I

“Well, well!” cried the voice, though softly. “Well, well!”

“Is it the same?” asked the nurse.

“The very same,” the voice replied. It had lost some of the deep rough burr it had had years ago, this voice, but there was no mistaking it. “No,” it went on now, “I’ll not do that. Let her have her sleep out.”

Miss Trant, however, had already had her sleep out. She was awake now, although her eyes were still closed and she had not stirred. The sound of that first quiet but startled “Well!” had drawn her from some deep dreamless place into an upper region of flickering shadows, dreams, and voices. Where was she? The hotel? The hospital? No. The Mirland Nursing Home. And it was Tuesday afternoon. She was back now in full consciousness, though all it offered her at the moment was a quivering brownish space and these two voices. And one of them was his, hardly changed at all.

She opened her eyes, which discovered a world very bright, solid, looking as if it had just been made. He was standing by the door. She was not surprised to see him. She had not been surprised to hear his voice. It was as if she had spent years and years being surprised not to see him and hear his voice, and that that state of things had now quietly stopped.

“Hello!” she cried, feebly.

He came forward, smiling. He looked older, of course, but not strangely so. On the contrary, he looked more himself, as if this were the age he had been aiming at when she had known him, years ago. “Miss Elizabeth Trant,” he said, with deliberation. Nobody else would have said it like that.

“Doctor Hugh McFarlane,” she replied, giving him her hand.

The nurse nodded brightly at the pair of them and departed.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said, sitting down beside her. “And I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You recognized me then?”

“I did,” and left it at that. He was just the same. He was capable of leaving the most gigantic gaps in conversation, never dreamt of filling them in with the nearest rubbish.

“How did you know I was here? Did you⁠—read about us in the paper?” For the local paper had been very excited about last Saturday’s doings at the Hippodrome.

“No, I never saw a word about it in the paper,” he replied. “That would be the paper here though, wouldn’t it? I only see The Times and Glasgow Herald, and there wasn’t anything in them about it.”

“I should hope not.”

“But I did hear something about it,” he continued, thrashing the thing out in the same old way. “Then I had to come here to see a patient of mine and saw your name, so I came to see if it was the Miss Elizabeth Trant I knew.”

She could not resist it. “I thought you would have forgotten all about me by this time,” she murmured.

He shook his head gravely. “Not at all. I hadn’t forgotten you. I recognized you as soon as I came in. You haven’t changed much, even with your little accident too. Subnormal now, aren’t you? Yes, you would be.”

“I thought I saw you⁠—in a car⁠—the other day,” she told him. “One day last week it was, about ten miles out of Gatford. I came to the conclusion that it couldn’t be you, but now I think it must have been.”

“Now exactly when was that? Last week, you say. What time of day would it be?” He brought out, quite solemnly, a little pocketbook.

“Afternoon, sometime,” she replied vaguely. “It was⁠—let me see⁠—you were on the main road going out of Gatford⁠—it seems ages ago now. Oh, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“It must have been last Tuesday, I think,” he said, frowning hard at his little book. “Today week. I’d called here. Was I driving a red two-seater? I was? Then it was me you saw. Isn’t that curious? I wish I’d known you were here.”

Miss Trant hesitated for a moment, evaded his level glance, then said hastily: “As a matter of fact, we⁠—I⁠—tried to find out if you were here, just to make sure. But your name wasn’t in the telephone book. And doctors are always in the telephone book, aren’t they?”

“Not if they’ve just arrived,” he said, smiling at her. “There hasn’t been time to put me in the telephone directory yet. I’ve just entered into partnership with Doctor Heard⁠—he’s a man of some age and is giving up the practice soon⁠—out there at Waterfield on the main road. I shouldn’t have come here but I’ve been doing some work on the parathyroid glands, and that meant being near Masters in London or Hudson here in Gatford. So I came here to work with Hudson. You’ll have heard of him?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” she said, smiling back at him. “It’s terrible, but you people do the most wonderful things and we never hear anything about you.”

He stroked his long bony face. “I suppose that is so, though I can’t complain myself because I haven’t done anything wonderful yet. But how did you come to be here? I never knew you had any inclinations towards the stage.”

She laughed. “I hadn’t and I haven’t. It’s all rather ridiculous, though I must say it doesn’t seem very funny just now.” And she told him, briefly, what had happened since her father died. Sometimes he stared at her in blank amazement, and sometimes he gave a little low chuckle. It made her feel as if she were describing a visit to the moon.

“And now,” she concluded, “don’t ask me what I’m going to do, because I don’t know.”

“I do. You’re going to stay here until that arm’s mended and you’ve had a nice rest and your nerves are quiet again.” He still called them “nairrves.” He still brought out those huge vowels and smashing consonants, and when he turned his face towards the light there was still that glint of hair about his cheekbones. “And if there’s anything that must be done, let me do it for you.”

“Oh, I can’t worry you with my silly affairs. I’m sure you’ve plenty to do, too much, as it is.”

“Not at all. I don’t say I haven’t plenty to do⁠—we’re always busy you know⁠—but still an old bachelor like me has time for anything.”

“You haven’t married then?”

“No.” He stopped, and fingered his chin. “Up to now, I seem to have been too busy. It’s a thing that takes time, I suppose, getting married.”

“Well, you mustn’t call yourself an old bachelor, not to me. You see, I happen to remember you’re only two years older than I am, and I don’t want to be told I’m old too.”

“Two years older! That’s it exactly. Now who’d have thought you would have remembered that!” he cried, lighting up and altogether more animated now. “You’ve as good a memory as I have.”

“I remember some things very well.”

“Och, so do I.” He was charging in quite recklessly now, without thinking where he might be going. “I’ve never heard a mention of that old rock of Gibraltar without thinking of you⁠—and the Colonel,” he added, hastily.

“Which of us reminds you of Gibraltar?” she inquired, laughing at him. “Not me, I hope. It must have been my father. I think you were always rather frightened of him.”

“Of the Colonel! Not the least bit. It was you I was frightened of, if you must know.”

