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

what you say,” she said acidly, “you appear to have added

spying to your other activities.”

 

“An unpleasant word very—and one that almost impels me to suggest that

your own activities yesterday were not very remote from a similar

practice.” He was smiling derisively.

 

Geraldine felt that the fight was not going on the lines she anticipated.

But she kept cool. “Perhaps you will deny that I saw you transformed from

the likeness of Mr. Brewer to yourself.”

 

“Miss Brand, I do not deny for a moment there was such a transformation.

But has it not occurred to you that it may cut either way. Since the

transformation did occur, how do you know that it was not Brewer using my

likeness to conceal his indiscretions from you? And throw the blame on

me.”

 

“Of all the…” began Geraldine.

 

She was interrupted by a chuckle of amusement from Tydvil. “Wait! I only

suggested an alternative you overlooked. I could not resist the

temptation. No, I confess, freely, and without reserve, verbal or mental,

that it was I you saw in the Gardens with my wife, and that it was I whom

you saw passing while you were hiding behind the flower bed on the hill

near the north-west gate.”

 

Geraldine stared with blank amazement at the smiling face across the

table. “You admit that you used a dual individuality?”

 

He nodded his affirmation. “Exactly that.”

 

“Of all the cold-blooded, callous nerve! Of all the brazen impudence I

ever heard in my life! I think you beat everything.” Geraldine brought

out each word to its utmost value.

 

“Well,” said Tydvil as though weighing her vigorous comment in his mind,

“I feel that that is not an overstatement of the case.” His look conveyed

the impression that she had complimented him and he was proud of it.

 

“Of course,” she said cuttingly, “you think I am flattering you.”

 

“One moment!” he interrupted. “I want to ask you one question. Only one.

Will you answer it truthfully?”

 

“I’ll answer it truthfully or not at all,” she replied guardedly.

 

“Did not you and Billy Brewer agree last night that you liked me more for

my misdeeds than my virtue?” There was an entirely engaging schoolboy

grin on his face.

 

Taken aback at the extent of his knowledge, Geraldine admitted the

charge.

 

“Then,” said Tyddie, laughing quietly, “what the heck are you making all

the fuss over?”

 

For a moment Geraldine tried to retain her gravity, but his laugh was too

infectious.

 

“But aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” she demanded when she recovered

herself.

 

“Not a bit—not an atom. I’ve enjoyed every minute of my life of sin.”

He rejoined, and if appearances went for anything, he meant what he said.

 

“But,” she asked, “do you recognise the trouble you have caused Billy?”

 

Tydvil cupped his chin in his hand. “Geraldine,”—he spoke very

sincerely—“I will ask you to believe me when I say that I really am

sorry for that. It was done unintentionally and without malice

aforethought. It just happened.”

 

She overlooked the “Geraldine.”

 

“Your regret does not help him much,” she said dryly.

 

“Still, I made all the amends I could.” His eyes were laughing at her

across the table. “Does not a most flagrant perjury by Tydvil Jones

suggest that it comes from an humble and contrite heart?”

 

“And to think,” Geraldine’s voice was deep with mingled amazement and

anger, “that that fool of a magistrate said you were the only one who

spoke the truth.”

 

“But what a tribute to Tydvil Jones, Geraldine.”

 

“I—I believe you’re proud of it!” She was feeling almost helpless in the

face of his brazen impenitence.

 

He nodded, chuckling. “My dear girl, I am. It was my first effort at

constructive lying. Every other witness spoke the truth, but the

reputation of Tydvil Jones triumphed. That is where I reaped my dividends

on a blameless life.”

 

Geraldine could only sit and stare.

 

“Yes,” he went on, “and even our usually astute William Brewer accepted

the supernatural appearance of Jerry McCann to repay a loan, just on my

reputation for veracity and probity. I suppose he told you about that.”

 

“He did,” she snapped, “and I disillusioned him. I knew you were not

working back that night, and,” she went on, her indignation rising again,

“you dared to threaten him with dismissal if Cranston wins his case.”

 

Tydvil laughed, unabashed. “That was all eyewash. I was obliged to take

high moral stand, but I had no intention of carrying out the promise.”

 

“You dare!” There was a warning in her tone.

 

“My dear,” he said quietly, “it is my regard for your Billy that protects

him—to say nothing of my regard for you, despite your uncompromising

hostility,” he added.

 

“And to think,” her voice was cold, “I have been fool enough to look up

to you all these years, as the most honourable man I ever met!”

 

“And a most awful mutt, too? Confess it, Geraldine,” he insisted.

 

She reddened under his steady, questioning gaze. There was too much truth

in his suggestion to leave her comfortable, or to permit a frank answer.

 

“Come!” he persisted. “Did not you, and all the staff for the matter of

that, regard me as a pious ninny and an office joke?”

 

“You know, well,” she tried to evade the question, “that we all like and

respect you.”

 

“Geraldine, I insist that you answer my question. I am being honest with

you now. I want honesty in return. Did you or did you not look on me as a

silly ass?”

 

There was a pause. “Well, we thought you were peculiar,” she admitted

hesitantly.

 

He slapped the table. “Woman, answer my question and don’t shuffle!”

 

She saw his anger was assumed and laughed. “Oh, very well! If you must

have it, I thought that, apart from business matters, you were positively

nutty.”

