Mr Chinnery and Mr Waugh-Bonner came from the billiard-room. The drawing-room gave of its plenty in the shape of Mrs Folsom, Mrs Shepley, Mr Profitt and Mr Billing, who had been sitting down to a rubber of bridge.
The discovery of the gongster's identity caused the excitement of the company to turn to bewilderment, tinged a little with disappointment. A mad colonel is always well worth looking at, of course, but he can never have quite the same box-office appeal as a mad butler. And then came the damping revelation that even this poor substitute was perfectly sane. In a few crisp words Colonel Tanner made known the causes that had led up to his apparently eccentric action.
The announcement was variously received by those present. Mrs Shepley, who was a trifle hard of hearing and understood him to say that he had found a bugler in his bedroom cupboard, was frankly puzzled. Mrs Folsom tottered to a chair. Mr Profitt said, 'What ho!' Mr Billing said, 'What price telephoning to the gendarmes?' Mr Waugh-Bonner, with a spirit that did credit to a man of his advancing years, waved his billiard cue menacingly and stated that the only way of dealing with these chaps was to hit them over the head.
It was while he was beginning to tell a rather intricate story about a Malay servant of his who used to steal his cigarettes at Kuala Lumpur that Mr Chinnery struck an unpleasantly jarring note. He gave it as his opinion that Colonel Tanner must have imagined the whole thing.
'Probably a cat.'
'Cats don't hide in cupboards,' said Colonel Tanner.
'Yes, they do,' said Mr Chinnery.
'Well,' said the colonel, shifting his ground like a good military tactician, 'they aren't nearly six feet tall.'
'How do you mean, six feet tall?'
'That was the height this fellow's face was above the ground. I touched it.'
'You thought you did.'
'Damn it, sir, do you think I don't know a burglar when I see one?'
'Couldn't have been a burglar. Too early.'
The rest of the company murmured approval of this view. Burglars are so essentially creatures of the night watches that there seemed to these well-bred people something indecent in the idea that one could have arrived soon after nine o'clock. There are things that are done and things that are not done, even by burglars. They preferred not to think that a British porch climber could have been guilty of so marked an exhibition of bad form.
'Tell us the story in your own words, colonel,' said Mr Billing.
'Omitting no detail, however slight,' added Mr Profitt, who had read a good many detective stories.
'But why would a bugler be in your cupboard?' asked Mrs Shepley, still not quite abreast of the state of affairs.
'What were you doing, groping in cupboards, anyway?' demanded Mr Chinnery, whose manner now rather offensively resembled that of a heckler at a public meeting.
'I wanted to get some photographs I took in India to show to the Princess. I opened the cupboard door and put my hand in – the album was on the shelf – and I touched a human face.'
'What you thought was a human face.'
'Probably a projecting hook,' said Mr Waugh-Bonner.
'Which you mistook for a nose,' said Mr Billing, who was never very bright during the day, but bucked up amazingly after dinner.
Colonel Tanner drew a deep breath.
'No doubt,' he said. 'Well, the next thing that happened was that the projecting hook came bursting out of the cupboard like billy-be-damned and disappeared.'
The sceptical school of thought headed by Mr Chinnery began to lose disciples. This sounded like the real thing.
'You should have stopped him,' said Mr Profitt.
'Possibly,' said Colonel Tanner. 'But at the moment I was lying in the fireplace. The dashed thing gave me such a shock that I jumped back and tripped over something. And when I got up, the man was half-way down the corridor.'
'Where was he going?' asked Mr Chinnery.
'I didn't ask him,' replied Colonel Tanner shortly. 'But if you are interested,' he continued, 'no doubt he will be able to tell you. Look,' he said, pointing.
Down the stairs a small procession was approaching. It was headed by Adrian Peake and Miss Whittaker, the latter holding the former's left arm in a grip which any student of ju-jitsu would have recognized as the one prescribed for the quelling of footpads. Even seen from a distance, it looked both effective and supremely uncomfortable. Miss Whittaker's face was serene and her demeanour calm and ladylike, but Adrian was not looking his best. The constricted position into which his arm was being twisted had caused his features to twist in sympathy. One of his eyes, moreover, was closed and swelling.