“Me!” This was too absurd. A memory of that large, masterful, dogmatic young Scot, setting her right about everything, suddenly invaded her mind. “I’m sure that’s not true. I never knew anybody who bullied me quite so much.”

“Ay, I was raw then, a raw lad.”

Tea came in at that moment. “I’ve brought a cup for Doctor McFarlane,” the girl remarked, setting down her tray by the side of the bed.

“Thank you,” said Miss Trant. “You will stay, won’t you? You’ll have to pour it out for both of us, I’m afraid. I can’t manage it with this arm all tied up.”

If she imagined he would be very awkward and clumsy with the teapot, she was wrong. He did it all very deftly indeed, and she noticed now⁠—and this was a new discovery⁠—that his long bony hands were very finely controlled, sensitive. And then⁠—it came in a flash while she was finishing her first piece of bread-and-butter⁠—she suddenly felt how incredible it was that he should be actually there, the whole enormous lump of him, so tremendously like himself, quietly sharing her tea. And yet one part of her, so small and remote that it could not be said to have a voice, refused to see anything incredible in all this, would not even be faintly surprised, but settled itself down, as if this were the natural order of things. They talked easily now, chiefly about the present, Gatford and the Good Companions, and so forth. The afternoon, itself a pale flower of the early spring, filled the room with washed and delicate light, called out anew the scent of the daffodil and narcissus, and was ecstatically busy with rumours of a fragrant and budding world outside.

“And will you be going on with this⁠—er⁠—stage business?” he asked her. When he saw her smile a little ruefully and shake her head, his face cleared. “There’s nothing wrong with it, of course,” he continued, “but it seems a daft sort of thing for somebody like yourself to be doing.”

“The moment they can get on without me, I shall give it up,” she confessed. “It’s been⁠—well, fun, if you like. Anyhow, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. But for some time now I’ve been thinking I ought to give it up. You see, to begin with, it’s impossible for me to take it seriously⁠—”

“I should think not,” cried Dr. McFarlane heartily, with the air of a man to whom a troupe of pierrots are no more than so many buzzing flies.

“But that’s not fair to them, you see. It’s their world, their life. I don’t want to let them down now. It looked as if everything was going to be splendid. We were making money, and I was getting back all I’d lost. The clever young ones all thought they might get engagements in town, because some big revue man came down on Saturday to see them.”

“Was the row too much for him?”

“Oh no, worse than that. It’s a miserable business for them, poor dears⁠—but it’s rather funny. I can’t help laughing. It seems he came and got mixed up somehow in a dreadful scrimmage in the audience, and Joe, who didn’t know who he was and probably didn’t care, having thoroughly lost his temper, hit this man terribly hard, so hard that he had to be carried out.”

“Well, well! A knockout, eh? I wouldn’t have thought an actor-laddie could have done that.”

“Yes, but then Joe was once a heavyweight boxer⁠—in the Navy.”

“Ah!” said Dr. McFarlane, who apparently knew something about heavyweight boxers in the Navy. “He might well do that then.”

“And now they’re all heartbroken, though they pretend not to be when they come here to see me. The young ones feel they have lost their chance, and one of them, Jerningham, seems to have disappeared. Nobody has seen him since Saturday night. One of the older ones⁠—Mr. Nunn, the comedian⁠—has his head bandaged up and won’t be fit to act for a week or two. And the others don’t know what is going to happen to them. We had taken the Hippodrome for another week, but of course we couldn’t play in it even if it were fit to use.”

“It certainly isn’t that, from what I hear,” he said grimly.

“That’s the awful thing,” she told him. “I’m responsible for all that damage.”

He stared at her in horror and dismay. “You mean they’ll come on to you to pay for all that?”

“I believe so. The Hippodrome people are going to claim it all from me. It’s a wicked shame because it wasn’t our fault at all, and we’ve already suffered for it. And just as I thought I should get back most of the money I’d lost, this comes along. Oh, it’s a miserable business. And the others are absolutely heartbroken about it. They feel it’s their fault, though it isn’t at all, of course. It’s mine, if it’s anybody’s⁠—”

“Don’t pay a penny piece,” he cried, rising from his chair. Because a man has been working hard on parathyroid glands, and in addition has contrived to remember a girl he once knew on a voyage years ago, that does not mean that he cannot be appalled at the thought of good money being paid out like that. It was a prospect to make hundreds of McFarlanes turn in their graves. It now made this McFarlane stride up and down the room. “You’ve heard nothing definite yet?” he asked, finally.

“No, not yet,” she replied, smiling rather wanly. She suddenly felt tired now.

He stopped, looked at her, then quietly sat down again. “You’re tired now, Elizabeth?” he said, not taking his eyes off her face.

It coloured faintly. “I believe I am.”

“Should I have said ‘Miss Trant’?”

“No, of course not,” returning his steady look with wide candid grey eyes.

“Too much talking. It’s my fault.”

“Then I shall have to report you to Doctor Mason, Hugh. But don’t go for a minute. Let me talk a little longer and then I shall feel better. What do you think I ought to do? I had thought of asking my brother-in-law⁠—he’s a solicitor in town⁠—to come up and try and straighten it all out for me, but he and Hilda, my sister, are in the South of France. And even if they weren’t, somehow I don’t want the family here, crowing over me. Then I thought of asking Mr. Truby, he’s my own solicitor at Cheltenham, to see what he could do, but he’s⁠—well, I don’t feel he’d be much good. He probably thinks I’m mad.”

“If it’s a matter of taking to the law, I don’t mean in court, but just being represented, then a local man is what you want, a man who knows what goes on in this town. I know a solicitor here⁠—he’s a patient of mine⁠—of the name of Gooch, a fat fellow but sharp as a needle. I’ll go and talk to him about it, and do what I can myself at the same time. And all you’ve got to do is to lie here quietly, not seeing your actor friends too often, just making your mind easy, reading a book or two⁠—” He broke off, and regarded her quizzically. “Do you still devote yourself to those romances and historical novels you used to like so well?”

“Yes. I don’t read quite so many as I used to do⁠—there aren’t enough good ones to go on with⁠—but I haven’t tired yet.”

