Something New, P. G. Wodehouse [best desktop ebook reader .TXT] 📗

would all come out, and so far as the breaking off of my daughter’s engagement to young Threepwood is concerned, it would be just as bad as though I had tried to get the thing back myself.

“You’ve got to bear that in mind. You’ve got to remember it if you forget everything else. I don’t appear in this business in any way whatsoever. If you get caught you take what’s coming to you without a word. You can’t turn round and say: ‘I am innocent. Mr. Peters will explain all’⁠—because Mr. Peters certainly won’t. Mr. Peters won’t utter a syllable of protest if they want to hang you.

“No; if you go into this, young man, you go into it with your eyes open. You go into it with a full understanding of the risks⁠—because you think the reward, if you are successful, makes the taking of those risks worth while. You and I know that what you are doing isn’t really stealing; it’s simply a tactful way of getting back my own property. But the judge and jury will have different views.”

“I am beginning to understand,” said Ashe thoughtfully, “why you called the job delicate and dangerous.”

Certainly it had been no overstatement. As a writer of detective stories for the British office boy, he had imagined in his time many undertakings that might be so described, but few to which the description was more admirably suited.

“It is,” said Mr. Peters; “and that is why I’m offering good pay. Whoever carries this job through gets one thousand pounds.”

Ashe started.

“One thousand pounds⁠—five thousand dollars!”

“Five thousand.”

“When do I begin?”

“You’ll do it?”

“For five thousand dollars I certainly will.”

“With your eyes open?”

“Wide open!”

A look of positive geniality illuminated Mr. Peters’ pinched features. He even went so far as to pat Ashe on the shoulder.

“Good boy!” he said. “Meet me at Paddington Station at four o’clock on Friday. And if there’s anything more you want to know come round to this address.”

There remained the telling of Joan Valentine; for it was obviously impossible not to tell her. When you have revolutionized your life at the bidding of another you cannot well conceal the fact, as though nothing had happened. Ashe had not the slightest desire to conceal the fact. On the contrary, he was glad to have such a capital excuse for renewing the acquaintance.

He could not tell her, of course, the secret details of the thing. Naturally those must remain hidden. No, he would just go airily in and say:

“You know what you told me about doing something new? Well, I’ve just got a job as a valet.”

So he went airily in and said it.

“To whom?” said Joan.

“To a man named Peters⁠—an American.”

Women are trained from infancy up to conceal their feelings. Joan did not start or otherwise express emotion.

“Not Mr. J. Preston Peters?”

“Yes. Do you know him? What a remarkable thing.”

“His daughter,” said Joan, “has just engaged me as a lady’s maid.”

“What!”

“It will not be quite the same thing as three years ago,” Joan explained. “It is just a cheap way of getting a holiday. I used to know Miss Peters very well, you see. It will be more like traveling as her guest.”

“But⁠—but⁠—” Ashe had not yet overcome his amazement.

“Yes?”

“But what an extraordinary coincidence!”

“Yes. By the way, how did you get the situation? And what put it into your head to be a valet at all? It seems such a curious thing for you to think of doing.”

Ashe was embarrassed.

“I⁠—I⁠—well, you see, the experience will be useful to me, of course, in my writing.”

“Oh! Are you thinking of taking up my line of work? Dukes?”

“No, no⁠—not exactly that.”

“It seems so odd. How did you happen to get in touch with Mr. Peters?”

“Oh, I answered an advertisement.”

“I see.”

Ashe was becoming conscious of an undercurrent of something not altogether agreeable in the conversation. It lacked the gay ease of their first interview. He was not apprehensive lest she might have guessed his secret. There was, he felt, no possible means by which she could have done that. Yet the fact remained that those keen blue eyes of hers were looking at him in a peculiar and penetrating manner. He felt damped.

“It will be nice, being together,” he said feebly.

“Very!” said Joan.

There was a pause.

“I thought I would come and tell you.”

“Quite so.”

There was another pause.

“It seems so funny that you should be going out as a lady’s maid.”

“Yes?”

“But, of course, you have done it before.”

“Yes.”

“The really extraordinary thing is that we should be going to the same people.”

“Yes.”

“It⁠—it’s remarkable, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Ashe reflected. No; he did not appear to have any further remarks to make.

“Goodbye for the present,” he said.

“Goodbye.”

Ashe drifted out. He was conscious of a wish that he understood girls. Girls, in his opinion, were odd.

When he had gone Joan Valentine hurried to the door and, having opened it an inch, stood listening. When the sound of his door closing came to her she ran down the stairs and out into Arundell Street. She went to the Hotel Mathis.

“I wonder,” she said to the sad-eyed waiter, “if you have a copy of the Morning Post?”

The waiter, a child of romantic Italy, was only too anxious to oblige youth and beauty. He disappeared and presently returned with a crumpled copy. Joan thanked him with a bright smile.

Back in her room, she turned to the advertisement pages. She knew that life was full of what the unthinking call coincidences; but the miracle of Ashe having selected by chance the father of Aline Peters as an employer was too much of a coincidence for her. Suspicion furrowed her brow.

It did not take her long to discover the advertisement that had sent Ashe hurrying in a taxicab to the offices of Messrs. Mainprice, Mainprice & Boole. She had been looking for something of the kind.

She read it through twice and smiled. Everything was very clear to her. She looked at the ceiling above her and shook her head.

“You are quite a nice young man, Mr. Marson,” she said softly; “but you mustn’t try to jump