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

would depart together.

 

“Guess where I was last night,” he said one morning. “I’d hate to.”

Geraldine tossed her head.

 

“Paris!” he replied. “You’ve no idea what Paris can be with Nicholas for

a guide.”

 

“Perhaps it’s just as well I have no idea,” sniffed Miss Brand.

 

“Wowser!” His eyes danced.

 

“I suppose Melbourne is too small for our Mr. Jones now?” she said.

 

“No, my dear Geraldine, too hot. Our mutual friend, Inspector Kane, seems

to think that there is no one in the city but me.”

 

“Well, there’s one thing, I can’t retort and call you a wowser now.”

 

“There’s a high moral authority who is in complete agreement with you on

one point at any rate.”

 

“And she doesn’t know half,” added Geraldine.

 

Tydvil screwed up his eyes. “Not one-sixteenth, I’m happy to say.”

 

“Well,” said Geraldine, “you’d better make the most of your little

playmate, Nicholas. You’ve only four days to go now.”

 

“With his help, my dear girl, you’d be surprised to know what can be done

with four days.” Tydvil’s voice was full of appreciation.

 

“Paris again tonight then, I suppose?”

 

“You bet! I won twenty-five thousand francs at Long-champs, and I don’t

want to waste one franc of it.”

 

“And to think I’m worrying about you and that wretched Bill,” she said

with deep feeling.

 

“Forget it, Geraldine. I have.” He smiled.

 

“You men! What with you and Billy I’m perfectly dizzy.”

 

“Don’t tell me he’s gone off the rails.” Tydvil looked at her in

surprise.

 

“I was idiot enough to warn him not to back that wretched horse you told

me about.”

 

Tydvil chuckled. “Surely you knew better than that.”

 

“I’ve learned now. But he has wasted twenty pounds on it,” she said

indignantly.

 

“Wait until next Tuesday afternoon before you say ‘wasted’,” he

suggested.

 

“That is one reason why I am going out to Flemington with him on Cup

Day,” she explained.

 

“And another?” He raised his brows.

 

“A new frock—it’s a dream.”

 

“Not such a wowser after all.” He laughed. “Listen! This is an order. You

and Billy lunch with me out at the course on Tuesday.”

 

Geraldine gurgled. “All right, between you and your fine friend my

reputation is damaged already. I might as well get some fun out of it.”

 

On the Saturday morning Geraldine, having sorted the mail, was called

upstairs before Tydvil arrived at the office. On her way down again she

encountered a department manager coming up. He looked as though he had

been seeing things.

 

“Good gracious! Mr. Gale, what’s happened?” she enquired.

 

He goggled at her and gasped. “Holy Wars! Miss Brand, have you seen the

Chief?”

 

“What’s wrong?” she demanded.

 

“G-g-go and look at him…” He passed on, suffering under some

powerful emotion.

 

Geraldine’s feet scarcely touched the floor as she hastened to the

Chief’s office.

 

She stood petrified as she entered. The head of C. B. & D. was inspecting

himself before his mirror with not a little satisfaction in his reflected

expression.

 

As he heard her he turned. “Do you like it?” He was grinning widely.

 

Mr. Tydvil Jones was wearing a new suit, oyster grey in colour, and of

rakish cut. On his feet were tan shoes. The grey Alpine hat was set at a

defiant angle. Across his chest was the strap of the race glasses that

rested in their case against his hip.

 

Still Geraldine stared. Nothing less like the once Tydvil Jones was it

possible to imagine. Suddenly she found her voice and gasped, “Lovely!”

Then she leaned against the wall and laughed.

 

“Really, Geraldine!” he protested.

 

“It’s perfect—perfect! But…” She struggled with her mirth. “But

what did the High Moral Authority say?”

 

Tydvil joined in her laughter. “I don’t know all of it yet. She hadn’t

half finished when I left home.”

 

“Do you know,” she said as she recovered herself, “that you have almost

given Mr. Gale apoplexy?”

 

“He certainly did look surprised when I passed him coming in,” Tydvil

said. “Did he say anything to you?”

 

“Just ‘Holy Wars!’” gurgled Geraldine.

 

“Hump!” Tydvil commented. “And that’s just what it is going to be at

home.”

 

It might have been Holy Wars at home, but on the Monday morning, it was

an unchastened and merry Tydvil who whistled him way down the warehouse.

 

In answer to Geraldine’s enquiry he told her he had had a gorgeous day,

though it had cost him twenty pounds—“quid” he called it; a word that

never before had passed his lips.

 

That morning he dictated a notice to the entire staff of the warehouse.

It announced general increases in salaries of from ten per cent. to as

much as twenty per cent. among its lower paid members. With twinkling

eyes he said to Geraldine as she took it down in shorthand. “My charity

is beginning at home in future—and besides, I’m making more out of this

particular form of banditry than I need.”

 

By evening when the news spread round the great building, there were few

who were not whistling as merrily as Tydvil had been in the morning—and

the morrow was Cup Day and a holiday, There was not a more contented

population in the city than that of C. B. & D.

 

On that November third, that dawned next day, there were many

lighthearted people in the good city of Melbourne. But of them all were

none so carefree as Geraldine Brand and William Brewer. Geraldine had

shut the thought of the next day out of her mind. Billy’s gasp of delight

as his eyes fell in the picture she made in her new frock, would have

gratified any girl. Flemington was at its best, the weather was at its

best, and the thousands that thronged the wide, green grounds rose to the

occasion.