“Do you remember my telling you I thought them awful trash? I was raw then, if ever a lad was. I’ve been ploughing my way through Walter Scott whiles, and there’s a great deal of human nature in those Waverley Novels of his. He’d have made a fine general practitioner, Sir Walter would.”

“There! You’re coming on, Hugh.”

He gave a short confused laugh. “No, I’m going on. I’ll be looking in tomorrow if I can at all. If not, the next day for certain. That is, if you would like to see me.”

“Of course I should like to see you. I didn’t think, though, you’d be able to get here again as early as that. Is⁠—er⁠—your patient here worse?”

“Ay,” he replied, with only the ghost of a twinkle to show that a joke was in progress, “poor fellow, he seems to have taken a turn for the worse since this afternoon. So he’ll need an early return visit.” He rose and took her hand. “It’s been a strange meeting this. I didn’t think you’d have remembered.”

“It was clever of you to recognize me at once, like that, when I was asleep too.”

Having brought off one joke, there was no holding him now. “I won’t say I remembered your face, Miss Elizabeth Trant,” he said solemnly, “but from the way you were lying, the sterno-mastoid muscle was prominent, and I thought I remembered the look of that.”

“What! Where? You don’t⁠—Oh, I see. You are absurd. Very well, Doctorrr H‑ew McFarrrlane, it was your terrible accent⁠—an’ only that⁠—ah remembered. Goodbye, Hugh. And if you can do anything to prevent me from having to throw all my money away here in Gatford, I shall be awfully grateful.”

Looking very grave again, at the thought of money being thrown away, he stood before her and declared with emphasis that he would do something about it. He was wearing a good suit⁠—and was a far smarter figure than the bony young man she had known before⁠—but it wanted brushing in places and there were one or two deplorable little stains and burns here and there. And his tie, of course, was monstrous. But greying hair suited him; he was almost handsome now.

“Fancy Doctor McFarlane being such an old friend!” cried the nurse afterwards. She was removing things very deftly, but as she spoke she kept an eye on her patient’s face. Her duties compelled her to see life chiefly in terms of that rickety machine, the body, so it is not surprising that her hobby should have been human interest. Her next “Fancy!,” which was not long in coming, had quite a note of triumph in it. Evidently things were looking up in the Mirland Nursing Home.

II

“You’ve not had a reply?” cried Susie.

“I have,” Inigo replied, coming into the room. It was some time after eleven on the Wednesday morning. Susie had been dusting her sitting-room, which was also her landlady’s parlour, in a fashion that fluctuated between the dreary and the dreamy. Ever since Saturday night, she had felt lost.

“It’s not from Monte Mortimer himself,” Inigo went on, speaking rather carefully, as if he thought he was a solicitor or someone of that kind. “It’s from his secretary.”

“That’s all the same. Hurry up, idiot, and tell me what he says. You’re so slow, Inigo.” Then she plomped down into a chair. “It’s a washout, isn’t it? I can see it is. Go on, though.”

“It’s a letter and from the secretary,” said Inigo, sitting down and taking out the sheet of paper. “This is what it says: ‘Dear Sir, I have communicated your yesterday’s wire to Mr. Mortimer, who is away from the office at present, and he requests me, in reply, to tell you to go to the devil. He also requests me to add that any further communication from you or any other member of your troupe will be regarded as coming from there and will not receive any reply whatever. Yours truly, J. Hamilton Levy, Secretary.’ And that,” Inigo added, with a poor attempt at nonchalance, “is that.”

“Let me have a look at it,” Susie commanded, and then read it through herself. Having done that, she crumpled it fiercely and hurled it into the fire. “And to think I’ve been sorry for that⁠—that object⁠—for the last three days! Mean beast! I hope Joe’s punch knocked him silly. I don’t care, I do.”

“Well, it did, my dear,” said Inigo, “hence this colossal snub, absolutely. Looks to me as if he’s still off duty.”

“I wouldn’t have minded so much if he hadn’t been so smart-alecky about it. There’s no need for him to try to be funny. His next revue’ll need all the gags he can ever think of. Anyhow, he must be a rotten manager or he’d never let a thing like that stop him from getting in some good new talent. If I was running a show, I wouldn’t care if I got fifty biffs, I’d engage people who could do something.”

“I’m awfully sorry, Susie,” he began.

“Don’t be silly. It’s not your fault. It isn’t anybody’s fault, really, and it certainly isn’t yours. It’s a washout, that’s all, and the best thing I can do is to remember it’s twice daily on the pier, or if fine at the pierhead and if wet in the shelter, that’s my programme⁠—if I’m lucky, because it’s boiling down to that now, when you come to think of it. Hell! Give me a cigarette. No, don’t, thanks. I don’t want one.”

“You ought to smoke a pipe,” he said, lighting his. “By the way, I saw Jimmy this morning⁠—”

“Is he better?”

“Practically. Head still hums a bit, and says he’s dizzy when he tries to walk about. He won’t be fit for work for a week or two. But what I wanted to say was, Mamie Potter’s gone.”

“Thank God! She wasn’t much good anyhow, and she’s brought us nothing but rotten luck. Thinks we’re not good enough for her now, I suppose?”

“Something like that. Anyhow, she’s gone. And nobody seems to know anything about Master Jerningham.”

“Oh, he’s pushed off too, I expect,” said Susie, who was clearly anxious to relieve her feelings. “He would! He’ll look after himself all right⁠—Ai give you mai ward.”

“I dunno. He may turn up again, babbling about his trousers as he did last time. Where was that? Tewborough, wasn’t it? Gosh! the holes we’ve been in, Susie!”

“It’s nothing to the hole we’re in now, laddie,” she said darkly. “We’re in a mess, busted absolutely⁠—as our sweet young pianist says. There’s poor Miss Trant in a nursing home, and though she’s sweet about it, she must be fed up to the teeth with the lot of us. They say she’ll have to pay for all the damage too. Well, she’s had enough of it, you can bet. No more Good Companions for her. That means we shan’t have a cent to go on with. If she offered us any money, I wouldn’t take it. Not after all she’s done and had to pay out.”

“Well, I’ve got a spot, you know,” he remarked.

