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

long experience, seen anything similar. My dear sir, what a very

dull time you must have had.”

 

Tydvil’s curiosity became insupportable. He looked at his visitor

appealingly. And then said anxiously, half holding out his hand, “Might

I?”

 

“Well, Mr. Jones, it is most unusual, and I scarcely care to create a

precedent. But the present circumstances are exceptional. So we will

stretch a point in this instance.” And he passed the card into the eager

hand.

 

Tydvil’s hand shook as he glanced at it. “Why!” he exclaimed, looking

up, “there is scarcely any thing on it.”

 

“That, my dear sir, is the remarkable point. Most remarkable! I assure

you! Why, do you know that for a man of your age the average number of

entries would be from twenty to thirty thousand? And of those, at least

fifteen per cent would be red. We put the more heinous entries in red so

that they can be more easily noted. You, as you will notice, have not a

single red debit against you but the last—the one that is responsible

for my being here.”

 

Tydvil was reading his card with concentrated interest. Suddenly he half

stood up and ejaculated, “Oh! I say, this is not fair! I didn’t, I’ll

swear I didn’t!” His face reddened perceptibly.

 

“Surely you are mistaken. I assure you, Mr. Jones, our book-keeping

system is infallible.”

 

Jones handed back the card, and pointed to it with a finger that shook.

“That entry, dated August 7. The one in the pale blue ink.”

 

His Highness took the card and glanced at the entry. Then he shook a

playful finger at Tydvil. “Come, come, my friend! The girl in pink with

the dark eyes, on the Sydney railway platform! That is correct!”

 

“But I can’t admit it,” retorted Jones, a good deal nettled.

 

“My dear fellow,” came the suave reply. “Your memory must be betraying

you. You did not take delivery, certainly, but that does not cancel your

obligation.”

 

“Still,” protested the delinquent, “there should be some allowance for a

mere passing thought.”

 

His Highness shook his head. “Impossible, my friend! Quite impossible!

Still, it is only a trifle. These blue ink records are merely formal.”

 

“By Jove!” exclaimed Tydvil, struck by a bright idea. “Would it be

possible to see my wife’s account?”

 

Mirth and gravity fought in the dark eyes, and mirth won. He laughed

heartily and replied, “Oh, my friend! Consider a moment! What is your

colloquial expression? Be a sport, eh? That would be hardly playing the

game. As a matter of business, I ought to let you see it, but still…”

He waved the thought away with his hand.

 

“Well, I don’t know,” replied Tydvil. “I am sure Amy would have no nice

feelings about inspecting mine.”

 

“Doubtless! What woman would hesitate if she had a chance of examining

an accurate and impartial statement of her husband’s little lapses?”

 

Jones chuckled at the idea. Much to his own surprise, he found himself

accepting his visitor at his face value, and was also actually enjoying

the unconventional interview. “If such a thing were possible, ennui

would vanish from the world.”

 

“And so would the human race,” laughed His Highness. “No, it would not

do at all.”

 

Then he sat up and spoke seriously. “However, this is not business, is

it? And I am afraid I am taking up a good deal of your valuable time.

Now, what can I do for you?”

 

The abrupt question sobered Jones immediately. The idea that his visitor

could be of any assistance to him had never entered his mind. Now the

idea was implanted there, the thought of accepting anything from such a

quarter shocked him. Doubtless his look betrayed the thought.

 

“Of course, Mr. Jones,” said His Highness earnestly, “there is no

compulsion on you to accept the specific service you mentioned when you

asked for this interview. I would he very sorry to hold you to the

letter of your word. Any man in your position may easily be excused for

what he might say in a moment of irritation. Still, my obligation is

very great, and I would like to show my gratitude.”

 

There was no mistaking the sincerity of the words. The saying that his

visitor was not so black as he was painted, flashed across Tydvil’s

mind. The other, watching, answered the unspoken thought. “There is a

good deal of truth in that old saying,” he said. “I suppose no one has

been more maligned than I with less chance of defending himself. I am

grateful even for that small concession.”

 

As he spoke he drew a handsome cigarette case from his pocket. “Do you

mind if I smoke?”

 

“Not at all,” answered Jones politely.

 

His Highness held out the open case. “You will join me?” he said

pleasantly.

 

Jones shook his head. “Thank you, but I never smoke.”

 

The other smiled quizzically. “Ah, my friend! You would be far better

able to bear your troubles if you did. Self-denial comes to a point

where it becomes self-righteousness—an unpleasant characteristic. Let

me press you!” He again held out the case.

 

Jones looked at it indecisively. “I have often thought of beginning, but

my wife detests the habit.” His Highness raised his eyebrows in gentle

mockery. “And,” went on Jones, “it might make me sick.”

 

The other laughed lightly. “Not one of these. Among other virtues, they

have the quality of converting anyone who uses them into an habitual

smoker, whom no tobacco, however strong, can upset.”

 

Tydvil hesitated no longer, and placed one of the white cylinders

between his lips. His Highness followed suit and, to Tydvil’s

astonishment, the moment it touched his lips it became alight. Then he

bent forward, offering the glowing tip to his host.

