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

tea.

 

After a little hesitation, Amy allowed herself to be persuaded. She felt

a warm glow at the flattery in his respectful but earnest consideration

for her well being. As they passed through the gate into the gardens, she

said, “You know, Mr. Brewer, I am really afraid that I should not have

allowed you to persuade me. Your behaviour was so very unceremonious on

our last encounter.”

 

Mr. Brewer hung his head and murmured a humble apology for his

unpardonable presumption, and begged her forgiveness.

 

“I don’t think I should forgive you.” Her smile belied her words. “I

cannot think what prompted you.”

 

Greatly daring, Mr. Brewer said, “Please, Mrs. Jones, don’t force me to

tell you. I know I ought to be ashamed of myself, but I couldn’t help it,

you looked so…” His pause invited her curiosity.

 

“So what? Mr. Brewer,” Amy insisted gently.

 

“Lovely,” breathed the wicked Mr. Brewer.

 

“Mr. Brewer…!” Amy’s heart danced as it certainly should not have

danced. “You must never, never say anything like that to me again.” She

tried hard, but the shocked rebuke she intended to convey somehow fell

short or missed its mark.

 

“I promise I will try not to,” conceded the graceless but graceful Mr.

Brewer.

 

Amy accepted the compromise.

 

At the kiosk Mr. Brewer fussed assiduously over Mrs. Jones’s tea and

comfort. When they were settled, Mr. Brewer’s cheery talk made Amy feel

they were almost old friends. They fed the sparrows with their crumbs and

then dropped into friendly discourse on “ships and shoes and sealing

wax.” And when Mr. Brewer assured Mrs. Jones that he almost felt grateful

to the bag-snatcher for the pleasure of their meeting, she allowed the

admiration in his voice and eyes to pass without rebuke.

 

Indeed, time passed so swiftly, that Amy was astonished to find that it

was half past five and they had been together for nearly three happy,

hours. ‘As she arose, Mr. Brewer expressed a deftly modulated regret that

such afternoons could not be repeated.

 

“Would it not be possible…?” He stopped as though embarrassed.

 

“Would what be possible?” She smiled encouragement. “To have tea here

again,” dared Mr. Brewer.

 

Amy really hesitated this time. But she hesitated. Mr. Brewer urged with

respectful warmth.

 

Amy murmured, “Well, only once more. Once, mind—Mr. Brewer.”

 

“Next Wednesday” Mr. Brewer pleaded.

 

“No. Thursday.” Amy felt she should not make things too easy for Mr.

Brewer.

 

Forbidding him to accompany her, Amy made for the river gate.

 

Now there is little in this rather dull encounter, in itself, to make it

worth recording. But there were two circumstances that made the meeting

memorable.

 

The first, and most important, was that while Mr. Brewer and Amy were

enjoying their tea at the Kiosk in the Botanic Gardens, Mr. Billy Brewer

was also going about the business of Craddock, Burns and Despard in the

city. Moreover, at the time Mrs. Jones and Mr. Brewer were leavetaking,

Billy Brewer was perched on the corner of Geraldine Brand’s writing table

exchanging lively and airy persiflage with his fiancee, while awaiting

the arrival of Tydvil Jones, who, Geraldine assured him, had been absent

all the afternoon. Explain them as you may, but the circumstances were as

related.

 

The second circumstance that marked the meeting of Amy and Mr. Brewer was

that at dinner that night, Amy said nothing to Tydvil about the

bag-snatcher and less about her meeting with Mr. Brewer. Indeed, without

actually committing herself to an untruth, Amy led Tydvil to believe that

she had spent the afternoon at the office of the Moral Uplift Society.

 

It was rather remarkable, too, that Tydvil accepted her implied movements

without question; but Amy would have been staggered had she been endowed

with the gift of reading his thoughts. These were uncomplimentary,

amused, and ribald.

 

Fortunately, too, for Amy’s peace of mind, she was spared the knowledge

of the discussion of her afternoon’s encounter between Nicholas Senior

and the notorious Basil Williams. With his hat at a rakish angle and a

cigar in the corner of his mouth, Basil Williams sat on the edge of

Tydvil’s writing table, swinging his legs as he spoke.

 

“It worked perfectly, Nicholas,” he said. “You timed everything to the

moment. But, why didn’t you tell me you had planned the bag-snatching

episode?”

 

“Better to have it spontaneous,” Nicholas chuckled. “Your gallant

intervention would have carried conviction to any woman’s heart.”

 

“Really,” Basil Williams smiled with inward satisfaction, “I felt quite

proud of that upper cut. But it was pretty rough on the bag-snatcher you

selected for this job.”

 

“I agree heartily,” replied Nicholas, rubbing his jaw softly. “I deserved

the pound note you gave me, but you might have spared me the parting

benediction. You kick like a war horse.”

 

“You?” exclaimed Basil Williams in a startled enquiry. Mr. Senior nodded

his affirmation. “Personal supervision is essential in delicate plans

such as yours.”

 

“Oh! By Jove! I’m sorry,” Basil said contritely. “I never dreamed…”

 

Nicholas waved aside the apology airily. “Don’t worry. I’m inclined to

think you’ll get even a greater kick out of, the affair than I did.”

 

“You know,” Basil Williams remarked thoughtfully, “it’s a queer thing

that a man can be married to a woman for years and know so little about

her.”