“Keep your spot, my child. I’m coming to your part in it soon. Then Potter’s gone. That doesn’t matter, but still it means we’ll have to get another soubrette. Jerry’s gone too, and that’s really awkward. You wouldn’t get another light comedian as good⁠—not for C.P. work⁠—if you advertised till all was blue. Then Jimmy’s not fit for work yet. We’d have to put in old Jess as a Yorkshire comedian. Wouldn’t he be marvellous! It’s all right laughing, but⁠—oh, it’s murder. I saw myself up in town by this time, signing contracts like mad, looking for a flat. What a hope! And a week ago I was sniffing at Bournemouth. Bournemouth! It wouldn’t look at us now. Two-night stands are all we’re fit for, with a return visit to Rawsley the event of the season. Susie Dean. A riot of Sandybay! Front chairs one-and-ten-pence! Patronize the pierrots, girls and boys! Oh, hell⁠—oh!⁠—oh⁠—”

“Susie!” He jumped out of his chair.

She shook her head fiercely, her thick dark bobbed hair swinging. Then she touched his hand for a moment and pushed him back. “No, sit down, idiot. We’re both idiots. I work myself up in the most ghastly way these days. It must be because I’m so excited inside all the time, have been for days.”

“I know,” said Inigo sympathetically. He was sitting down again now, but his hands were stretched out in front of him, as if it was impossible to restrain them from reaching out to her.

“You don’t know. You don’t know anything about it.” She was smiling mistily. “O lord! where’s my handkerchief? Wait a minute. Now then, I’ve not finished yet. There’s you.”

“Me! What about me? I’m all right.”

“You’re not. To begin with, you’re absurd, and always will be. No, don’t start saying you’re not, because that’s not what I’m going to talk about. You went up to Felder and Hunterman’s on Saturday, they heard your stuff, and what’s his name⁠—you know⁠—”

“Pitsner?”

“That’s right. Well, Pitsner wanted your songs, didn’t he, just as that ape Monte Mortimer did?”

“He did. I won’t say he was keen, because I don’t believe that man was ever keen about anything. He’s got a sort of ‘But she is in her grave, and oh the difference to me!’ look about him, Master Pitsner. Still, he wanted them all right.”

“Well, there you are. Pitsner didn’t get a punch from Joe, you know.”

“True,” Inigo murmured. He knew what was coming and was hoping to dodge it. “Pitsner didn’t. But I’ve no doubt at all that something could be arranged, if you feel he ought to have one too. He could come down here for it, or perhaps one of us might go up there⁠—”

“Don’t be funny,” she told him wearily. “You’re not bad until you start being funny. Then you make me feel sick. Let’s talk sense. You know he’ll take those songs like a shot. And you know⁠—or you ought to know, by this time⁠—you can make bags of money up there turning out these things. Well, that’s where you’re going.”

“You mean⁠—I ought to clear out too?”

“Of course! The sooner the better!”

“But I don’t want to.”

“I dare say,” she cried. “Because I’m not going, eh? I know your little game. You want to stay with us, going the old round, thumping out the old stuff, and looking at me over the top of the piano with the love-light in your eyes. For her sake alone he⁠—thingumy-bobbed⁠—renounced wealth and fame. Love was his guiding star. Came the dawn. Yeogh!” Here she gave a very unladylike imitation of acute sickness. “What do you think you are⁠—a little hero from Hollywood? Out you go, laddie. Honestly, you don’t want to go trailing round another year⁠—Rawsley, Dotworth, Sandybay, Winstead, Haxby, Middleford, and Tewborough⁠—my God!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Inigo, examining the bowl of his pipe with unnecessary interest. “Seeing England and all that. On t’road⁠—as our friend, Master Oakroyd, says. It’s the sort of experience that might be very useful to a man of letters⁠—”

“Man of letters!” Susie made a number of uncomplimentary noises.

Inigo flushed and kicked out a foot at nothing in particular. “Shut up, Susie. I will write something decent some day, you see if I don’t.”

Her dark eyes rested on his sulky boy’s face for a moment, and lost their hard brilliance. “Sorry! I don’t know anything about it. I only know about silly songs, and you’re marvellously clever at them. Anyhow, the point is⁠—no self-sacrifice stuff. You’ve got to clear out of this mess.”

“But you see, there’s no self-sacrifice stuff about it,” he explained quietly and slowly, while he examined, with what was apparently strong distaste, a large photogravure bearing the title “On the Road to Gretna Green.” “I want to be where you are, as I’ve told you before.”

To this Susie made no reply. She looked into the fire, and they were both silent for a minute or two. “But after all,” she said, finally, “if you want to do something for me, you ought to clear out and get up to London. Look what you did last Saturday.”

“That’s true,” he cried, brightening. “That’s the place to work it from.” He paused, thinking it over. “I don’t know, though. I’d have a pop at it, of course, but last Saturday’s effort was gigantic cheek, absolutely, and I don’t know if I could drag out any more Monte Mortimers. Still, you could slip up, couldn’t you?”

She nodded, then frowned at the fire. “It’s a mess. Everything’s got into a mess. I expect you must think sometimes I’m an awful little hard nut, always on the make. No, listen,” as he began to protest. “But something nags at me inside telling me to get on quick. It’s a sort of feeling I have about my father and mother. I’ve told you about it before, haven’t I? As if it was because they had such a rotten time. And I feel I can’t wait long. It’s all right people saying ‘Oh, you’re young. Plenty of time!’⁠—that sounds all right⁠—but there isn’t. If nothing happens, I’ll get stale soon. I know I will. I oughtn’t to, but there you are. I expect I haven’t the guts to keep on and keep it up.”

“That’s rot. I see what you mean, absolutely, but it’s rot about not having the guts. You’ve guts enough for ten.”

She laughed, came over to him, and twisted a finger in his lock of hair. “Awful, isn’t it? We sound like a butcher’s shop. Let’s talk about something else.”

“By the way,” he began. “Ow! That hurts. Look here, creature, if you want to know what to do with your hands⁠—”

“I don’t, thank you,” letting him go.

