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

CHAPTER XX

But Billy Brewer was not the only, one to whom the day brought problems.

When Geraldine Brand’s were presented to her, they came from her evening

paper which she read on the way home. No king had died. No murder had

been committed. No political crisis had occurred. Space was plentiful,

and news had been dull until the story sent in by a district

correspondent from the St. Kilda court had gladdened a news editor’s

heart. It went on to the front page, headed “Black Eye Comedy,” and the

story, with an almost verbatim report of the evidence, lost nothing in

the telling.

 

Geraldine read that damning story of the alleged activities of one,

William Brewer, on the previous night, with ever-increasing indignation.

But her indignation was levelled not at the culprit, so much as at his

detractors. She was a wise, competent and level-headed young woman. She

read and re-read the evidence, and more especially the evidence which

touched on the decoration she had bestowed on Billy, until she almost

committed it to memory. And Geraldine thought and thought all that

evening. Long after she had retired for the night, she lay awake trying

to make sense of what she had read and that which she knew, herself, to

be true. But none of it made sense.

 

It was only when she was reading the story, that there flashed into her

mind inexplicable truth that she had overlooked in her anger against

Billy on the previous evening. The Billy who had been talking to Hilda

Cranston outside of His Majesty’s Theatre had not a black eye! Of that

she was now certain. Yet, both she, and apparently that Cranston woman,

had accepted him unreservedly as Billy. So, according to his evidence,

had Cranston, who, as Geraldine virtuously reflected, deserved that sort

of wife.

 

It was difficult enough to accept the suggestion that that Billy was not

her Billy—she had unaccountably, found herself thinking of him as her

Billy, and liked the idea immensely. But there was something else, known

only to herself. The evidence of Mr. Tydvil Jones was almost more

astounding than the problem of two Billies.

 

She, Geraldine Brand, was prepared to swear and take oath that, despite

his sworn evidence in the St. Kilda court that day, Tydvil Jones had not

worked back at the office on the previous night. Therefore, it followed

logically that the Tyddie she believed to rank among the most virtuous of

men had gone into the witness box and had sworn deliberately to some most

tremendous fibs—whoppers! Somehow she liked him better for the

knowledge, especially so as the fibs had cleared—more or less—Billy’s

character.

 

Of one thing she felt sure, and only one. Billy, where ever he may have

been that night, was innocent of wrong doing. She reasoned that somehow

Tyddie was sure of Billy’s innocence. Had he not been, he would most

certainly have sacked him. It seemed inconsistent that Tyddie would

commit perjury himself and execute Billy for a lesser offence, but she

felt she was right.

 

But then, how did Amy come into the picture? Geraldine had seen her shake

her finger at Billy and had heard every syllable of that slightly gay

reprimand. She remembered Billy’s—her Billy’s—utter astonishment and

consternation at the time. Evidently, she concluded, Amy had been barking

up the wrong Billy and did not know it. The activities of the false Billy

must have been as prodigious as they were incomprehensible. They

certainly reflected adversely on his taste in feminine friends.

 

Then there was that perplexing and flagrant perjurer, her employer. What

had he been up to?’ Here, Geraldine’s usually clear, incisive mind

refused to reason. Had it been any other man, Geraldine would have jumped

to the only reasonable conclusion, that he had been running wild.

 

Geraldine knew as much of Tydvil’s business as he knew himself, and she

was positive that there was nothing that could have kept him back at the

office on the previous evening—not business, anyway. Could Tyddie…?

No, impossible! Her mind refused to put such a thought into form.

Geraldine stopped the vigorous brushing of her hair and stared at herself

for a long time in the mirror, but she did not see herself. Her

abstraction made her miss a charming picture.

 

Much later that night, before she slept, Geraldine made two resolutions.

One was, that Billy Brewer needed a woman, preferably, much preferably,

herself, to look after him and keep him out of mischief. The other was,

that in the very near future she would be very much less hostile in her

manner to Billy, and further, that having won his confidence he would be

called upon to answer a lot of questions—quite a lot of questions. But

her last and dominant thought was one that would have compensated Billy

for all his trials had he but known of it.

 

Amy, also, had read of the “Black Eye Comedy.” The unexpected appearance

of Mr. Brewer and his still more unexpected disappearance, had caused her

a great deal of very mixed emotion. That kiss! Amy was not quite sure

whether she was more angry with herself or Mr. Brewer. Yes, Mr. Brewer,

who had no black eye. She read Tydvil’s testimony to the effect that his

Mr. Brewer did have a black eye. Yet her Mr. Brewer, whose eyes were both

normal and both bold, had told her he had been working back in the office

with Tydvil.

 

Knowing least of anyone of the events of the previous night, Amy could

only decide that it was all very, peculiar. It was more peculiar that

Tydvil had not mentioned the matter at breakfast that morning. She felt

an urgent need for enlightenment, but felt more urgently still that such

investigation as she embarked on through Tydvil would require much

circumspection and diplomacy.

 

Meanwhile, the joint causes of all these perplexities were comfortably in

conference in the office of Tydvil Jones. Tydvil had indulged in a very

good dinner, it would have been better, he thought, if he had had the

courage to order a small bottle of wine—but he was still Tydvil Jones.

But the cigar he was now smoking compensated to some extent for the

omission.

 

Nicholas had listened in amused silence to Tydvil’s account of the final

episodes, in his own home, of the previous night’s excursion. Said he,

when the tale was told, “Does it occur to you, Tydvil, that Brewer’s

black eye has become the pivotal point for some difficult explanations?”

 

Disregarding the question for the moment, Tydvil, from the depths of his

chair, chuckled happily. “It was a most successful night for a beginner.”

Then, thoughtfully, “I’m afraid, Nicholas, I shall have to abandon

adopting a known individuality for a creation of my own.”

 

Said Nicholas dryly, “If Brewer were fully informed on the matter, I

should say he would be among the first to applaud your decision.”

 

“Yes,” admitted Tydvil, “it never occurred to me that I would put him

into such a hole. By all the laws of decency, I am bound to help him

out.”

 

“He is going to need help, too,” responded Nicholas. “The husband of your

lively young friend of last night spent this afternoon arranging for a

divorce with Brewer as the contributing factor.”

 

Tydvil sat erect. “Great Scot!” he groaned. “I never thought of that,

either; what on earth can we do?”

 

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders. “The least of your troubles, I think. If

a judge in divorce can make anything out of the same evidence as was

given at St. Kilda this morning, he will be a very astute man. No,” he

went on, “your immediate problem comes from a different source.”

 

Tydvil stared an interrogation.

 

“I’ve been keeping an eye on that secretary of yours. You should know

better than I that that girl is no fool.”

 

“Hump, and what then?” Tydvil asked curiously. “Have you seen the evening

papers?”

 

Tydvil shook