The rear of the procession was brought up by Pollen. Followed by the bulging eyes of the spectators, it turned off at the foot of the stairs and passed down the corridor that led to Sir Buckstone's study.
Sir Buckstone had gone to his study at the conclusion of dinner to discuss with the Princess Dwornitzchek the details of the purchase of Walsingford Hall, and a man as eager as he was to get those details settled was not to be diverted by gongs, however vigorously beaten. The noise had penetrated to where he sat at his desk and had caused him to shoot an inquiring glance at his companion, but neither had made any move in the direction of an investigation. Sir Buckstone had said 'Hullo, hullo, what's all that?' and the Princess had replied that it sounded like somebody cutting up. Upon which, Sir Buckstone, wrongly attributing what was happening to an outbreak of high spirits on the part of Mr Billing or Mr Profitt, had mumbled something about young idiots, and they had returned to their negotiations.
The entry of Miss Whittaker and her charge occurred just as the Princess Dwornitzchek had begun to talk figures, and the interruption at such a moment caused Sir Buckstone to leap to his feet in justifiable wrath. Then, taking in the details, he changed quickly from anger to amazement.
'What on earth?' he exclaimed. 'Pollen, what's all this, hey?'
The butler was wearing a rather apologetic look, as if he were feeling that it would have been more correct to have brought Adrian in on a salver.
'The burglar, Sir Buckstone,' he announced formally.
And Miss Whittaker had opened her lips to add a few words of explanation when two voices spoke simultaneously.
'Good God! It's Peake!'
'Adrian!'
The Princess was advancing like a tigress about to defend its young.
'Adrian! What has been happening? Let him go, immediately!'
The relaxation of Miss Whittaker's grip enabled Adrian to speak. He indicated Pollen with a shaking finger.
'He hit me in the eye!'
'Is this true?'
'Yes, your highness. I came upon the fellow endeavouring to make good his escape.'
'He was running down the back stayahs,' said Miss Whittaker.
'I ventured in the circumstances to strike him with my fist.'
And I gripped him and made him prisonah,' said Miss Whittaker, completing the evidence.
The Princess Dwornitzchek's teeth came together with a click.
'Oh?' she said. 'Well, you'd both best be looking out for new jobs. . . . Sir Buckstone, you're going to fire these two.'
'Eh?'
'You heard me. They're fired.'
For a moment Sir Buckstone was too stunned for utterance.
'But they have behaved splendidly. Magnificently, dash it. You don't understand, my dear lady. This is a frightful bounder named Peake. A scoundrel of the worst description.'
'Indeed? Well, may I inform you that he is the man whom I am going to marry?'
'What!'
'Yes.'
'Peake is?'
'Yes.'
'You're going to marry Peake?'
She ignored his babblings.
'Are you hurt, Adrian?'
'Yes, Heloise.'
'Come with me and I will bathe your eye.'
'Thank you, Heloise.'
'But before I do,' said the Princess, ceasing to be the angel of mercy and allowing a familiar note of grimness to
creep into her voice, 'you will explain how you come to be here, running about back stairs.'
Adrian Peake had rather anticipated that sooner or later some such statement would be required of him, and he was ready for it.
'I came down here to be near you, Heloise. I knew how much I should miss you. I was going to stay at the inn. I went for a stroll by the river, and I happened to meet Tubby. We thought we would like a bathe, as the afternoon was so warm. So we bathed. And when we came out we found that somebody had stolen our clothes. Tubby suggested that we should wait till everybody was at dinner and creep into the Hall and he would get some more from his room. He told me to wait, and I waited, but he didn't come back, so I went to look for some myself. I went into one of the bedrooms, and put on somebody's suit, and then somebody came and found me, and I lost my head and ran away.'