“Pity,” he grumbled. “However, I was going to say, I’ve just remembered that Saturday night was your benefit.”

“You don’t mean to say you’d forgotten that?”

“No, not exactly. What I meant was, I’d forgotten you got the money. How much was it, and what have you done with it, and so on and so forth?”

“I haven’t done anything with it, idiot. Matter of fact, I don’t know exactly how much it all comes to yet, but anyhow I’m not taking it. Of course not, don’t be silly! How can I? Here’s Miss Trant going to be run in for hundreds and hundreds. I can’t possibly take anything.”

“No, I suppose not,” he replied, poking his face meditatively with the stem of his pipe. “Gosh! I’d forgotten about that.”

“You’re lucky! That’s all part of the hellish mess. I’m going to see Miss Trant this afternoon. I think I’ll ask Mrs. Joe to come too. At times like this, us girls must stick together, my child.”

They looked at one another, laughed, then carefully explained that they were really very miserable. And indeed they were about as depressed as it was possible for two such lively, youthful, optimistic souls to be. It was all the worse because there was nothing for them to do.

“Well,” said Inigo at length, after wandering vaguely about the room, “I suppose I must be thinking about a spot of food. I’m having lunch out somewhere. Coming with me?”

“I don’t feel like facing Ye Jollie Dutche,” she told him. “I think I’ll tea-and-egg it here. Hello, what’s that?”

“That, my dear,” he replied, at the window, “is a car. And it’s stopping here.”

“Let me have a look. I knew it was. I felt it was. I’ve seen that car before somewhere. Something’s going to happen, Inigo. It is, I know it is.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Come away from the window or you might spoil it. No, we must pretend now we don’t care, else it might stop happening at the last minute. I’ve always felt that, haven’t you? There you are, a knock.”

“Probably the doctor or somebody like that.”

“It can’t be. I’m sure it isn’t.”

And it wasn’t. The landlady’s head appeared and announced that a shover had called with a message for Miss Dean and for Mr. Jollifant too if he was here, which he was as her own eyes could see for themselves, and she would send it in to give it to them.

Susie recognized the chauffeur at once, and we recognize him too, having met him once on the pier at Sandybay and then again, one Sunday afternoon, outside Hicklefield. Yes, it is Lawley, Lady Partlit’s chauffeur.

“And you’re to come round to the Victoria Midland Hotel for lunch, Miss,” he explained. “And you, sir, too. I was going round to your rooms, but this has saved me the trouble. And I had to tell you that it was specially important, and they would be expecting you as soon as you could get round.”

“They?” cried Susie. “Who are the others? Yes, we’ll come, won’t we, Inigo? But what’s it all about?”

“Well,” said Lawley, grinning, “it’s a bit of a surprise, Miss. You’ll soon see.”

Susie looked at him a moment with widening eyes, then flashed a glance that might have meant a thousand things at Inigo, and bolted, screaming as she went: “Back in a minute!”

“Not so blowy as it has been,” remarked Lawley coolly to Inigo, “but still on the cold side, if you ask me.”

III

They both jumped and spoke, but Susie’s cry was a second quicker than Inigo’s.

“Married!”

“Yes, quite a surprise, isn’t it?” said the lady who had once been a Partlit. She glittered and jangled and flashed before their startled eyes; her little round mouth looked as if it would never be shut again; her big staring eyes were now dancing with happiness; and though she still resembled a cockatoo, neither cage nor jungle had ever seen a cockatoo so excited, so triumphant. “And only this very morning. What a rush, my dear! I haven’t breathed since Saturday, that horrible, horrible night. Yes, I’ve heard all about it, such a business! If I’d been a second later getting him away, I really think I should have died. At the time, of course, I could only think about him, but I’ve thought about you all since and felt so sorry. And poor Miss Trant too! But aren’t you going to⁠—or is that too late?”

“Of course we are,” cried Susie. “It’s lovely, and I’m sure you’ll both be marvellously happy.”

“Absolutely,” muttered Inigo, who was still rather dazed.

“Now isn’t that nice! Of course it’s taken you completely by surprise. I knew it would,” the bride rattled on. “And now, my dear, you must be ready for lunch. I think I’ll ring the bell. He should be here any minute now. Telephoning, you know. We haven’t had a single moment to spare since Monday morning, it’s been such a rush. There he is, I think.” She flew to the door. “Here we are, darling, and they were both so surprised⁠—I knew they would be. Isn’t it amusing?”

Susie was the first again. “Marvellous, Jerry!” She was busy shaking his hand. “I’m so glad. I hadn’t any idea what was happening.”

For one wild moment, Inigo, who had not yet come to his senses, saw himself stepping forward to congratulate Jerningham on becoming Lord Partlit or something of that kind. It seemed incredible that Partlit should be merged into Jerningham. “Many happy returns,” he stammered. “I mean⁠—you know⁠—best wishes and all that.”

“Tharnks, Susie. Tharnks, Inigo,” said Jerningham gravely and without the flicker of an eyelid. He was more dignified, more beautiful, than ever, but his accent was also more fantastic. That alone had been unsettled by these momentous events; strange at any time, it was now wildly alien; and every sentence he spoke heaped up the mangled syllables. “Glard you could cem on to lernch.”

“And we’ve got news for them, haven’t we, darling?” cried his wife, who looked even more excited and happy now that he was here, as if there had been just a slight possibility before that he might never come back from the telephone.

“I should think you have news,” said Susie, smiling and being tremendously woman-to-woman.

“Oh, but that’s not all, my dear, I assure you. Lots of surprises for you today. Isn’t Mr. Memsworth coming, darling? Lunch is ready.”

“Raight, he won’t be lorng,” replied Jerry. “He’s jerst petting through a call to tawn.”

Susie glanced sharply at Inigo. “What have we here?” this glance inquired, but did not stay for an answer. A waiter arrived with cocktails, and for the next few minutes they all sipped and chatted, with one eye on the door. The table was laid for five, so evidently Mr. Memsworth was to be of the party. It had quite a festive appearance, though the room itself, the only small private dining-room in the hotel, seemed to have given up hope of provincial social life about 1892. But what the Victoria Midland Hotel could do, it was obviously about to do for Mr. and Mrs. Jerningham.

