XXIV

“Jim!”

Eunice came running across the grass with outstretched hands, oblivious to the fact that it was broad daylight and that she was being watched by at least a hundred idle loungers in the park.

Jim took both her hands in his and she experienced a moment of serene comfort. Then they both talked at once; they were both apologetic, interrupting one another’s explanations with the expression of their own contrition.

“Jim, I’m going to leave Mrs. Groat’s house,” she said when they had reached sanity.

“Thank God for that,” said Jim.

“You are so solemn about it,” she laughed. “Did you really think I was in any danger there?”

“I know you were,” he said.

She had so much to tell him that she did not know where to begin.

“Were you sorry not to see me?”

“The days I have not seen you are dead, and wiped off the calendar,” said Jim.

“Oh, before I forget,” said Eunice, “Mrs. Weatherwale has gone.”

“Mrs. Weatherwale!” he repeated, puzzled.

“I haven’t told you? No, of course not. I did not see you yesterday. But Mrs. Groat asked me to write to Mrs. Weatherwale, who is an old friend of hers, asking her to come and stay. I think Mrs. Groat is rather afraid of Digby.”

“And she came?” asked Jim.

The girl nodded.

“She came and stayed about one hour, then arrived my lord Digby, who bundled her unceremoniously into the street. There is no love lost there, either, Jim. The dear old lady hated him. She was a charming old soul and called me ‘darling.’ ”

“Who wouldn’t?” said Jim. “I can call you darling even though I am not a charming old soul. Go on. So she went away? I wonder what she knows about Digby?”

“She knows everything. She knows about Estremeda, of that I am sure. Jim, doesn’t that make a difference?”

He shook his head.

“If you mean does it make any difference about Digby inheriting his mother’s money when she gets it, I can tell you that it makes none. The will does not specify that he is the son of John Groat, and the fact that he was born before she married this unfortunate shipping clerk does not affect the issue.”

“When is the money to be made over to the Groats?”

“Next Thursday,” said Jim, with a groan, “and I am just as far from stopping the transfer of the property as I have ever been.”

He had not told her of his meeting with Lady Mary Danton. That was not his secret alone. Nor could he tell her that Lady Mary was the woman who had warned her.

They strolled across the Park towards the Serpentine and Jim was unusually preoccupied.

“Do you know, Eunice, that I have an uncanny feeling that you really are in some way associated with the Danton fortune?”

She laughed and clung tighter to his arm.

“Jim, you would make me Queen of England if you could,” she said, “and you have just as much chance of raising me to the throne as you have of proving that I am somebody else’s child. I don’t want to be anybody else’s, really,” she said. “I was very, very fond of my mother, and it nearly broke my heart when she died. And daddy was a darling.”

He nodded.

“Of course, it is a fantastic idea,” he said, “and I am flying in face of all the facts. I have taken the trouble to discover where you were born. I have a friend in Cape Town who made the inquiries for me.”

“Eunice May Weldon,” she laughed. “So you can abandon that idea, can’t you?” she said.

Strolling along by the side of the Serpentine, they had reached the bridge near the magazine and were standing waiting until a car had passed before they crossed the road. Somebody in the car raised his hat.

“Who was that?” said Jim.

“Digby Groat,” she smiled, “my nearly late employer! Don’t let us go to the teashop, Jim,” she said; “let us go to your flat⁠—I’d love to.”

He looked at her dubiously.

“It is not customary for bachelors to give tea-parties to young females,” he said.

“I’m sure it is”⁠—she waived aside his objection. “I’m perfectly certain it happens every day, only they don’t speak about it.”

The flat delighted her and she took off her coat and busied herself in the little kitchenette.

“You told me it was an attic with bare boards,” she said reproachfully as she was laying the cloth.

To Jim, stretched in his big chair, she was a thing of sheer delight. He wanted no more than to sit forever and watch her flitting from room to room. The sound of her fresh voice was a delicious narcotic, and even when she called him, as she did, again and again, to explain some curio of his which hung in the hall, the spell was not broken.

“Everything is speckless,” she said as she brought in the tea, “and I’m sure you haven’t polished up those brasses and cleaned that china.”

“You’re right first time,” said Jim lazily. “An unprepossessing lady comes in every morning at half-past seven and works her fingers to the bone, as she has told me more times than once, though she manages to keep more flesh on those bones than seems comfortable for her.”

“And there is your famous train,” she said, jumping up and going to the window as an express whizzed down the declivity. “Oh, Jim, look at those boys,” she gasped in horror.

Across the line and supported by two stout poles, one of which stood in the courtyard of the flat, was a stretch of thin telegraph wires, and on these a small and adventurous urchin was pulling himself across hand-over-hand, to the joy of his companions seated on the opposite wall of the cutting.

