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catch me!”
“Dog!” she said, snuggling closer to him, and for a time the dialogue
became incoherent.
Presently Geraldine sat up. “You know, Billy, I’m terribly worried about
Tyddie.”
“But, Gerry,” he said doubtfully, “do you really think the story about
the promissory note is true? Dash it all, this is the twentieth century,
not the middle ages.”
“Think I’m cracked if you like, but I am positive it is true,” she
asserted.
“Well, if it’s true, as you think, I don’t like Tyddie’s chance of
meeting it when it falls due.” There was concern in Billy’s voice.
“That’s the maddening part of it.” Geraldine’s voice reflected her
anxiety. “If we told about it, everyone would think we are crazy, and
there does not seem a hope of getting out of it.”
“If that Nicholas bird can change Tyddie into any shape he likes, I guess
there is nothing he can’t do.”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing! And the worst of it is,” she added, “Tyddie
does not seem to care, or to be trying to save himself.”
“Hold on a moment,” Billy exclaimed. “What about the old legends? There
was generally a way out of those contracts!”
“That’s just it. They’re legends and nothing else,” said Geraldine.
“But if Nicholas is what you say he is, you might try swatting him with a
Bible, or getting him into Church or some gag like that,” Billy ventured
hopefully.
“Oh, those stories are all just church propaganda! Don’t you ever read
the papers, Billy?” she asked disdainfully.
“What the dickens have the papers to do with it?”
“Just this,” she said scornfully, “if you had read them you would know
that Mr. Nicholas Senior has given a Pleasant Sunday afternoon address on
the modern apathy towards religion. That he had addressed the Anglican
Synod, and he has been advocating in or for half the Churches in
Melbourne.”
Billy laughed. “Jove! He’s a sportsman, at any rate.”
“You can be sure there’s something in his being able to cite Scripture
for his own purpose. Shakespeare did not guess that. No, Billy,”
Geraldine went on, “we’ll have to think of something practical.”
A bright idea struck Billy. “Listen, darlint, give Tyddie the tip to ask
him to shift St. Paul’s Cathedral on to the sit of St. Patrick’s, and St.
Patrick’s on to the site of St. Paul’s.”
“Don’t be absurd, Billy,” laughed Geraldine.
“That’s not absurd,” Billy contended eagerly. “If Nicholas couldn’t do
it, Tyddie would be saved, and if he could do it, think what a lark it
would be?”
“Idiot! I’m trying to save Tyddie, not to start a war of religion.”
“Ump!” admitted Billy. “I suppose something like that would happen when
each side began blaming the other.”
“But there must be something,” Geraldine urged. “Think, Billy.”
“I’m done, Gerry,” acknowledged Billy, “much as I like to help Tyddie, it
looks like a blue duck to me.”
“But he must be vulnerable somewhere,” Geraldine stared at the carpet
with knit brows.
Billy leaned his ruffled head on her shoulders. “Righto, angel! You think
up his vulnerable spot and tell your Billy all about it, and I promise to
swat him right on it.”
But the days slipped by, and Geraldine was no nearer a solution of her
problem. She had other things to think about, too, for Cranston v.
Cranston, Brewer corespondent, was pending.
When that case came before the Court, the newspapers temporarily forgot
the international situation, for Cranston, Cranston and Brewer became
news. After the first of the three days during which the hearing lasted,
Mr. Justice Mainwaring, who heard it (but doubted his ears, as well as
all the witnesses), felt impelled to emit some blistering judicial
comment on the behaviour of the horde of sensation-hungry people who
stormed the Law Court’s draughty corridors in the hope of obtaining
admission to his Court.
Tydvil was more worried over the outcome of the case than he was about
his own immediate problems. Billy’s solicitors had instructed Mr. Max
Mendax, K.C., for the corespondent. Privately, however, Tydvil had
instructed Mr. Nicholas Senior, to intervene—not in court, but by using
his influence in any manner he thought advisable, ethically or otherwise,
to insure a verdict against the petitioner.
Mr. Senior had accepted the brief from Tydvil with some ironic comment on
the situation. “You know, Tydvil,” he remarked, “that redheaded demon of
yours would never believe it, but I am glad to fight on her side. But…”
“Now what mischief are you up to, Nicholas?” Tydvil was suspicious of the
chuckle that accompanied Nicholas’ remark.
“Nothing!” said Nicholas evasively. “I take it that you want that
Cranston person to get it in the neck.”
“Just that,” Tydvil agreed. “But you know, Nicholas, I have a feeling,
from my brief acquaintanceship with the lad in the case, that Cranston’s
allegations are not without foundation.”
He looked up and caught Nicholas’s amused eyes on him. “Dash it all,
Nicholas, don’t look at me like that. You know as well as I do that…”
“Cranston arrived with his merry men too soon,” Nicholas cut in.
“Confound you,” Tydvil laughed in spite of himself, “haven’t you any
faith in human nature.”
“Yes!” replied Nicholas judicially. “Even I have some left, and that, my
friend, is a very high tribute coming from me.”
“Well, don’t sit there grinning at me in that superior manner,” Tydvil
growled.