 

Neither Geraldine nor Billy had dreamed what a perfect host Tyddie could

be. He treated Billy as a friend and an equal and chaffed the two

happily. At lunch Geraldine glanced round. Tydvil read her meaning, and

laughed. “No, Geraldine,” he said, “Nicholas declined to join us. He said

he might be a discordant factor, and that the spoons might not be long

enough for your liking.”

 

Alas! For evil communications that corrupt good morals. At lunch

Geraldine sipped suspiciously at first, at the glass of vintage wine that

was poured out for her. The second sip was less suspicious. After that

there was no suspicion whatever. When they arrived in the open air again

Geraldine Brand entrusted to William Brewer one pound to put on a horse

of her own choosing, despite the advice of Tydvil and Billy. When, later

on she collected eight pounds, there was no holding her.

 

The race for Thundercloud’s Cup still remains a mystery in turf history.

The horse’s owner admitted ruefully, afterwards, that only certain

representations of certain people who had drawn Thundercloud in a certain

consultation induced him to leave the horse in the race. Despite Tydvil’s

investment the bookmakers were still offering two hundred to one against,

before the race. But even the most hardened optimists resisted that

bait—to their subsequent sorrow. And, to her disgust, Geraldine was

among them.

 

When the three, who had secured an excellent post on the terrace, saw the

drove of flying horses and colours pass the stand for the first time,

Thundercloud was a comfortable last, and looked like staying there

forever. By the time the horses had reached the far side of the course

Tydvil returned his glasses to their case. Thundercloud was still holding

his position at the tail of the procession. Billy, however, was made of

sterner optimistic material. His comments as the field swept nearer the

straight were anything but complimentary to Thundercloud.

 

Then, as the head of the field was turning into the straight, something

happened. Some one hundred and fifty thousand voices yelling “Lapwing” or

“Diorite” or “Hector” were suddenly smitten into silence. Something in

gold, white and chocolate came raging out from the back of the ruck. It

swept round the turn neck and neck with Lapwing and Hector, then passed

them, flashing down the straight lengths ahead of the thundering mob

behind. To the staring crowd it looked more like an accelerated motion

picture of a horse than a living animal. The crowd moaned in unison as it

flashed passed the post with a dozen lengths to spare. It is difficult

even now to say whether horse, jockey, owner, stewards or the crowd were

the most astounded. Thundercloud came in, for the only time in Cup

history, in a dead silence—the crowd had lost its voice—temporarily.

There was plenty said and yelled later on. All the explanation that

Brandish, the amazed jockey, could give was, that Thundercloud seemed to

go mad just before he reached the straight. He gave a bound that nearly

unseated his rider and took complete charge of his movements, which were

as swift as they were incomprehensible.

 

The most searching veterinary examination failed to detect dope. The

owner’s evident astonishment rang true. The stewards saw no reason to

interfere with the judge’s decision. But that all came afterwards.

Something, however, happened on the terrace as Thundercloud passed the

post that amused the immediate spectators. After having ardently embraced

one of her companions, a daughter of the gods in green, who was tall and

most divinely fair, put her arms about the neck of her other companion

and kissed him warmly on both cheeks. Those who witnessed the incident

would have been far more interested had they known that the recipient of

the second demonstration was no other than Tydvil Jones.

 

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Geraldine?” protested the pleased but

embarrassed Tydvil.

 

“Billy,” Tydvil turned to Brewer, “can you not control this turbulent

wench?”

 

“Not I,” laughed Billy, “she’s a shameless baggage.”

 

“Wowsers!” taunted Geraldine.

 

“Don’t you dare call me that,” Tydvil stormed at her.

 

“Would you prefer ‘Darling’?” Her voice was a caress.

 

“Billy! Stop her, she’s worse than Thundercloud,” cried Tydvil.

 

“Don’t you try to bully me,” she said recklessly, “or I’ll kiss you both

again.”

 

Just at that moment Geraldine saw Nicholas Senior making towards them

through the now disintegrating crowd. In her humour at this juncture

Geraldine forgot her animosity and greeted him cheerfully as he came up

to them.

 

“Oh Mr. Senior,” she said, her face flushed with excitement, “did you see

the race? Wasn’t Thundercloud wonderful?”

 

“He was,” smiled Mr. Senior. “I ought to know, because I was riding him.”

 

“Congratulations!” laughed Geraldine.

 

“After all,” she told Billy that night as they talked over the events of

the day, “I couldn’t be rude to anyone who had won six thousand pounds

for us? Could I?’

 

“Heaven forbid,” replied Billy piously, “that I should try to gauge what

you could or could not do. You’re beyond me. But for the love o’ Mike,

dearest, don’t alter.”

 

Next morning Geraldine arrived at the office with all her misgivings

intact. It seemed somehow strange that the day was no different from

other days. Yet everything in the office was exactly the same as usual.

To her there should have been some gloom—some recognition of Tydvil’s

peril. But that terrible Bill was due at midday, and none but she and

Billy knew it.

 

Not the knowledge that their home was assured, relieved her fears for

Tydvil. She confided her feelings to Billy, who shared them, but who

could offer no suggestions.

 

Tydvil arrived on time and seemed less concerned than ever. He teased her

about her behaviour of the day before and