“The young devil,” said Jim admiringly.

Another train shrieked past, and running down into Euston trains moved at a good speed. The telegraph wire had sagged under the weight of the boy to such an extent that he had to lift up his legs to avoid touching the tops of the carriages.

“If the police catch him,” mused Jim, “they will fine him a sovereign and give him a birching. In reality he ought to be given a medal. These little beggars are the soldiers of the future, Eunice, and some day he will reproduce that fearlessness of danger, and he will earn the Victoria Cross a jolly sight more than I earned it.”

She laughed and dropped her head against his shoulder.

“You queer man,” she said, and then returned to the contemplation of the young climber, who had now reached the opposite wall amidst the approving yells and shouts of his diminutive comrades.

“Now let us drink our tea, because I must get back,” said the girl.

The cup was to her lips when the door opened and a woman came in. Eunice did not hear the turning of the handle, and her first intimation of the stranger’s presence was the word “Jim.” She looked up. The woman in the doorway was, by all standards, beautiful, she noticed with a pang. Age had not lined or marred the beauty of her face and the strands of grey in her hair added to her attraction. For a moment they looked at one another, the woman and the girl, and then the intruder, with a nod and a smile, said:

“I will see you again. I am sorry,” and went out closing the door behind her.

The silence that followed was painful. Jim started three times to speak, but stopped as he realized the futility of explaining to the girl the reason of the woman’s presence. He could not tell her she was Lady Mary Danton.

“She called you ‘Jim,’ ” said the girl slowly. “Is she a friend of yours?”

“Er⁠—yes,” he replied awkwardly. “She is Mrs. Fane, a neighbour.”

“Mrs. Fane,” repeated the girl, “but you told me she was paralysed and could not get up. You said she had never been out of doors for years.”

Jim swallowed something.

“She called you ‘Jim,’ ” said the girl again. “Are you very great friends?”

“Well, we are rather,” said Jim huskily. “The fact is, Eunice⁠—”

“How did she come in?” asked the girl with a frown. “She must have let herself in with a key. Has she a key of your flat?”

Jim gulped.

“Well, as a matter of fact⁠—” he began.

“Has she, Jim?”

“Yes, she has. I can’t explain, Eunice, but you’ve got⁠—”

“I see,” she said quietly. “She is very pretty, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is rather pretty,” admitted Jim miserably. “You see, we have business transactions together, and frequently I am out and she wants to get to my telephone. She has no telephone in her own flat, you see, Eunice,” he went on lamely.

“I see,” said the girl, “and she calls you ‘Jim’?”

“Because we are good friends,” he floundered. “Really, Eunice, I hope you are not putting any misconstruction upon that incident.”

She heaved a little sigh.

“I suppose it is all right, Jim,” she said, and pushed away her plate. “I don’t think I’ll wait any longer. Please don’t come back with me, I’d rather you didn’t. I can get a cab; there’s a rank opposite the flat, I remember.”

Jim cursed the accident which had brought the lady into his room at that moment and cursed himself that he had not made a clean breast of the whole thing, even at the risk of betraying Lady Mary.

He had done sufficient harm by his incoherent explanation and he offered no other as he helped the girl into her coat.

“You are sure you’d rather go alone?” he said miserably.

She nodded.

They were standing on the landing. Lady Mary’s front door was ajar and from within came the shrill ring of a telephone bell. She raised her grave eyes to Jim.

“Your friend has the key of your flat because she has no telephone of her own, didn’t you say, Jim?”

He made no reply.

“I never thought you would lie to me,” she said, and he watched her disappear down the staircase with an aching heart.

He had hardly reached his room and flung himself in his chair by the side of the tea-table, when Lady Mary followed him into the room.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I hadn’t the slightest idea she would be here.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Jim with a wan smile, “only it makes things rather awkward for me. I told her a lie and she found me out, or rather, your infernal telephone did, Lady Mary.”

“Then you were stupid,” was all the comfort she gave him.

“Why didn’t you stay?” he asked. “That made it look so queer.”

“There were many reasons why I couldn’t stay,” said Lady Mary. “Jim, do you remember the inquiries I made about this very girl, Eunice Weldon, and which you made too?”

He nodded.

He wasn’t interested in Eunice Weldon’s obvious parentage at that moment.

“You remember she was born at Rondebosch?”

“Yes,” he said listlessly. “Even she admits it,” he added with a feeble attempt at a jest.

“Does she admit this?” asked Lady Mary. She pushed a telegram across the table to Jim, and he picked it up and read:

“Eunice May Weldon died in Cape Town at the age of twelve months and three days, and is buried at Rosebank Cemetery. Plot No. 7963.”