“Tydvil,” Nicholas took a cigarette from his case, “I do assure you that
I have faith in human nature, but very little faith in—let me see—what
was it—ah yes—two large scotches, a cocktail, sherry, three glasses of
champagne and a benedictine. There is a certain virtue in that blend, but
not the kind you required on that particular evening.”
Tydvil smiled reminiscently. “I was a victim of circumstances; a fragment
of life caught and tossed about in a whirlpool of chance.”
“It sounds quite poetical when you put it that way,” said Nicholas
tossing a match into the grate. “But there are certain less poetically
minded people—people like Billy Brewer, for instance—who would say that
you went on a binge and made a night of it.”
“Vulgar people, perhaps, would look at it that way,” Tydvil agreed. “But
why split hairs. To get back to the respondent. It is possible that some
link with Brewer’s earlier association with Hilda Cranston may be forged
in court that would lead to justice being done that I doubt if Mr.
Cranston deserves.”
“It seems as though we are forced into a highly immoral position,”
observed Nicholas. “In order to prevent Cranston from obtaining the
justice you very rightly, say he does not deserve, I, who by rights
should side against the angels, must clog the wheels of the law to aid
them.”
“I’m sure the angels will be relieved,” said Tydvil, “to see you doing
good by stealth, especially if you blush to find it fame.”
“Should anything go wrong, you would be the one to do the blushing,”
grinned Nicholas. “However, I accept the outrage to my professional
ethics.”
“What about the gentleman of the bar?” asked Tydvil.
“I have compared the respective records of Mr. Max Mendax with those of
the counsel for the petitioner and respondent. In professional
attainments and lack of scruple there is not much to choose between
them.”
“Then you will have no trouble—it will be two to one,” Tydvil suggested.
“That will be a factor in our favour,” agreed Nicholas. “But only Mr.
Justice Mainwaring and I are aware of the extent to which he is indebted
to me—in fact I am depending largely on such suggestions as I will make
to him during the hearing. Of course, I can prompt counsel where
necessary also.”
“Well, I leave it to you with perfect confidence,” said Tydvil relieved.
Nicholas nodded. “I have already, influenced Mr. Mendax against his first
decision to call you as a witness.” Tydvil whistled. “Thanks for the
escape.”
“Yes,” Nicholas went on, “after he had gone through his brief I suggested
to him that your evidence would sound so fishy under cross-examination,
that it would not be safe to put you in the box.”
“What a friend you are, Nicholas.” There was a hint of sarcasm in his
voice.
Nicholas grinned in response. “More than you think, my boy. There’s a
dashed inquisitive police inspector at Russell Street who is becoming
more and more convinced that Tydvil Jones knows more than he should know
about Basil Williams. And,” he added, “if you had any trouble in the
witness box, he might find out more than you would care for him to know.”
“Rats to him!” Tydvil was unconcerned. “Let him find out what he likes.
Nice ass he would look if he tried to place the facts before a bench of
magistrates.”
“There’s something in that,” agreed Nicholas. “But, in any case, you
may make your mind easy about Brewer.”
There was one other person who was profoundly distressed by the impending
case. Amy, who was not usually a reader of the Law List, happened to
notice the name “Brewer” as she skimmed over her paper. In its
association with that of Cranston, and remembering the police court case,
her perturbation was natural. Never during her association with William,
had the subject been mentioned between them. Now, jealousy entered her
soul.
For her own reasons, Amy was a little shy at questioning Tydvil on the
subject. Latterly the extraordinary change in her husband had been
causing her no little concern. By some means that were beyond her
comprehension, he had succeeded in escaping her authority. He was
truculent under cross-examination, and his language to her had
occasionally, been almost vulgar. He absolutely refused to explain his
almost constant absences from his dinner in the evening and his
chronically late hours. Moreover, he was completely neglecting his social
services in a most distressing manner.
Only that morning, when she had reminded him that she had arranged for
him to address a meeting of the committee of the Little Mothers’ Guild at
the Vicarage, he had replied that if she thought he was going to waste
his time lapping milk with a bunch of she cats, she was dashed well
mistaken.
Her indignant, but, in the circumstances, restrained rebuke, had called
forth a most disgraceful analogy regarding she cats and little mothers
that had shocked Amy inexpressibly.
However, her curiosity regarding the case prompted her to bring up the
subject at breakfast on the following morning. Breakfast was now about
the only time at which she could be sure of meeting her husband.
Seizing what she thought was a favourable opportunity to break in on his
attention to his newspaper, she said, “Oh, Tydvil dear! I saw in
yesterday’s paper that there was a divorce case coming on in which
Cranston and Brewer are mentioned. I trust that is not the Mr. Brewer you
employ.”
“Yes it is, and the Mr. Cranston, too,” replied Tydvil shortly. “What of
it?”
“But, my dear Tydvil, I can scarcely believe it,” she protested.
“Why not?” came from the opposite end of the table. The voice was quite
indifferent.
“Well, I thought that your Mr. Brewer was such a superior man,” Amy
ventured. “What is it all about?”
Tydvil, scarcely looking up from his paper, gave her a brief resume of
Cranston’s allegations in English so plain that Amy blushed.
“Tydvil!” she exclaimed in shocked amazement. “Well, you asked me!”
“But, surely, to your wife, you might have chosen your words more
carefully,”
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