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That morning Geraldine found a strange indecision in Tydvil’s dictation.
Usually her pencil had to fly to keep up with him, but now, for minutes
at a time, she found herself tracing patterns with her pencil while
waiting for him to continue.
The fact was that Tydvil had found that his skirmish with Amy, followed
so closely by the Brand-Brewer episode, had thoroughly disjointed his
normal orderly mind. For the first time since she had taken on her
duties as his secretary, he recognised that Miss Brand was not only a
young woman, but a positively beautiful young woman. It seemed as though
Brewer, by some magic, had opened his eyes.
Again and again he found himself wondering how he had, until now,
overlooked the beauty of that rich head of hair. Never, until that
morning, had he observed those mischievous little curls that nestled
against her neck. Again, as he paused, his eye was taken by the delicate
line and perfect colour of the half turned cheek.
Between two sentences in an important letter to the manager of his
Sydney branch, Tydvil was staggered by the intrusion of an idea that,
after all, Billy Brewer was not so much to blame for falling from grace.
This was followed by a thought still more heinous. He found himself
envying Billy’s freedom to kiss a lovely girl without disturbing his
conscience; and contrasting it with his own enthralment. Billy had
lived, but he—“Phoo!” The exclamation escaped him unconsciously.
At the sound, Geraldine glanced up. “I’m afraid I did not quite catch…”
“Nothing at all,” replied Jones, more airily than he felt, “I did not
speak.”
At last it was over. “I do not wish to be interrupted this morning, as I
shall be busy,” he said, as Geraldine picked up her baskets full of
papers and turned to leave the room.
At the door she hesitated and turned round. He looked at her
enquiringly.
“I would like to say…” Her face flushed divinely. “I mean, that
so far as I am concerned—there will be no need to—” then, with a
rush, “to say anything to Mr. Brewer about his foolishness this morning.
I am able to look after my own interests.”
There was a quizzical smile on the face of Tydvil Jones as he answered,
“Yes, I noticed that, too. However, I shall do as you wish, Miss Brand.”
She went out and closed the door softly behind her. For a long time
Jones sat staring at it in smiling thought. “Now, I wonder!” he said to
himself. “Now, I wonder!”
Jones turned to his work with resolution, but again and again he found
his thoughts wandering. Finally, he pushed his papers aside impatiently
and, with his elbows on his table and his head in his hands, he
surrendered to the mood of the moment. As moods go, it was a very
unchristian frame of mind in which he found himself.
He knew Amy too well to flatter himself that the skirmish of the morning
could be magnified into a decisive battle. In his mind he pictured her
planning a counterattack in reply to his success. Through his mind ran a
plan of forcing her into a position in which she would be compelled to
accept a judicial separation. It was his one hope for a peaceful life.
But, as the plan took shape, he realised that her tactics would be to
throw the odium of the legal process on him.
His only means of defence would be to use the weapons that Amy would use
without compunction—the stiletto and poisonous gas. Why should he not
use them? Why not? Ethically, the suggestion might be untenable, but
makers of ethics were not married to Amy.
Then his mind drifted off to the scene he had witnessed an hour earlier.
It surprised him a little to think that, instead of being righteously
wrathful against Brewer, his feelings were akin to envy. He had accepted
Miss Brand’s intercession as an easy way out of a situation in which he
felt unsure of himself. After all, he thought, was he justified in
judging Brewer, or any, man, by codes that were his mother’s and Amy’s?
He remembered his father’s self-effacement. Would he follow his example
and remain subservient under the domination of—a tongue? Yes, that was
all it was a tongue! He, Tydvil Jones, head of C. B. & D., with an
income of fifty thousand pounds a year, whom all his peers envied for
his possessions! Yet, he realised that not all his wealth nor all his
power had given him as much of liberty as any one of the men who did him
service.
The thought that the two women who might have helped him were the ones
who had led him under false standards, was very bitter.
Billy Brewer would have been astounded had he known how much of his
private life was an open book to Tydvil Jones. More than once he had
been called on to “the carpet.” He had come each time with such an airy
grace of gracelessness, that it disarmed justice. Jones knew that
whatever his peccadilloes, he had never let them interfere with his
work. While he did not feel inclined to copy Billy in manner or morals,
Jones recognised that Billy knew more of life and living than an army
corps of Tydvil Joneses.
“Was it,” Tydvil asked himself, “such a sin to kiss a pretty girl?” He,
himself, had never kissed anyone but Amy; and kissing Amy was rather
less stimulating than drinking iced water in winter. Apparently, despite
her active indignation, Geraldine Brand did not consider it a capital
offence, or she would not have interceded on behalf of the culprit.
True, Geraldine had blushed, but he had no recollection of seeing Amy
blush even as a bride.
