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Senior in a subdued voice lest he attracted attention from the outside.
He was very glad to become Tydvil Jones again, because Basil Williams had
been very much the worse for wear, and not remarkably sober.
Then he pulled himself up, noticing for the first time the dejected air
of his friend. Nicholas was again seated on the edge of the bed,
melancholy in every line of his pose.
“By Jove! Nicholas,” he enquired anxiously, “what’s happened? You look
done in.”
Nicholas straightened himself. “Tydvil,” he answered miserably, “I’m too
ashamed almost to face you. I have fallen down on my job.”
Enlightenment came to Tydvil. “Amy?” he asked. Nicholas nodded. “She
talked…”
“Ah! Buck up, Nicholas, and forget it. I’m terribly sorry. It wasn’t fair
to ask you to carry on with a job like that.”
But Mr. Senior was not consoled. “You haven’t heard the worst,” he went
on.
“What was it? The court affair?” asked Tydvil curiously.
“Oh, I bluffed her off that,” replied Nicholas. “It was really the Moral
Uplift Society and your letter to the papers that caused it.
She’s—er—well, annoyed—and I—I…” The confession would not come.
“Holy Wars! Nicholas, did she get that cheque?” Tydvil whispered in
dismay.
Nicholas nodded. “Oh, Tydvil, I am ashamed, but…”
“Couldn’t you have done a bunk up here as I told you?” he asked.
“That is what caused the trouble,” explained Mr. Senior. “She got in,
too, and beat me to the key.”
“You were locked in with her?” Tydvil’s dismay changed to heartfelt pity.
“For two hours nearly,” admitted Nicholas, “and she talked…”
“She would,” agreed Tydvil, with deep understanding. “Nicholas, I
apologise with all my heart. It was not fair to you to let you run such a
risk.”
“But I failed. I betrayed your trust, my friend.” Nicholas took his
wallet from his pocket, and drawing out the promissory note, offered it
to Tydvil.
Tydvil waved it away, smiling. “Dash it all, Nicholas! Ours is a
gentleman’s agreement. Do you take me for a usurer? The fault was mine
entirely. You should he the one to complain.”
“By Jove, Tydvil, you’re a sportsman! But you must let me reimburse you
for the cheque…”
“I don’t deserve it, but if it’s on your conscience you may do so.” Then
he laughed wryly. “Amy will gloat, I’m afraid.”
“It puts you in such a hole over that letter,” Nicholas sympathised.
“Yes,” admitted Tydvil, “she’s got me there, but…” He broke off
suddenly. “Listen, Nicholas! Do you think you could arrange an accidental
meeting between Amy and me, as Billy Brewer, in a way that would make her
feel grateful to Brewer—that’s me?”
The face of Mr. Senior grew brighter. “Yesterday,” he replied, “I would
have protested that the idea was not sporting. Now,” and he smiled a sour
smile, “I feel that your plan involves less than retributive justice.
I’ll take care, too, that there are no complications with Brewer.”
“Good!” replied Tydvil with sinister emphasis. “And then we shall see
what we shall see. Let me know when you’re ready, but not until Brewer’s
eye is normal.”
“Talking of eyes,” said Nicholas, “I noticed one of those policemen you
were engaged with, had a beauty.”
Tydvil chuckled reminiscently. “Phew! That was swift going while it
lasted…”
“You seem to have quite a flair for mixing it with the law—what led up
to that picnic you were having?” Senior asked curiously.
It appeared that Tydvil had met a charming young woman named Elsie. He
was rather indefinite as to how or where the acquaintance was made, and
Nicholas, recognising his embarrassment, forbore to press for details.
Anyway, Elsie suggested that there was plenty of fun to be had at a night
club she knew of in Little Collins Street, just off Exhibition Street.
“It was quite a pleasant place,” Tydvil explained, “with a Bohemian
atmosphere. We had supper, at least, Elsie had supper, but I joined her
in the wine.”
“I should say you did,” commented Nicholas.
Tydvil nodded a plea of guilty. “You see, Elsie knew nearly everyone
in the place. She seemed very popular. She introduced me to a lot of
people…” He paused.
“And the night grew wet,” Nicholas suggested.
“Not at first,” Tydvil explained. “Among them was a man I knew, Archie
Graham, of Graham and Stone—they have a place in the Lane. He joined us
with a large blonde named Minnie. When I told him I was Basil Williams
and came from Castlemaine, he said he knew my father.”
Nicholas, who was consulting his master card, looked up. “If it is I he
means, I’ll say he does know me. But not as well as I know him.”
“Well,” continued Tydvil, “we had a few bottles of champagne, and Graham
said there was nothing in it, and called for burgundy. And then two or
three of Graham’s friends joined us—there was an orchestra—and Elsie
and Minnie tried to teach me to dance.”
“Seems innocent enough so far,” commented Nicholas.
“Yes,” admitted Tydvil, “it was not until we turned over the tables and
made a steeplechase course, that it began to get really lively.”
“Bright idea,” smiled Nicholas.
