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she asked. “A policeman

brought it back this morning and made enquiries.”

 

Although Tydvil’s face was quite composed as he turned round, Geraldine

had not missed the start he had given at her words. “Dear me, so that is

what became of it!” He stared curiously at the hat, and there was

uneasiness in his voice. It was too casual, and Geraldine recognised the

fact.

 

“Where was it found?” he asked.

 

Geraldine gave a dramatic and highly coloured account of a dreadful man

who was attempting to murder another with a club, and who had wrought

fearful havoc among the police. “Isn’t it awful, Mr. Jones,” she added,

“he must have been in here.”

 

“Oh, no!” he smiled, “not here. I was having dinner at the Carlton, and

it was taken by someone.” Tydvil was quite pleased with his fertility of

imagination. “I hope they captured the man,” he added.

 

“No,” replied Geraldine. “The brute escaped. The policeman said he just

vanished, but that’s absurd. However, they have a good description. They

say he is a horrid, dark man, with a big nose and broad shoulders.”

 

Mr. Jones shook his head. “Dreadful,” he said. “Drink, no doubt!” But

somehow Geraldine sensed, with that sense that the Creator has given to

women to allow her to bowl out iniquitous man, that the impeccable Tydvil

Jones was fibbing like all his sex, and was just slightly over-acting a

part.

 

“The policeman asked me to ring up Russell Street when you came in, if

you could help at all. They’re very anxious to get that ruffian.”

 

“Urn,” said Tydvil. “Better explain that it was taken from the Carlton,

and express my regret that I cannot assist them.”

 

He had taken his seat, and as he spoke he glanced across the table at the

mail. About one quarter of the letters were still unopened. He pointed an

accusing finger at them. “Oh, Miss Brand! Miss Brand!”

 

Geraldine flushed guiltily. For the first time since she had been his

secretary she had failed him. She began to stammer an apology. But he

only laughed. “Guilty with extenuating circumstances. Now you listen to

me, young woman. You tell that William Brewer of yours to keep out of

this room—at least until the mail is sorted. He’s a disruptive element.”

 

“He’s nothing of the kind,” she answered warmly.

 

“If I say he is, he is!” Tydvil insisted. “He’s worse than that. He’s a

pestilent secretary stealer. That’s what I think of him. But it’s no use

doing anything now since the damage is done.”

 

That morning when she returned to her desk in the outer office, Geraldine

found a pencil scribbled note on her table. Shorn of the florid opening

lines, which Geraldine thought were the best part of it, it ran: “Look at

page three, The Age, I’ve marked the column. W.” Turning to the place,

Geraldine read with absorbed interest half a column of lurid narrative of

certain happenings in Exhibition Street on the previous night. When she

had finished she decided that if Tydvil were even remotely associated

with them, it would not be surprising if he were unwilling to allow the

fact to become public.

 

Still later in the day, she was given new, but not altogether unexpected,

food for thought. Tony, the night-watchman of the warehouse, came to hand

in his weekly report, which always passed through Geraldine’s hands. Tony

was one of her very numerous admirers. She knew all about his family, and

their ailments. She was running her eye over the report when he

volunteered, “Governor’s been back late this week, Miss Brand.”

 

“Oh!” she said, without looking up. “Of course, you’d notice him.”

 

“I’d be able to pick the Governor by his walk from a thousand. Spotted

him last night as soon as he turned out of Swanston Street.”

 

Geraldine pricked up her ears. Still looking at the report card, she

said, “Yes, I wonder he didn’t get his death of cold, without his hat.”

 

“Without his hat!” Tony’s surprise was unmistakable and genuine. “Him

without his hat! Someone must have been pullin’ your leg, Miss Brand. I

seen him as he passed as close as I am to you. It was just ten past

eight, and he was wearin’ a grey felt.”

 

She smiled up at him. “I must have misunderstood, Tony. Of course it

wouldn’t be likely, would it?”

 

“Not him, Miss. The governor ain’t that sort,” Tony agreed.

 

When Tony had departed, Miss Brand was deep in thought as Tydvil passed

from his office into the warehouse. Her eyes followed him as he went.

“Tyddie,” she addressed the straight back in her thoughts. “I’m beginning

to think you’re a worse fibber and a better man than I ever dreamed you

could be.” Deciding that it was more material for herself and Billy to

discuss, she turned to her work.

CHAPTER XXIII

When, acting under his wife’s most explicit instructions, Tydvil had

dressed early that evening, he found Amy was earlier, and was awaiting

his arrival in the drawing-room. As he caught sight of her, Tydvil’s eyes

opened widely. Never since he had known her had Amy worn anything but

some shade of grey. Amy appeared to think it was the chosen colour of the

virtuous—something that marked her as one apart from the world, the

flesh, and the devil. Now, she was wearing mauve—mauve relieved by

violet. Moreover, it was cut at the neck quite two inches lower than

anything that Tydvil had even seen on her. But, even so, the strictest

critic could not have classed the revelation as daring. Great as was

Tydvil’s surprise, it would have been greater had he known that a harried

dressmaker had kept four girls at work all night so that it would be

finished in time for that night’s dinner.

