XVI

At that moment Greta Gurden’s bedroom reeked with the pungent scent of frying sausages that wafted in from the little gas-ring in her “dining-hall.” When Greta was her own provider, she was economical to the point of meanness. She, who would hesitate languidly between Sole Marnier and Sole à la bonne femme, who chose the most delicate and expensive of ices, and who had a pretty knowledge of the virtues of relative vintages, when she had an escort to foot the bill, could find, in the intimacy of her flat, the ingredients of complete satisfaction hanging from a hook at the local butcher’s.

She had been allowed to get up that afternoon, and found that she could drag herself from room to room without pain or inconvenience. Mrs. Hobbs had gone home, having a husband of her own to serve, and Greta was left alone, and was glad.

Face-saving is a practice which is not wholly Chinese. When she prepared her mean little snacks she liked to be by herself, for she was one of those who desire to be thought well of by the least accountable of people. She was almost cheerful as she speared the sausages from their sizzling bed and laid them on a hot plate, brewed the tea from a kettle placed before the gas stove, and, spreading a cloth across half the table, prepared to enjoy her evening repast.

She had not heard from Anita since the woman’s visit, and she had spent the greater part of the day regretting the spirit of malice which had induced her to send an eight-year-old sheet of paper to Peter Dawlish. Fortunately, Anita would never know; that was the one solace she had. What would Anita say if she discovered? Greta shuddered to think.

Being malicious, she was a coward; and it was cowardice which brought about a revulsion of feeling towards the employer she betrayed; in the processes of reaction, she felt almost tenderly towards the victim of her spite. Nevertheless, the finding of the letter had given Greta an idea. There might be other documents equally valuable, remembering that the day was near at hand when her sole legitimate source of income would perish in the inevitable liquidation of Mayfair Gossip.

It was all very well for Anita to sneer and rail at the paper, but it had been a very good friend of hers. There were two prominent announcements printed week after week in the pages of this scurrilous little organ; the first of these was called “Stories of Real Life,” and it was announced that for the sender of the best material from which such a story could be constructed there was a weekly reward of £25. Stress was laid upon one point⁠—that the material must be authentic, that it must be spicy, and that it must be remarkable. The second announcement was to the effect that contributors who were in a position to secure social items of interest would be well paid.

These two appeals produced a voluminous correspondence, the majority of which was valueless for their purpose; but sometimes an aggrieved servant would betray matters which were even outside the cognisance of her employer. The maid who found a bundle of old love-letters in a secret drawer of her master’s desk was very well rewarded indeed. Those letters went on to Anita, who found an excellent use for them.

Officially, Greta knew nothing of these matters. Officially, she was sending on these letters because they had a piquant interest for her employer. She was never asked to do anything that a lady could not do, or even that Greta could not do. She made a very good use of the smaller and less important items that reached the office, for Greta was an efficient, if one-sided, journalist. She had one formula which she followed in every case:

“Dear Anita,

“The enclosed letters are not, I am afraid, of much use to the paper. We shall be prosecuted for libel if we dare use one-tenth of what is in them. They may, however, interest you.”

The letter never varied; it had become almost a stereotype.

She contributed special articles to Gossip, and because of a fourteen days’ sojourn in the United States had become an authority upon the Four Hundred, could talk glibly and inaccurately of the leaders of society, and occasionally would introduce a Long Island colour to her paragraphs. She could write fairly well, had a mordant wit of her own, and in happier circumstances might have become a great journalist. Instead of which she had developed insensibly into a cringing sycophant, dependent upon a wage that was paid in all the circumstances of charity.

As she ate her three large, indigestible sausages, she decided to tackle that night the last bundle of letters which needed reading and classifying. It was therefore not an inappropriate moment for Anita to call. Mrs. Gurden stood up like a soldier when the woman swung into the room and pulled the door close behind her.

“Your leg’s all right, is it? Good! I want you to come over to Wimbledon tonight.”

“My dear Anita, I couldn’t possibly come tonight,” broke in Mrs. Gurden, a picture of sweetness and delight at seeing this unwelcome visitor. “The doctor says⁠—”

“I don’t care what the doctor says,” replied Anita brusquely. “I’ll see that you get all the doctors you want. You’ve got to come over to May Towers.”

Greta murmured something half-heartedly, and made a final fight.

“It may be fatal,” she said in a hushed voice. “The doctor⁠—”

Princess Bellini said something very uncomplimentary about doctors in general, and glanced at the remnants of the humble meal with a sneer which she did not attempt to conceal.

“Pack all your things, everything you want for a long stay,” she said. “I’ll send one of my people up to help you if you like, but it would be better if your own woman⁠—Snobbs or Hobbs or whatever you call her⁠—helped you.”

“How long do you want me to stay?” asked Greta in consternation. She counted the most unhappy days and nights of her life those she had spent as Anita’s guest.

“A month; six weeks possibly⁠—I’m not sure,” said the woman brusquely. “I’m going to pay you very well indeed. As for your leg, I’ve telephoned to your doctor, and he tells me that you’re fit to move, and, in fact, the wound is healed.”

“But the paper⁠—”

“The paper is dead. I’ve written to the printers telling them so. My lawyer will liquidate the business, so that’s off your mind. You’ve got to do something, Greta. Your source of income from that direction has dried up.”

Greta listened in dismay, and offered the weak comment that it “seemed a pity.” And then, with a resolution which was born of her very feebleness, she said:

“I can’t go. I simply won’t go, Anita, until I’ve seen the doctor. You’re most inconsiderate. I haven’t recovered. It isn’t only the wound, it’s the shock of⁠—Druze’s death. I simply won’t risk my life. After all, I have to take care of myself. Gurden doesn’t care a damn whether I’m alive or dead.”

Anita sat squarely before her, her big hands on her knees, her eyeglass fixed in her impassive face.

“Gurden?” she rasped. “You almost make this ghost of yours real! You’ve got to the end of your argument, Greta, when you call on the precious name of Gurden. He belongs to the same order as Mrs. ’Arris.”

“It’s not true, it’s not true!” protested the haggard woman tearfully. “We’re married, but we’re separated.”

Nevertheless, she proceeded to give no further details that would elucidate that mystery of her life.

“Whether you are or whether you’re not, you’re to come over to May Towers,” said the Princess definitely. “If you want to see a doctor, you can send for anyone you like.”

Greta elected for her own doctor, but he was out and not expected back until late that night. She ran her fingers down the directory of the profession, seeking a familiar name, and presently she found one and rang him up. Anita, renovating her toilet before the looking-glass in the bedroom, heard Greta speaking in her sugary society voice, and smiled grimly.

“… if you please, doctor. I wondered if you would remember me. It’s most awfully kind of you⁠ ⁠… no, only a little scratch. The wound has quite healed, I’m sure, but I should like to see you ever so much.”

A click as the receiver was hung up. Anita smoothed the powder on her face, gave her large, shapeless lips a touch of a red creamy stick, and strolled back to the dining-room.

“Well, have you found your doctor?”

“Yes, Anita, I have,” said the other. “He’s a very nice man, and he won’t let me go out if he thinks that it’s dangerous to my health. And, really, I must consider myself, Anita, sometimes. I’m not at all well, and I’ve been thinking for a long time of placing myself in a doctor’s hands⁠—”

“Whom have you sent for?”

“Dr. Elford Wesley. He used to be old Mr. Dawlish’s doctor⁠—”

She heard a growl like the sound of a beast, and stared aghast at Anita. Her eyes were wide open; she showed her teeth in an ugly grin.

“You brainless fool!” she hissed. “Why did you send for him?”