At last, Mr. Memsworth made his entrance. It happened that there was a waiter on each side of the door when he appeared, but there ought to have been at least twenty, to say nothing of an orchestra. Mr. Memsworth, however, contrived at once to create an atmosphere in which two waiters looked like twenty. The moment he stalked in, with his “Sorry to keep you waiting” in a rich baritone that went straight to the back of the dress-circle, Susie realized in a flash it was the Memsworth, the great Memsworth, one greater than Monte Mortimer, and known in the profession as “The Emperor” or, more familiarly, perhaps ironically, as “The Emp.” This was partly a tribute to his managerial powers, for he was the greatest despot in the musical-comedy world, and partly a tribute to his actual presence, his terrific style. Unlike most manager-producers, Mr. Memsworth had been an actor himself, having for years played “leads” in musical comedy. Those were the days when the scene of every musical comedy was set in some vague Central European state, when every leading juvenile was a prince in hussar uniform and every principal comedian a baron with a red nose, a squeaky voice, and a passion for ladies’ maids, when every stage was noisy with heel-clicking, hussar choruses, and stentorian announcements of “His Highness, Prince Michael of Slavonia.” Night after night, year after year, Mr. Memsworth had been some Highness or other, with the result that the manner had grown upon him; he could not divest himself of kingship. And now that he was a manager-producer⁠—and a very successful one, having a sound knowledge of the public taste, an eye for talent, and a very good head for business⁠—he still made princely exits and entrances, patted people on the back as if he were bestowing an order upon them, and laughed in that hearty manner only possible to great public personages. The fashion in musical comedy had changed⁠—and he had been one of the first to recognize the fact⁠—but Slavonia, with its soldiers and soubrettes, its waltz-time and impossible scenery, lived on in him. And now, as he came forward to the luncheon table, it seemed strange that he was not followed by two files of baritone dragoons.

Susie nearly choked when she was introduced⁠—or rather, presented⁠—to him. She knew all about him. The Emp. himself⁠—here in Gatford! But then, of course, Lady Partlit⁠—Mrs. Jerningham⁠—had something to do with West End theatres. She remembered that talk in the hotel outside Hicklefield. Those were Memsworth’s theatres too. It was obvious now. Jerry had married her so that he could star in Memsworth’s productions⁠—something like that. “And you’re on in this, Susie,” she told herself, nearly bursting with excitement.

Inigo was quite cool, for the simple reason that he did not know who Memsworth was, except that he seemed the nearest thing one could ever get in this lower world to Prince Florizel of Bohemia.

They had not been sat down long when Mr. Memsworth looked gravely from one to the other of them, and, raising a fork, commanded silence. “Miss Dean, Mr. Jollifant,” he began, in deep, solemn tones, “the other night I had the pleasure of seeing your show here.”

“When?” gasped Susie.

“On Saturday night,” he told her.

“And I was there too,” the bride put in. “Wasn’t I, darling? And a terrible night it was too, my dear.”

“It was you in the box,” cried Susie.

“Of course it was. It was all going to be such a nice surprise. Mr. Memsworth had to see me on business, and I said to him, ‘You must come and see these clever people,’ and he laughed⁠—this was on the telephone⁠—you did laugh, didn’t you, Mr. Memsworth?”

“I believe I was rather amused,” the Emperor admitted. “But then who wouldn’t have been, dear lady? I mean, in my position. New talent in Gatford is not an impossibility⁠—there are no impossibilities in our profession⁠—but it’s⁠—er⁠—an improbability. I think you’ll agree with me there.”

“Absolutely,” said Inigo heartily. He was enjoying Mr. Memsworth and so thought that this was the least he could do.

“But though I laughed,” the great man continued, very impressively, “I came, I saw⁠—and I was conquered.”

Inigo gave a sudden gurgle. “I’m sorry. But I couldn’t help thinking about Monte Mortimer, who came and saw and was conquered too.”

“And I hope he’s still feeling it,” said Susie.

The others stared at them.

“Mai dar Jollifant,” said Jerningham, raising his exquisite eyebrows, “whort is all this about?”

“Ah, Monte,” the Emperor murmured. “So you know Monte, do you? A very able fellow, very able⁠—in his own line of business.”

“You see,” cried Susie, “he was there on Saturday too⁠—to have a look at us.”

“What!” Susie and Inigo began explaining together, and contrived to tumble out the story between them.

Mr. Memsworth roared with laughter. It was as good as a baritone solo. “But do you mean to say he was laid out?” he demanded. “He was? Right under my nose too. My dear people, I’d have given pounds, pounds, to have seen it. Monte! On the jaw, I think you said?” The room shook with his imperial mirth. “Waiter, the champagne. We must drink to this, we really must. Oh, why didn’t I know at the time. You made him come up and then he was knocked out. Monte! What a story! Next time I see Monte at the club, I shall go up to him, look him in the eyes, and then simply say one word⁠—Gatford. Monte will be at my mercy. Why, if this story got about⁠—!” Mr. Memsworth raised his eyes, his hands, towards Heaven, and then drank some champagne. “But, Miss Dean, Mr. Jollifant, this has its serious side,” he went on, solemn again now. “Are you tied up with him in any way?”

“He told us to go to the devil,” said Susie. And Inigo explained about the letter they had received that very morning.

“What a rude man!” cried Mrs. Jerningham.

“It’s the Oriental,” said Mr. Memsworth, “the Oriental, dear lady. Monte is not a sportsman⁠—never was, never will be. I know him well, in business and outside it. A very able fellow, as I said before⁠—I don’t know anybody who can put on a revue of the medium-class, semi-intimate, semi-spectacular⁠—but not a gentleman.” He turned to Susie and Inigo. “So that leaves you free. No more Monte! Well, I don’t mind admitting that I think you’re lucky. I don’t say that Monte couldn’t have done something for you. He could have done a great deal. He’s made one or two good people. But I can do more⁠—believe me, much more. I can put you⁠—there.”