 

Tydvil mentally admitted that he had never seen her look more

presentable. The frock had been compiled by an artist. The compliment he

paid her was not very well received. Amy said that she was sorry she had

bought it. It made her look rather more conspicuous than she cared to be.

It was a concession to fashion that she should not have made. Having put

Tydvil in his place, she looked him over critically, straightened a tie

that did not need straightening, and suggested it was about time he

procured another dinner jacket. A man in his position should be well

dressed. For her part, her dress was never more than a secondary

consideration. “I always say, that if a woman respects herself, others

respect her. Dress does not matter.” Tydvil reflected that it was quite

true that she always said that. He had heard her say it two or three

times a week for ten years or more.

 

“Who are you putting at my end?” he asked when the inspection was over.

To him, his neighbours at the table were a matter of importance.

 

“You will take in Mrs. Blomb.” Tydvil gritted his teeth. Mrs. Blomb had

very large teeth, a scraggy neck, a reputation as a platform speaker, and

she gushed. “On the other side you will have Mr. Arthur Muskat.” This

announcement caused Tydvil some difficulty in suppressing a word that

would have startled Amy. It was one he had heard in the thick of the

previous night’s finale in Exhibition Street, and its force was only

exceeded by its extreme vulgarity. Muskat was his second best aversion,

and the Secretary of the Moral Uplift Society. He was large of face and

body, spoke in grunts, ate largely, and made unpleasant sounds during

mastication.

 

He detested only one man more, and that was Arthur’s brother Edwin, who

was a fanatical prohibition advocate. Edwin and Arthur were much alike,

only Edwin added to the other’s lack of attractiveness a smugness and a

pose of righteousness that always gave rise in Tydvil to a longing to

assault him. So that when Amy said, “I am putting Mr. Edwin Muskat

opposite Mr. Senior, because they are both so devoted to the one great

cause,” Tydvil found himself both sympathetic on Senior’s behalf and at

the same time grimly amused. He became still more amused when he heard

that, beside having his hostess to talk to, Mr. Senior would make the

acquaintance of Mrs. Caton Ridgegay. She was a lady whom Mr. Ripley would

have rejected as impossible and unbelievable, both in aspect and for a

capacity for sustained speech composed of windy inanities.

 

“And now, Tydvil,” went on Amy, impressively, “I wish you to show the

very greatest consideration to Mr. Senior. He is not only a man of

remarkable attainments and distinction, but he has most constructive

plans for a prohibition campaign. I need hardly remind you that at Home a

man with such friends as the Archbishop of Canterbury must be a personage

of considerable importance. I feel sure you cannot but benefit by

cultivating his acquaintance and friendship.”

 

“Very well,” Tydvil agreed. “I have no doubt he is all that you say.” His

feeling of depression regarding his prospects for the evening ordeal

increased in intensity as it drew nearer. Mentally he reviewed the other

guests.

 

There was the Rev. George Claire, who had the gift of making every topic

on which he conversed intolerably boring; his wife, Augusta, whom twenty

years of married life with the Rev. George had bereft of speech and

reason, if she ever possessed any, and Mrs. Claire’s sister, Miss Eva

Merrywood. Apart from Nicholas, of their eight guests the only one who

offered any prospects but exasperation was Miss Merrywood. She was a

determined female whose hobby, was slums. Her theory was that the only

way to awaken the public conscience was to tell the unvarnished truth

about slums. This she did, and did it frankly. Her uncensored gleanings,

described in plain language with blank unconcern, had staggered many a

pious gathering. Tydvil was wondering if he could, by some happy chance,

draw her out.

 

Sometimes he felt that Amy could read his thoughts, for at that moment

she broke in on him. “I wish you particularly, to watch Eva Merrywood,

Tydvil dear. I would not have invited her, but I wanted the vicar and

Augusta, and could not very well leave her out.”

 

“Do you expect me to gag her?” asked Tydvil truculently.

 

“That is both absurd and vulgar, Tydvil,” Amy snapped. “Eva means well,

but you know how indiscreet she can be. Just try to change the

conversation if necessary. Dear Eva is so very earnest that I am afraid

Mr. Senior might not understand.”

 

“Ump!” Tydvil reassured her. “Anyone who can fail to understand Miss

Merry wood’s stories would need to be pretty dull. Your Mr. Senior would

be lucky if he could misunderstand them.”

 

“Sometimes, Tydvil dear, I think you try to provoke me purposely. I have

been trying to forget your conduct during the past few days…”

 

“Mrs. Blomb,” announced a maid from the door.

 

For the first time since he had met her, Tydvil welcomed the presence of

Mrs. Blomb. He returned her greeting politely and stood aside watching

her take in Amy’s costume in gulps. She grasped a hand of Amy in each of

her own, and exclaimed in her platform voice, “Amy!—dear! How truly

charming. Quite Parisian, really!” Turning her face to Tydvil, “You must

be proud of our dear Amy, Mr. Jones, now, confess!”

 

Tydvil modestly admitted the impeachment and was relieved from further

violation of his conscience by the arrival of the two Muskats. He was

well out of the frying pan into the middle of the fire, because Arthur

Muskat deftly cornered him and, in a series of throaty and nasal sounds,

poured out his gratitude to Tydvil

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