“It was a lot brighter when Graham proposed fox hunting with Elsie and
Minnie as foxes. The men had to go over the jumps, but the foxes could go
round them. Then most of the men joined in, and all the girls wanted to
be foxes, too.” Tydvil paused reflectively. “I think that the trouble
began about then.”
“You certainly had the material for it,” smiled Nicholas.
“You see,” Tydvil explained, “clearing the jumps was not so easy as you’d
think because of the champagne and burgundy, and we were a bit crowded. I
was going strong after my fox, Elsie, when some fellow got ahead of me
and caught her. I came up and explained that the game was for hunters and
not for hounds…” He paused a moment, and went on, “You know, I
thought at the time that sounded funny. He didn’t seem to like it, and
tried to hit me.”
“Well?” queried Nicholas.
“That started it all,” Tydvil explained. “He was standing in front of a
hurdle, and when I slugged him he went over backward, and then his fox, a
dashed little Jezebel, took a swipe at me with a bottle. So Elsie tried
to strangle her, and then everybody, seemed to join in at once. All I
know is, I was trying to get Elsie away when someone threw a handful of
spaghetti in my face, and I pulled a leg off one of the tables and went
after him.”
“By Jove! Tydvil,” laughed Nicholas, “considering your lack of
experience, you displayed excellent technique in an emergency.”
“Not at all,” disclaimed Tydvil modestly. “It was just instinct. That
spaghetti roused my worst feeling, and I wanted to do something worth
while to the man who threw it. He reached the door about two jumps ahead
of me, and then someone switched off the lights. A lot of good that did,”
he laughed, “because they all came out into the street and carried on.”
“And then?” Nicholas asked.
“To tell you the honest truth, I don’t know much about it. I was trying
to knock out the spaghetti man when the police arrived, and I had to
leave my man to attend to them. They had about got me done up. I was on
my back and just managed to let out with both legs and get two of them,
when you arrived.”
“Well,” came Mr. Senior’s verdict, “all I can say is, that for a man of
your limited training, your success has been phenomenal.”
“You are proud of your pupil?” Tydvil laughed.
“Pupil, indeed!” Nicholas replied. “You don’t want any teaching; your
capacity for finding trouble is native genius. But I think you had better
get to bed.”
Tydvil stood up. “I think you’re right. Oh, by, the way. I have an
appointment to meet Archie Graham at his place for a game of poker in a
night or two.”
“Well, try not to bring in the police force again,” was Mr. Senior’s
friendly advice.
“See you tomorrow—no, tonight at dinner,” said Tydvil glancing at the
clock.
Mr. Senior left him to his well-earned rest.
Geraldine Brand sat in her place at the table of Tydvil Jones, just as
she had sat two mornings earlier, swishing the blade of a paper knife
through the envelopes of the morning mail. But her mind was not on her
work. Geraldine was listening, and was beginning to fear she would listen
in vain. She had almost lost hope when she heard an uncertain step
approaching the door of the office. It was a step she could have picked
out from an army, despite its hesitation. If Billy Brewer could have seen
the light in Geraldine’s eyes as she raised her head at the sound, he
would not have delayed his entrance.
When he did summon up courage to cross the threshold; her head was bent
intently over her work. His eyes were so absorbed in the general beauty
of the girlscape, that they missed the important detail that the shapely,
capable hands were a little unsteady in their movements. It was
remarkable that the two so usually self-assured and self-possessed young
people were at the moment feeling just a little scared. To both, the
experience of feeling scared was novel and unsettling.
Although she had given no sign of knowledge of his presence, Billy knew
she was aware of it. He waited a moment in trepidation, but when the
expected order of eviction did not come, he took courage. He moved
quietly round the table and seated himself in Tydvil’s chair. As he did
so her lashes flicked upwards for a fraction of a second, and then went
on with her work. To Billy, the reception was not encouraging, but then
he did not know that Geraldine, at the moment, was almost afraid to let
him see her eyes.
Mr. William Brewer was not looking his best, or feeling his best.
Although much of the swelling had left his eye, its colour was still rich
and variegated. Moreover, he had had a sleepless night trying to solve
the mystery of the calamities that had befallen him, but it was an
instance in which night had brought neither counsel nor consolation.
At the moment he never in his life had felt the need for sympathy and
understanding more acutely. Instinct had drawn him to Geraldine against
the better judgment of his reason.
Then the sight of her and her silence gave him daring. “Gerald—I mean,”
he cut the word short, “I mean, Miss Brand.”
Geraldine’s heart was chanting “Te Deums,” but all she said was a
non-committal and interrogative, “Well?”
“I wanted to ask you something.”
Again, “Well?”
“Did you…” Billy’s words stumbled. “Have you read last night’s
paper? I mean that stuff about me.”
“I did,” murmured the bent head, “and this morning’s papers also.”
Billy flushed uncomfortably. He had become “news,” and the morning papers
had “done him proud.” One of them had found room for a shocked sub-leader
on the prevalence of perjury in the courts of justice. However, Billy was
determined to have his say.
“I want to tell you this, and please believe me, it is true, I never was
near Hilda Cranston that night. On my word of honour.” The memory of his
wrongs drowned
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