“And will, won’t you, Mr. Memsworth?” said Mrs. Jerningham, who was evidently not only happy herself but anxious that everybody else should be happy. A bird of Paradise, not a cockatoo.

“I will try, if these⁠—if your friends here⁠—will allow me,” he replied majestically. “As I say, I saw the show on Saturday, and to my astonishment, I discovered that here⁠—playing in Gatford⁠—in a troupe whose name is entirely unknown to me⁠—are three young people of real, quite undoubted talent.” He paused, holding them with his eye. “First, a young comedienne, who can sing, who can dance, who can act, who has⁠—and this is the great thing⁠—charm and personality. If she has ambition, as I’m told she has⁠—”

“I’m bursting with it.” Susie told him breathlessly.

He bowed. “So I believe. That’s very important, more important every day. Must have ambition, must be ready to work hard, to put your profession first. Society and the journalists are ruining so many of our young ladies. They achieve a little success⁠—and then, what happens? They go here, they go there; their names, their photographs, are in all the papers⁠—very good publicity, of course⁠—I don’t object to it; but they don’t work.”

“That’s true, Mr. Memsworth,” said Susie eagerly. “But I’m ready to work till I drop, honestly I am. I’m not doing it for fun. I was⁠—was born in the profession.”

“That’s what we want,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I was myself. Now, second⁠—I found a juvenile lead.” He bowed to Jerningham, who blushed for once in his cool unblushing life. “I know all about him now, so I needn’t say any more. But third⁠—I found a young composer who can write songs that get across and stay there,” He turned to Inigo. “Do you think you can write some more like those numbers I heard?”

“I should think so,” replied Inigo carelessly. He was beginning to feel wonderlandish again, what with Mr. Memsworth and the champagne. “Any amount.”

The great man looked at him in grave astonishment, in which there was perhaps a touch of awe. Here was a very extraordinary young man, who was not at all impressed by the fact that he was about to be taken up by Memsworth. “My word, my boy!” he ejaculated.

“He can too, Mr. Memsworth,” cried Susie. “Inigo’s marvellous. He can just knock them off like anything.”

“Thart is so,” said Jerry, with lofty kindness. “You can barnk on Jollifant, Mr. Memsworth. You’ve nobody writing nambers for you to tech him.”

“And they eat them, even in the stupidest places,” Susie continued. “You could see that the other night, couldn’t you? But p’raps you couldn’t. I was forgetting that wretched rotten business, busting up the show.”

“Ah yes. Curious, that, very curious. I’ve not seen anything like it for years.” Mr. Memsworth looked thoughtful. “No, nothing as bad for twenty years. I don’t know what you people made of it, but to me it was obvious, quite obvious. Hooliganism, of course⁠—but organized hooliganism. Somebody must have paid them to do that. The house in general was very enthusiastic. I saw that. Then why should these fellows kick up such a row, and go on doing it? Paid to do it. There for the purpose. I don’t know who employed them, I don’t know why they were employed, all I say is they were employed, paid to do it. I’ve seen it happen before, though not lately. I’ve had a lot of experience. You take my word for it. Organized rowdyism.”

“I’m beginning to think that, too,” said Susie, “and I know that Mrs. Joe does. I shall tell Miss Trant, don’t you think so, Inigo, Jerry?”

“Meanwhile⁠—to business,” said Mr. Memsworth, looking as if he were about to give his loyal subjects a Constitution. “I take it, then, Mr. Jollifant, you’re free to work for me?”

Inigo thought so, but put in a word about Felder and Hunterman.

“That can be arranged,” and Mr. Memsworth waved a hand. “Leave that to me. What I want you to do is to see Julian Jaffery, who’s supposed to be doing the music for my new show or at least putting some new stuff into it. We should want those numbers I heard the other night and one or two others, and then you can set to work on another thing I’m planning. I’ve got most of the book. And I want you, Miss Dean, to rehearse a big part⁠—in which you’ll be playing opposite Mr. Jerningham here, and you can work together⁠—in this show that’s nearly ready. You can take Mr. Jollifant’s numbers that you’re doing now straight into it, though I may get one of my librettists to alter the words a bit.” He had in hand, it seemed, a splendid new musical comedy, that bore the provisional title The Mascot Girl. It had begun as a French farce, but had been taken to Vienna, where it was transformed into an operetta, which was entirely rewritten in New York as a song-and-dance show; and now, the last vestiges of the original plot having been removed, new words and music were being introduced so that it could blossom out again as an English comedy. Mr. Memsworth told them all about it or at least contrived to suggest that he was telling them all about it, for there was not really much to tell. It was obvious that the thing would only begin to have a shape at the rehearsal. Nevertheless, it appeared that Susie and Jerry would have very important parts in it, and that Inigo’s tunes would soon be delighting or worrying the whole country. In short, their fortunes were made, their ships almost in harbour.

“No,” cried Susie, her eyes dancing, “I really couldn’t eat or drink anything else. If I did I should be sick, I’m so excited.”

“Sweet!” murmured Mrs. Jerningham, and patted her hand.

“But it’s⁠—it’s⁠—oh, golly!⁠—it’s marvellous. Isn’t it, Inigo? Don’t sit there, pretending you don’t care tuppence. Isn’t it marvellous? Aren’t you dizzy?”

“Absolutely,” said Inigo, who was in fact a trifle dizzy.

“I don’t mind saying it’s jerst whort I’ve warnted,” Jerningham admitted. And he gave his wife such a sudden, unexpected and unasked for, altogether beautiful smile that no doubt she felt dizzy too. For smiles like that, she would have bought him whole theatres.

Mr. Memsworth, whom the champagne had made more benevolent and regal than ever, so that he sat there like another Haroun al Raschid, smiled upon them all, and then explained to Susie and Inigo that they had better clear things up in Gatford and then report to him in town if possible in two days’ time, and on Monday at the latest. Then he would have contracts ready and everything.

Susie stared at him in a happy dream: “Oh, Mr. Memsworth, don’t disappear or anything, will you? I feel as if I’m sitting in my digs making this up, just to pass the afternoon. In a minute I shall wake up.”

“It’s so very nice for you, isn’t it?” Mrs. Jerningham cooed.