 

Jones had no objection to tobacco, indeed, he really liked the aroma.

Only the fear of Amy had kept him from indulging earlier. Now, as he

drew the first fumes into his mouth, a delicious sense of contentment

came over him.

 

“Well?” queried his guest through the blue smoke.

 

“Splendid!” quoth Tydvil.

 

“Good!” smiled His Highness. “And now we can resume our talk. I really

hope that you are not going to refuse my offer,” he went on

persuasively.

 

“Well,” said Tydvil reflectively; the first hesitation had vanished with

the first cloud of smoke. “I really don’t see what there is that you can

do for me.”

 

“There is very little I cannot do for you,” came the suave answer. “One

hesitates to say such a thing, but really, Mr. Jones, you have made

singularly little use of your great opportunities. You have lived and so

has a jellyfish. I’m afraid the analogy sounds rude, and I can readily

excuse you for taking exception to it, but you must admit its justice.”

 

“I admit I find life rather dull,” conceded Tydvil a little ruefully.

“Perhaps I would be more content with a little enjoyment.” He stared at

the smoke spirals from his cigarette without looking up.

 

“Well, it is all at your command. What would you have. Wealth?”

 

“I already have that.”

 

“Health?”

 

“I am as sound as a bell and tough as hickory.”

 

“Power?”

 

“I have sufficient.”

 

“Ambition?”

 

“I have none that I have not already satisfied.”

 

“Love of women?”

 

Jones looked up sharply. “I have had one experience in that direction,”

he said dryly, “and I am not hankering for any more, thank you.”

 

“Oh! I mean the genuine kind,” laughed His Highness. “Once bitten…”

quoted Jones sourly. “I wouldn’t take the risk.”

 

“Pessimist!” chuckled the other.

 

“Maybe,” came the short answer. “But if you had lived with Amy for ten

years I know which of our residences you would prefer.”

 

“What about the lighter side of life?” asked His Highness. “The joy of

living.”

 

Tydvil knitted his brows. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I admit that appeals

to me. But look how I am tied up. I am an example. A pious pattern. A

guiding light. How could I break away from the family tradition? Sheer

hypocrisy, I suppose! I am so used to being looked up to that it takes

an effort to come down from my pedestal. I cannot have the fun in

someone else’s name.’ He sighed a little in self pity.

 

“Quite possible, my friend,” came the prompt answer. “Eh!” Jones looked

up, startled.

 

“It would be easily possible for you to assume another identity for your

enterprise,” said His Highness, smiling.

 

“You don’t mean to say…” The question stuck in Tydvil’s throat.

 

“Exactly! But it rather complicates matters. You see, so long as the

service you ask is an every day matter, I would give it gladly and

without condition. The other would be subject to some restrictions

which, I regret, are unavoidable.”

 

“If you could guarantee individuality for my amusements, I don’t think

you would find me haggling over the terms,” said Tydvil decisively.

 

“Of course,” said His Highness, “it would be a mere formality. Allow me

to give you another cigarette. A mere formality! I should have to ask

you to give me a promissory note—for any term. The consideration

being,” he fixed his luminous eyes on Jones, “that you assume any

individuality you desire, and call upon me for any service you desire,

during the currency of the note. The note to be void if I fail in my

service. I think that is generous enough.”

 

“Undoubtedly,” conceded Tydvil. “But,” he went on hesitating, “what

amount will be involved? I am willing to pay anything in reason.”

 

“Oh, don’t let us talk of money between friends!” said the other

hastily. “We must put something in, of course. Say, for example—no!

Let us go back to the old tradition—your soul it means nothing and

makes the thing legal.”

 

Tydvil looked at his visitor intently, and his gaze was met by another

of disarming frankness. “Signed in blood and all that sort of thing?” he

asked.

 

“Bosh! Ink is quite good enough,” came the answer. “But,” temporarised

Jones, “would such an instrument be binding?”

 

“As doyen of the legal profession, my dear Mr. Jones, you may accept my

assurance that it would be,” answered His Highness easily.

 

“I didn’t think the law would admit there would be property in a soul,”

said Tydvil thoughtfully.

 

The other blew a long, fine stream of smoke from his pursed lips. “I

think,” he said significantly, “that I could very easily convert anyone

who adopted that view. However,” he laughed slightly, and went on

airily, “it is a mere formality and means nothing.”

 

Jones sat thinking deeply. The idea was alluring. It gave him a chance

to break from his rigid environment. Still he hesitated. Could this

being be what he professed to be? There was still doubt in his mind. He

looked up at his visitor, who was watching him intently.

 

“Mr. Jones,” he said, “I can easily excuse your doubts in the

circumstances, and am willing to submit to a test, anything you choose,

before pressing you to take my offer.”

 

Jones looked around the room. His eye lighted on the three-ton door of

the strong-room. He alone held its keys. He turned to his friend. “Would

it be possible for you to open that door without moving from your seat?”

 

His Highness nodded. “I will do more than you ask—watch!” As he spoke,

the great door swung slowly and noiselessly out on its hinges. As its

broad edge turned towards him, Jones gave a little cry of astonishment.

He saw that, though it had opened, its twelve wrist-thick bolts