 

“Ah!” he said triumphantly, “at last, the truth. On a small scale, you’re

a more practised fibber than I am.”

 

“You flatter me, Mr. Jones,” she bowed. “Still, I don’t think the fact is

any explanation for your recent behaviour.”

 

“That’s just where you’re jolly well mistaken. Can’t you follow the cause

and the consequence?”

 

“I may be dull, but I certainly cannot,” she answered.

 

“Well let me tell you, Geraldine Brand, that you and Master Billy Brewer

are responsible, individually and collectively, for all the sins I have

committed in the past two months—and I’m grateful to you.”

 

There was no mistaking the astonishment in her eyes “Billy and I!” she

gasped.

 

“Because I never realised how, to use your very descriptive word, ‘nutty’

I was until I saw Billy kissing you that morning I entered this room so

malapropos.”

 

Geraldine flushed divinely at the memory.

 

“You see,” Tydvil went on reflectively, “I had never seen anything like

that before, and…”

 

“Oh, please!” she protested.

 

“Wait, let me finish,” he went on, “and suddenly I was alive to the truth

that I had never kissed a girl, wouldn’t be game to kiss a girl, and had

missed a lot of fun.”

 

“But…”

 

He cut her short with a wave of his hand. “Moreover, I felt I would

gladly accept Billy’s black eye in exchange for the fruits of his

enterprise.”

 

“Mr. Jones!” Geraldine was struggling between embarrassment and mirth.

 

“And,” went on the shameless Tydvil, “after he had left the room I

recognised for the first time what a lovely girl you are.”

 

“Now stop!” Geraldine cut in abruptly. “Understand this, Mr. Jones, only

one man can say that to me, and you are not that man.”

 

“Don’t waggle your finger at me, Geraldine, it’s rude, and, moreover,

don’t imagine for a moment, that in telling you this I am harbouring

invidious ideas regarding you—I’m not!”

 

“Lucky for you,” sniffed the indignant maiden.

 

“What I am telling you is purely explanatory. Mind, though,” he added

laughing, “if I were not sure you were thoroughly besotted over Billy, I

don’t know that my regard would be so platonic.”

 

“Besotted!” she almost hissed. “Besotted, what a word! You, you…”

She paused for loss of a word. “Go on,” he prompted.

 

“You demon!”

 

“Very poor, very!” He was still laughing. “Really, Geraldine, I think you

could have done better than that.”

 

She sank back in her chair, for the moment defeated by his total

insensibility to her anger.

 

“As I was saying,” he went on, “the episode awakened me to the fact that

I had not had much fun in my life, so I started out to make up for lost

time.”

 

Geraldine regarded him speculatively, for a long moment and then

murmured, “So that was it!”

 

“So that was it!” he repeated.

 

“But,” she said presently, “that may account for the things you have been

doing, but it does not account for how you have been doing them.”

 

“Do you know, Geraldine,” said Tydvil, “that though you are a very

beautiful girl, a charming girl, and a very nice girl, you have become a

nuisance. I’m sorry to say it, but you have.”

 

“Dismissed?” She lifted her delicate brows.

 

“No fear!” he said hastily. “I want you near me at present in case you

get into mischief. Besides, I don’t want to lose my secretary until I

must.”

 

“What I want to know is,” she said, “how?”

 

He looked at her speculatively for some moments, and said, “I think I

will even tell you that.”

 

Geraldine looked a little startled. “Perhaps I had better not know,” she

ventured.

 

“I think otherwise. Listen…” For ten minutes Tydvil spoke in quiet

level tones, unwinding a story that brought first amazement, that changed

gradually to consternation, and then to something like terror, into

Geraldine’s eyes. Preposterous as the story was, she felt instinctively

that he was telling the truth.

 

When he had finished, Tydvil leaned back in his chair regarding

Geraldine’s horrified face with evident amusement.

 

Presently she recovered herself and, in an awed voice, said, “And you

signed that note, and you were the other Billy, and Basil Williams!” It

was more amazement than a question, but Tydvil nodded acquiescence to

each sentence.

 

“Oh!” She clasped her hands. “How could you do such an awful thing?”

 

He laughed lightly. “I think it’s a lark. You see, Geraldine, you could

never understand why I did it unless you had been brought up as I have

been, and lived as I have lived.”

 

“But, it’s such a dreadful price to pay!”

 

“Pha! I’m in no worse position than millions of others, who won’t get

half as much fun out of the deal as I’ve had.”

 

“But suppose,” she said, “he does everything, you will have no hope if

that bill falls due—others have.”

 

“My troubles!” smiled Tydvil lightly.

 

“And he is that Mr. Senior?”

 

Tydvil nodded. “Impressive looking, is he not?”

 

“I felt that day when he came to the office as though—” Geraldine paused

for words, “as though I was near something electric—some vast machine.”

 

“He does give that impression of power,” Tydvil admitted, “but, believe

me, Geraldine, he’s a splendid man, and he’s been a jolly good and

understanding pal to me.”

 

“But why,” asked Geraldine, “have you told me all this?”

 

Tydvil pursed his lips. “For one thing, you have been exasperatingly

clever enough to find out far more than you should have. Another thing

is, that I trust you.”

 

“Trust me!”

 

He nodded. “You must see that you