to have taken place over the cards, and one or two excited players came into the hall. Wilfrid was man of the world enough to know that Freda must not be found with him there. And those men in the hall were demanding his presence emphatically. As far as Wilfrid could see there was only one avenue of escape for Freda. At the far end of the conservatory was a door leading to the garden. Wilfrid could see that the key was in the door. He crossed over and opened it.
“Go outside,” he whispered. “My dear child, don’t hesitate. There is no harm in your being here with me, but these men will not appreciate the situation. Step into the garden whilst I go into the hall. They are calling for me as if they wanted my blood. I will return soon as possible.”
Freda nodded; she understood perfectly well. With a smile she vanished into the garden, whilst Wilfrid strolled into the hall with a cigarette in his mouth, as if he had been half asleep amongst the flowers.
“It is a great tribute to my popularity, this,” he smiled. “What has gone wrong?”
Half a score of excited voices began to babble. It appeared that Jackson had done something wrong. It was almost more than evident that Jackson had been drinking too much wine. He was understood to accuse Bentley of something like cheating.
“If he were sober I would pitch him out of the house,” Bentley said with gleaming eyes. “As it is, I will ask him to pay up his losses like a gentleman. Eh, Wilfrid?”
Wilfrid flushed with annoyance. Bentley had never called him by his Christian name before and he resented it. When he spoke his voice was cold and cutting.
“The less one says about the ethics of this dispute the better,” he remarked. “Jackson may not be behaving like a gentleman, but seeing that he is hardly in a fit state to play cards, it is strange you are so anxious to take his money. I do not suggest that it is sharping, but I would rather starve than take money from a man in Mr. Jackson’s present condition.”
Bentley started back as if somebody had stung him. He grew white to the lips. The thing was so true, the sarcasm so cold and cutting, that it touched to the quick.
“We can’t all belong to your class,” he sneered. “That kind of thing is decidedly fine in old families, however decayed they may be, but does not pay in business. And after the way that Jackson lost your money to- night——”
“That has nothing whatever to do with it,” Wilfrid said. “I ought not to have allowed myself to be drawn into a game with so reckless a hand as Mr. Jackson. At any rate, he did not take an unfair advantage of any weakness of mine.”
A murmur of approval from the other guests followed and Bentley turned away. But there was a glitter in his eyes that boded no good to Wilfrid. Bentley loved money and hated to be deprived of his plunder, however shabbily it was obtained.
“I’ll tear up Jackson’s I.O.U.,” he said. “Come and play again, boys.”
There was a general move in the direction of the library again. The host looked at Wilfrid in an inquiring kind of way. He had all the rich man’s contempt for poverty, but did not forget that Wilfrid was the son of a baronet and his lead socially was worth following.
“I’ll come directly I’ve finished my cigarette,” Wilfrid said. “I’m looking at your flowers. But I will not play again this evening.”
In a casual way Wilfrid returned to the conservatory. He had no fear of further molestation; they were settled at their game once more excepting Jackson, who had gone comfortably off to sleep in an armchair. Wilfrid meant to call Freda back and send her to bed at once. It would never do for these men to know anything of what had taken place. They were not the right class to understand the situation.
As Wilfrid opened the door he heard the flutter of Freda’s skirts. She came in smilingly, though the look of trouble was still in her eyes. The look vanished as she turned her face towards the rustic bench where they had been sitting.
“Oh, I’m so glad,” she whispered, “so pleased that you have changed your mind, Wilfrid. You put the diamond brooch in your pocket after all? I left it on the bench, you recollect, when I was outside. I am so glad.”
Wilfrid stared at the bench and then at Freda in blank astonishment.
“Do you mean to say you did not put it in your pocket?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Freda said. “I had no time. I left it to you. If you picked it up——”
“But I didn’t,” Wilfrid said, hoarsely. “Somebody must have crept in and stolen it.”
FREDA LOOKED AT WILFRID IN a vague kind of way as if she were not quite sure of his identity. The mysterious disappearance of the diamond brooch filled her with something more than uneasiness. And yet it seemed almost impossible to believe that the thing had been stolen; there must be some mistake. Wilfrid was first to speak.
“Didn’t you snatch it up in the excitement of the moment?” he asked.
“I am certain I did not,” Freda replied. “As you passed into the hall I looked back and caught the glint of the electric light on the stones. Hurried as I was, I recollect thinking how beautiful and artistic it was, and how much more charm there was in the old settings of jewels. I call that to mind perfectly.”
“You were quite sure that that was after you had hurried to the door?” Wilfrid asked.
“Absolutely certain, my dear boy. I thought you were going to pick it up, and I was fiercely glad that you had given way to me in this matter. I was very glad for your sake and for the sake of poor Frank Saxby, and yet I was sorry for the loss of my one good gem. You know how strange women are in such matters.”
Wilfrid touched Freda’s hand caressingly. It seemed to him that he could understand her feelings quite easily. The sympathetic touch repaid Freda more than words could have done.
“Then the brooch must have been stolen,” Wilfrid declared. “Somebody must have slipped into the conservatory as you passed out.”
But that Freda declared to be impossible. She had merely slipped into the garden and closed the door behind her. She had never been more than a yard from the door and had remained at the side of it so that her figure might not stand out against the glazed half of the doorway. It was impossible that anybody could have entered that way.