The Missing Angel, Erle Cox [suggested reading TXT] 📗

great deal to

learn from your world today.”

 

Tydvil looked a little surprised. “Can we teach you anything at all?” he

asked.

 

“Well, of course, the broad principles are always the same,” answered

Mr. Senior, “but in technique and finish, some of your methods promise

an interesting study. Oh, by the way, I have had the pleasure of Mrs.

Jones’s society all the afternoon. We lunched at Menzies…”

 

“What?” The question fairly exploded from Tydvil’s lips. “Say that

again!”

 

Mr. Senior looked embarrassed. “I trust that in taking Mrs. Jones to

Menzies I have not committed an indiscretion.”

 

“My wife had lunch with you at…?”

 

Mr. Senior nodded. “You see…” he began to explain.

 

But what he would have said was cut short by an outburst of mirth from

Tydvil, who lay back in his chair the better to absorb the idea. “My

dear sir,” he said, only partially recovered, “please forgive my

rudeness, but you took me by surprise.”

 

“So long as you are not annoyed,” replied his friend.

 

“Annoyed!” and again Jones gave way to his mirth. “Why, your news

enchants me. If I had any reason to doubt your bona fides, that alone

would prove your case. Only Your Highness could have achieved such a

feat.”

 

“To be frank,” replied Mr. Senior, “I was rather flattering myself on

the performance. But actually the credit is due to the Archbishop of

Canterbury.”

 

“He would be proud if he knew,” Tydvil chuckled. “I will not enquire how

he came into the picture, but I am most grateful to him.”

 

“Perhaps I should tell you,” Mr. Senior said, “that since we parted this

morning I have been enquiring into your affairs, and have ascertained

the reason of your disinclination to meet your wife.” Then he added

hastily, “Believe me, it was not impertinent curiosity that prompted me.

I felt that an understanding of the situation would be mutually

helpful.”

 

Tydvil waved away the apology as unnecessary. “As a matter of fact, I am

glad you know all. It will save explanations.” Then, after a pause,

“Since you know all, you understand?” There was enquiry in his voice.

 

“Everything!” the other said earnestly. “And I hope you will believe me

when I say you have my profound sympathy.”

 

“Thank you,” said Tydvil, more earnestly. “I heard a Russian proverb

once, that ran, ‘Only their owner knows where his fleas bite him.’”

 

“There is an Oriental proverb also,” responded Mr. Senior, “that says

‘The husbands of talkative wives shall have great rewards hereafter,’

and that is as true as many other wise sayings. And now,” he said,

standing up, “about your own affairs, Mr. Jones.”

 

“Suppose you drop the ‘Mr.’,” said Tydvil tentatively. “It seems very

formal since we are to see so much of one another.”

 

Mr. Senior smiled a big, friendly smile. “Gladly, provided you

reciprocate and call me Nicholas.”

 

“Oh!” The idea seemed to Tydvil to border on impertinence.

 

“But I would like it, really,” replied his friend reassuringly. “Do you

know, since I met you, and then Mrs. Jones, I feel it would be a

pleasure to help you to make up for lost time.”

 

“Well, in that case, we’ll make it so,” and the two shook hands.

 

“Now tell me,” asked Nicholas, “what form do you propose to adopt?”

 

Tydvil thought a moment. “Am I in any way limited in my choice?”

 

Nicholas shook his head. “The whole world is yours.”

 

“Well, I have a young man in my service named William Brewer. Do you

know him?”

 

Senior drew his ledger card from his pocket and studied it carefully.

Then, regarding Jones with raised eyebrows, he emitted a long whistle.

“An ideal model for a night out,” he said with a light laugh. “Your Mr.

Brewer has quite a record, although he seems to have been spoiling it

lately, apparently because of some sentimental attachment.”

 

He waved his hands over Mr. Jones, and that gentleman vanished and

William Brewer stood in his place.

 

Tydvil started in astonishment. A moment earlier he had been wearing

blue serge. Now, his outstretched arm showed grey tweed. With a

bewildered look in one eye, he turned to the mirror and gasped. There,

looking back at him, was Brewer to the last hair. The multicoloured eye

that so distinguished his prototype was there to its ultimate shade of

blue—a contingency that he had overlooked.

 

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “I had forgotten that eye. Could you…?”

 

For answer, Nicholas pressed his fingers to the swollen face and all

trace of swelling and discolouration vanished. “How’s that?”, he asked.

 

The more Tydvil examined his new individuality, the more satisfied he

felt. With a grin on Billy’s handsome face, he turned to Senior. “True,

0 friend, I am feeling a new man. Ethically, I’m afraid my action is

indefensible. I feel like a forgery.”

 

“Pah!” Senior said. “Ethics, my dear Tydvil, are no more than a moral

loincloth. Get back to Eden and live your life unashamed.”

 

Jones stared at him a moment. “I wonder…?” He paused, a little

embarrassed.

 

“Well?”

 

“It was your mention of Eden,” went on Tydvil. “Was there any truth in

that story?”

 

“About my first appearance on the stage as a serpent?” queried the other

with a smile, “before ethics and loincloths were invented.”

 

Tydvil nodded.

 

“Just consider the probabilities, my friend,” replied Senior seating

himself on the corner of the table and lighting a cigarette. “Is it

likely that any being, human or otherwise, who wished to win a woman’s

confidence, would attempt to do so in the form of a snake? A snake, mind

you! Why, it would scare her into hysterics for a start. The thing’s

childish.”

 

“It does seem hardly feasible,” Tydvil admitted.

 

“Mind you,” continued Nicholas, “there is ground for the story, but not

for the published details. It is just a sample of the injustice done me

for ages. The fact was, it was just female cussedness; There was Eve,

with no housekeeping; no dress to occupy her mind; with no man to flirt

with or woman to gossip with; and, of course, she discovered and

committed the only mischief there was to commit. Serpent be hanged!” he

finished with a gesture of disgust.

 

“‘Satan finds some mischief still,’” Tydvil quoted absently, and then

broke off as he realised what he was saying.

 

“That’s another!” said Nicholas bitterly. “I find mischief! Umph!

There’s no need; they find it themselves and then blame it on to me.

Confounded injustice! However, let’s forget it. You’ll need some money

if you’re going to have a night out.”

 

“Almost forgot!” said Tydvil, going to his private cash box. From this

he took three five-pound notes, and five ones, and placed them in a

wallet he found in his pocket. Then he turned suddenly. “Oh, look here!

Suppose I wish to return to my own shape, what do I do?” he asked

anxiously.

 

“I’ll be at your instant call,” replied Senior. “No need to worry. If

you get into difficulties of any kind, just call. Remember our bond.”

 

“Excellent!” said Tydvil glancing at the clock, which showed it wanted

but ten minutes to eight. “And now, I’ll move off.”

 

“Have you any plans?” asked Nicholas.

 

Jones shook his head. “Not a plan. I intend to let events shape

themselves. I’ve no doubt that a man who looks for amusement in the city

will find it.”

 

Senior laughed shortly. “From the little I have seen of it, I have no

doubts whatever.”

 

Tydvil paused a moment and then said a little doubtfully, “Do you know,

Nicholas, it has just occurred to me that I wouldn’t know how to get

into mischief.”

 

Rubbing a shapely chin with his forefinger, Nicholas reassured him. “My

dear fellow, you will be astonished at the ease with which you will

succeed, even without trying. That should be the least of your worries.

Well, I’ll leave you now. But remember, you’ve only to call.” The next

moment Tydvil was alone in his office.