It was not the sort of story likely to be immediately credible to one of the Princess Dwornitzchek's scepticism. She eyed him narrowly.
'Is this true?'
'Yes, Heloise.'
'It sounds most peculiar to me.'
'You can ask Tubby.'
'Where is he?'
'I don't know.'
'Theodore is in the pantry' said Miss Whittaker, 'eating ham.'
'Theodore?' The Princess, who had started at this helpful remark, spoke coldly. It is not easy to look at a modern business girl as if she were something slimy that has suddenly manifested itself from under a flat stone, but she was contriving to do so. 'And why, may I ask, do you refer to my stepson as Theodore?'
'He is the man I love,' replied Miss Whittaker simply. 'We are engaged to be marrahed.'
The Princess Dwornitzchek drew in a long, hissing breath, then expelled it more slowly. Her eyes were glittering, as many a head waiter in many a restaurant had seen them glitter when something had gone wrong with the service. As Jane had said, she was not fond of humble working girls. The Cinderella story had never been one of her favourites.
'Indeed?' she said. 'How romantic! You're some sort of damned secretary or something, aren't you?'
It was not precisely the way in which Miss Whittaker would have described herself, but she replied equably:
'Quale.'
The Princess Dwornitzchek turned to Sir Buckstone with a sweeping gesture.
'So!' she said.
There are very few men capable of remaining composed and tranquil when a woman is saying 'So!' at them, especially when a sweeping gesture accompanies the word. Napoleon could have done it, and Henry VIII, and probably Jenghiz Khan, but Sir Buckstone was not of their number. He collapsed abruptly into his chair, as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt.
'So this is how you have looked after my stepson! I leave him in your charge while I go away for a few weeks, and I come back and find him engaged to your secretary! With your complete approval, no doubt.' She turned to Pollen. 'Tell my chauffeur to bring the car round immediately. I am returning to London.'
The butler melted away, glad to go, and she resumed the basilisk stare which she had been directing at Sir Buckstone.
'I have changed my mind,' she said. 'I am not buying the house.' A low moan escaped the stricken man. She swung round menacingly on Miss Whittaker. 'And as for you—'
Into Miss Whittaker's mind there floated an expression which her Theodore had used at the conclusion of that little unpleasantness of theirs over the brown-paper parcel. At the time she had thought it vulgar, and had said so. But now it seemed to her the only possible expression for such an emergency as this. She saw that there were occasions when Kensington could do nothing and only the nervous English of Broadway would serve.
'Ah, nerts!' she said.
'What?'
'Ah, nerts!' repeated Miss Whittaker, in a quiet, respectful voice.
There is probably no really good reply to this remark, but the Princess Dwornitzchek made one of the worst ones. She struck Miss Whittaker with her jewelled hand. The next moment, she found herself helpless in the grip designed for the discouragement of footpads, and an irresistible force propelled her to the door.
'Let me go!' she cried.
'Certainly not,' said Miss Whittaker. 'I am taking you to your room, and they-ah you will remain until the car arrives.'
'Adrian! Help me!'
Adrian Peake wavered. Like some knight of old, he had been offered an opportunity of battling for his lady, but eyeing Prudence Whittaker, he hesitated to avail himself of it, though well aware that if he did not, there would be a bitter reckoning later. Miss Whittaker's face was calm, but there was quiet menace in the sidelong glance which she cast at him. It was the glance of a girl who would require only the slightest provocation to kick a fellow on the shin.
'Well, I – er – ah—' he said.
He followed his betrothed and her escort from the room. The sound of their passing died away along the corridor.
Sir Buckstone rose slowly from his chair. There was a sort of tentative caution in the way he moved his limbs, as if he had been a corpse rising from the tomb. In his eyes, a spectator, had one been present, would have noted a glassiness. He went to the French window and opened it, and stood there, allowing the night breeze to play upon his forehead – a forehead which had seldom been in greater need of cooling. He passed one hand to the top of his skull, as if he feared lest it might split asunder.