The memory of his courtship came back. His courtship! The farce of it!
He had to thank his mother for that. He remembered how, a few days
before his marriage, his mother had told him, that if ever there were a
saint, Amy was one. Saints! These saints had stolen his boyhood and his
youth. These saints had bound him hand and foot. “If these be saints,”
he muttered aloud, “may Satan himself come and free me from their
works.” He bowed his head forward on his hands until it rested on his
blotting pad.
Minutes passed before he moved again. At last he leaned back with a
sigh. As he did so, he started erect with an exclamation of
astonishment. In the armchair reserved for visitors at the end of the
table, sat a stranger. For a moment anger got the better of his
surprise. How could Miss Brand have dared to admit him after the order
he had given? Never before had she so lapsed from duty. Then anger and
surprise gave way to curiosity. Although Tydvil stared in a manner in
which he would scarcely have permitted himself in ordinary
circumstances, the stranger seemed quite unabashed. He met the
questioning stare frankly, with just a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
The intruder was apparently tall, and slender without being thin. As he
leaned back in his chair, perfectly composed, Tydvil was struck with a
sense of latent power and authority in the man, although there was
nothing in the pose to suggest it. Tydvil seldom took particular notice
of another man’s appearance, but the distinction of his visitor’s person
forced itself to his attention. He might have been anything between
thirty and sixty years of age. There was youth in the smooth and nobly
formed forehead and in the clear, olive cheeks. There was youth, too,
and boundless vitality in the dark, flashing eyes, and in the straight,
shapely mouth.
But then, again, there was age in the powder of grey on either temple,
that seemed the finishing touch to his distinguished head. But there was
something more than age—something that spoke of tremendous experience.
His poise and self-assurance could be guessed at rather than seen. His
dark grey tweed coat was perfect without the blunder of being too
perfect. From the sleek, black head to the polished shoes, there was no
discordant note. One hand held his hat, and the other, brown, but well
cared for, rested on his knee.
As Tydvil took in these details, it dawned on him that, though the
stranger might be an uninvited intruder, his whole appearance and
bearing bore testimony that he was one to be treated with deference.
During the long minutes of Jones’s survey, the stranger sat motionless,
almost as motionless as Jones did in his amazement. At last, the head of
Craddock, Burn, and Despard found his voice. “I really beg your pardon,”
he said, “I had no idea there was anyone in the room. I certainly did
not hear you enter.”
The dancing lights flickered for a moment in the stranger’s eyes. “And I,
too, must ask your pardon for coming unannounced, but, as it happened, I
had no option.”
“Oh! I understand; my secretary was not at her post?” queried Tydvil.
“On the contrary, she was,” came the answer, simply. “I did not consult
her because I felt sure she would refuse me admission. I was obliged to
take other steps.”
There was a trace of annoyance in Tydvil Jones’s face. He felt that the
reply was tinged with impertinence. His response was rather stiff. “Then
I have no doubt that since you took such unusual steps to obtain an
interview, your business is of some importance.”
The dark, finely arched eyebrows lifted slightly. “I am really sorry if
my action has caused you any annoyance, Mr. Jones…”
“You have an advantage of me in knowing my name,” interrupted the other
crisply.
His visitor waved a deprecating hand, but paused a moment before
answering. “I am afraid,” he said, “that I shall have some trouble in
explaining myself. But as you so urgently and expressly sent for Me, I
trust, as I said before, that my coming has not inconvenienced you.”
“I sent for you!” There was no mistaking the genuine astonishment in
Tydvil’s voice. “Why, my dear sir, I am perfectly sure I have never seen
you before.”
The other nodded. “Quite so,” he said. “Until now you have only come
into contact with my agents.”
Jones mentally ran over in his mind the names of any of his overseas
business connections who might, by any chance, be visiting Australia,
but none occurred to him. “I am afraid I must ask you to explain
yourself more clearly,” he said finally.
His visitor looked at him thoughtfully a moment before replying. “As I
said before, I am afraid I will have some little trouble in making
myself clear. I can perhaps best explain my presence by asking you to
recall to your memory a wish you expressed aloud some five or ten
minutes ago.”
Tydvil reddened to the roots of his hair. Had the man been in the room
all that time? he wondered. And being there, had he the audacity to
refer to what he might have heard? For the moment Jones had forgotten
exactly what he had said, but he felt sure the words were not such as he
would care to have overheard. “I have no distinct recollection of having
said anything that might interest you,” he replied coldly. “As you
apparently overheard my words, there will be no need for me to repeat
them.”
The stranger received the rebuke unmoved. He passed his hand to the
inner pocket of his coat and produced a flat leather wallet. He placed
his hat and glove carefully
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