 

“Umph!” chuckled Nicholas, “a recognition of the fact is the beginning of

wisdom in a married man.” Then he went on in a reminiscent tone, “Listen,

my friend. Since the day I met Eve, I have met and known millions and

millions of women. Women have sent me millions of men, and I have heard

their stories. Millions of women have come to me of their own accord, and

I have heard their stories…” he paused a moment, and added, “and I

have never believed one of them. I have studied women intensively, I have

studied them derisively, and I have studied them seriously. But Tydvil,

believe me, I know I am no nearer to an understanding of them than when I

began.”

 

“And so?” Tydvil queried, as he paused.

 

“I’m a bachelor.” Nicholas shook his head slowly. “Aye, my friend, that

is the sole grain of wisdom I have garnered from my studies. Of

knowledge, they brought me nothing.”

 

“Then!” exclaimed Tydvil—Basil Williams “if you can’t understand ‘em,

how the heck can we be expected to know anything about ‘em.”

 

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders. “One of the Divine mysteries. The book

is sealed to me and mine and man.”

 

For a while they smoked in silence, then Tydvil asked tentatively, “Do

you think they understand themselves?”

 

Nicholas laughed shortly. “Completely—as completely as they understand

men. And a major feature of their incomprehensibility is their brazen

pose of not understanding themselves. I’ll tell you something I have

never admitted to anyone else. Since men walked on earth no man has been

able to fool me for a minute. But, Tydvil, it makes me blush all over to

remember how often women have deceived me—me! Mind you, I have learned

from sore experience never to trust one of them for a moment. I am always

on my guard. But over and over again some insinuating white skinful of

guile has snatched a man, who was absolutely mine, right out of my very

hands. Pha!”

 

“I understand your feelings,” said Tydvil sympathetically.

 

“Ah, well,” Nicholas sighed. “I suppose it evens itself. I have the

statistics and find that, year in and year out, they send me as many men

as they cheat me of. I ought to think myself lucky it’s no worse.”

 

There was another silence that was broken by a laugh from Nicholas. “That

reminds me,” he said, “I had a very pressing offer of two policemen from

your friend Julia Blomb the other morning. Your doing,” he added.

 

“How?” demanded Tydvil.

 

“You gave her address as that of Basil Williams to the police. They got

her out of bed before daylight, searching for you. She wound up a five

minutes’ oration by consigning the two victims in particular to me,

together with the entire force generally, from boots to helmet.”

 

“Wish I’d been there,” smiled Tydvil happily.

 

“Since then,” Nicholas continued, “she has written to the Chief

Secretary—that woman has a stirring literary style, and a gift for

invective—and he passed his tribulation along to the Commissioner of

Police, with annotations and caustic decorations.”

 

“There’s gratitude,” grinned Tydvil. “I voted for that man last

election.”

 

“I am only telling you this,” went on Nicholas, “to remind you that Basil

Williams is not very popular with the police force at the moment.”

 

“And that, after all the publicity I am getting for them,” said Tydvil in

an injured tone. “Did you notice those letters in the papers this morning

about my escape from custody, and police inefficiency?”

 

Nicholas nodded. “It may interest you to know that the Commissioner has

also passed on the ukase, even more emphatically than the Chief

Secretary, that Basil Williams must be recaptured.”

 

“Poor chaps! They didn’t need bawling out on my account. I’ll bet every

one of them, from the Sergeant at the watchhouse down, is more anxious to

get hold of me than the Chief Secretary or the Commissioner.”

 

“Precisely!” Nicholas nodded. “At the present time there are fifty large

and angry men raging through the streets and night resorts, all with the

one thought in their minds. The sermon the Commissioner preached to a

special parade has hurt their feelings.”

 

“That makes it rather awkward,” said Tydvil reflectively. “I was

promising myself a treat for this evening.”

 

“Now what?” There was amused interest in the interrogation.

 

“Well, you see,” Tydvil explained, “it’s the night of the monthly meeting

of the Committee of the Society for the Suppression of Alcohol, and I was

thinking…” He hesitated.

 

“Go on,” prompted Nicholas. “Let’s have it!”

 

“Well, I was thinking how pleasant it would be to meet Edwin Muskat in

the street after the meeting and punch his nose—just once.” Tydvil

hastened to add.

 

“Puerile, but pardonable,” Nicholas smiled.

 

“I know it’s puerile,” Tydvil pleaded. “But remember, Nicholas, I never

had a chance before of being a boy, and besides, that nose is begging to

be punched.”

 

“Looked at in the light of a pious duty, the project is excusable,”

Nicholas conceded. “I hold no brief for that nose, believe me. It only

occurs to me that with all those plain-clothes and uniformed men at short

call, Edwin Muskat’s might not be the only nose to be wrecked this fine

night. Think it over.”

 

“No!” Tydvil’s voice took on a ring of determination. “Hear me,

Nicholas!” He declaimed:

 

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

I’ll punch that nose till it runs red.

 

“Two of those lines are by a patriotic poet named Scott. The last and, and

I think, the best, is my own.”

 

“The sentiments are admirable,” Nicholas agreed. “But I suggest you adopt

another individuality for your pilgrimage.”

 

“Never!” exclaimed Tydvil defiantly. “I am proud of Basil Williams, and I

will fight under no other or lesser banner.”

 

Nicholas looked up at Basil Williams from his armchair reflectively. “Do

you know, Tydvil,” he said, “for a man of your cloistered upbringing,

your capacity and appetite for lawlessness are most refreshing. From your

past record I did not think you had it in you. And I am not easily

surprised.”

 

“Cloistered upbringing is right,” sniffed Tydvil. “Jove! Nicholas, can

you realise what it means to me to cut loose? From the day I was born

till