'Gor,' he said in a low voice.
Something glimmered in the darkness outside.
'Buck!'
Jane stood there gazing at him, concerned. She had been on the terrace, looking down on the river, and his figure at the lighted window had drawn her. She was feeling forlorn, and she had hoped to find relief in a chat with a parent whose conversation, though seldom touching heights of brilliance, was always comforting. And it seemed that his need of comfort was greater than hers. She thrust aside the thoughts which had been tearing her like barbed things.
'Good gracious, Buck, what's the matter?'
Sir Buckstone moved heavily from the window.
'Oh, hullo, Jane. Come in, my dear.'
He turned to the desk, and Jane slipped into the room like a white shadow.
'What's happened, Buck?'
Sir Buckstone seated himself at the desk. In this heaving earthquake which was disintegrating his world, the padded chair was agreeably solid.
'She isn't going to buy the house. The Princess. She's called it all off and is going back to London.'
'What? But why?'
Sir Buckstone marshalled his thoughts:
'Well, she thought it was my fault that her stepson got engaged to Miss Whittaker. And then she didn't like Pollen blacking Peake's eye.'
'What?'
'She's going to marry the fellow, you see.'
'What?'
Sir Buckstone quivered slightly.
'Don't keep saying "What?" my dear,' he said, with the manner of one keeping a strong grip on himself. 'If you say "What?" just once more, the top of my head will fly off.'
He had turned away to pick up a pencil which it was his intention to break in half – a poor palliative for the agonies he was suffering, but the best he could think of at the moment – and so did not see the sudden light that came into his daughter's face. It was as if a shutter had been opened in a lighted room.
'The Princess is going to marry Adrian?'
A sudden recollection came to Sir Buckstone. He rose and moved round the desk. He regarded her commiseratingly It still seemed to him almost incredible that any daughter of his should have fallen in love with Adrian Peake, but Mr Bulpitt had made the announcement authoritatively, as one having inside information, so he supposed it must be true.
'I'm sorry. I hope you're not feeling too bad about it, Jane.'
'I could sing. I will, too, if you'll join in the chorus.'
Sir Buckstone gaped.
'Eh? But aren't you in love with this blighter Peake?'
'Who told you that?'
'That blighter Bulpitt.'
'He got the names m
ixed. I'm in love with the blighter Joe.'
'Joe Vanringham?'
'That's the one.'
'You don't mean it?'
'I certainly do.'
'Jane! I'm delighted.'
'I thought you would be. You like him, don't you?'
'Took to him at once. Capital chap. Splendid fellow. And – er – rich. Not that that matters, of course.'
'It's lucky it doesn't, because he isn't. He hasn't a bean.'
'What?'
At least, I don't think he has. But, as you say, what does it matter? Love's the thing, Buck. Makes the world go round.'
The world was going round Sir Buckstone with an unpleasant jerky movement.
'But that play of his—'
'Oh, that's all off.'
'Off?'
'I can't stop to explain now. I've got to telephone him.'
'But, dash it—'
'Out of the way, Buck, or I'll trample you in the dust. Oh, Joe, Joe, Joe! For the last time, Buck, will you get back to your basket and stop twining yourself round my feet? . . . Thank you. That's better. . . . Oh, sorry, Mr Chinnery.'
She rushed from the room, and Mr Chinnery, who had been entering and had received the impact of her weight on his protruding waistcoat, stood for a moment panting like a dog. Then he recovered himself. He had news to impart which made collisions with stampeding girls relatively unimportant.
'Abbott!'
'Well?'
'Abbott, that man Bulpitt is in the house! I've seen him.'
'So have I.'
'But jiminy Christmas!'
Sir Buckstone, who, in the excitement of listening to his daughter's revelations had forgotten to break his pencil, now did so.
'I wish you wouldn't come charging into my study like this, Chinnery,' he said. 'I know Bulpitt is in the house. And it doesn't matter a damn. Not now. That breach-of-promise business is off. They've made it up.'