“Nice! It’s⁠—oh, I can’t begin. And you’ve done it, Lady⁠—I mean, Mrs. Jerningham, and I’m so glad you’ve married Jerry and I hope you’ll both be happy forever and ever.” And she flung out her hands, and Jerry shook one, with a solemn “Tharnks, Susie,” while his bride squeezed the other, saying: “You know, we’ve to go up to town tonight. All such a rush, isn’t it? But I do adore a rush, don’t you, my dear?”

“And this,” said Inigo, who had just accepted and lit a large cigar so that he felt almost vulgarly opulent already, “is the end⁠—the very end⁠—of the Good Companions.”

Susie’s face fell. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? I’d forgotten that. Yes, it’s all right laughing, but it’s rather sad, really. Why can’t we have one nice thing without having to give up another nice thing?”

“That, my dear lady, is Life.” Mr. Memsworth did this magnificently.

“I suppose it is, but it’s beastly all the same,” said Susie. “Oh, and what about the others, Jimmy and the Joes? What are they going to do now, poor darlings? Can’t you do anything for them, Mr. Memsworth? They’re awfully good, really. You didn’t get a chance to see them properly the other night.”

He shook his head. “I don’t doubt it. I wish I could do something for them. I’d like to oblige you, Miss Dean, and I like to see people in our profession sticking to their friends. But these others⁠—sorry⁠—not in my line. Too old, you know. Much too old even for the chorus. I might possibly find a very small part in something or other for the little comedian, but really I think he’d be far better off in his own concert-party work. And the others certainly would. Sorry, but still, they’ll find work all right. Can’t they carry on this present show?”

“Nathing left in it,” said Jerry. “All the real tarlent gone.”

“No, that’s not fair, Jerry,” Susie told him. “But there wouldn’t be enough of them to do anything with it. I mean, it couldn’t be the same show, now that half of it has gone. Oh, it’s a shame. They’ll have to find work with another C.P. and it won’t be easy getting into a good one ’cos the season’s nearly beginning.”

Mr. Memsworth looked thoughtful. “The season⁠—the season,” he mused. “Now that reminds me of something that was said to me the other day. What was it? Ah, I have it. Bellerby, that’s the man. Bellerby used to do a good deal of work for me at one time, and I ran across him the other day in town and he told me he was getting a resident concert party together for some resort or other, Eastbourne, Hastings, one of those places, you know. In fact, he asked me if I could recommend him a few decent people.”

“Oh, but that would be marvellous! Just what they want! Do you think this man would take them?” Susie asked.

“A word from me,” said Mr. Memsworth, and a wave of his hand told them the rest.

“But how are you⁠—I mean⁠—will you write to him or something?”

“Mr. Jollifant, just touch that bell, will you?” the great man commanded. This⁠—his manner informed them⁠—was his way of doing things, and they must now keep their eyes and ears open. The bell brought a waiter, and the waiter was told to bring Mr. Nurris, who it appeared was Mr. Memsworth’s secretary. Mr. Nurris was a pallid young man with darkish horn-rimmed spectacles. “Look here, Nurris,” cried his employer. “Can you remember Bellerby’s address? You remember him? South coast somewhere. You can, eh? Then take a wire. Wait a minute, though. I must be out of this town by five. It’s no use him wiring back to me. Who’ll act for these four people?” he asked Susie and Inigo.

They gave him Jimmy’s name and address. Thereupon, Mr. Memsworth dictated a telegram of theatrical dimensions, recommending one comedian, one conjurer-banjoist, one baritone and feed, and contralto, all experienced C.P. artistes, and asking for terms, dates, and other details, to be wired to Jimmy Nunn. “And if that doesn’t bring a reply by tonight, you may take it from me that Bellerby is either drunk or missing or both. Get it off at once, Nurris.”

“And now,” said Susie to Inigo, after they had shaken hands all round and declared how splendid it all was and taken their leave, “it looks as if we’re all going to be fixed up. Aren’t you excited? Honestly, I’m nearly ill. I want to rush up to everybody and tell them all about it. Just think of us sitting there this morning⁠—me, anyhow⁠—giving it all up as a bad job. And then this comes along. Wouldn’t it be ghastly if I got run over or something now?” She squeezed his arm hard, then let it go and laughed.

“You’ve forgotten two people,” he told her, after she had finished happily babbling. “One is Miss Trant.”

“I’m going to see her now, to tell her all the news. And I’m sure she won’t mind a bit. I believe she’ll be glad. And I shall tell her to keep all my benefit money, to help to pay the damages they say they’re going to claim at the measly Hippodrome. It’ll all help, won’t it?”

“A spot,” he replied. “Those damages are going to be a nasty piece of work. I don’t like the idea of poor Miss Trant being left here, with a bad arm and a bill a mile long, while we trot off to town to make our fortunes.”

“If you put it like that⁠—and I must say, Inigo, you’ve a nasty way of putting things⁠—it sounds nearly as bad as murder. But it’ll be all right. Everything’s going to be all right for everybody, I feel sure it is. I’ve felt so all along. The trouble about you, my laddie, is you’ve no confidence⁠—”

“Well, by gosh! I like that,” he protested, “when it’s only a few hours since you were moping away⁠—”

“Don’t talk such rot, Inigo. That’s the worst of you. You talk such a lot of rot. It must be because you’re⁠—what is it?⁠—an author⁠—no, something worse than that⁠—a man of let‑ters. No, don’t start being cross now, or you’ll spoil everything. Who’s the other one I’ve forgotten?”

“Our Mr. Oakroyd.”

“Jess lad. So I had,” she cried. “What a shame! I haven’t seen him for days. Have you? Oh, something nice must happen to him, it really must. We can’t all just leave him, alone with his bag of tools and his little basket thing. Do you remember his little basket trunk? Wasn’t it sweet? He’s been a bit broody lately too, so p’raps he wants a change like the rest of us. Well, I’m sure it’ll be easy to find him a job. We could take him with us, or the others might be able to find him something if they get that resident job, or Miss Trant might want him to stay with her.”

“Why, what could she give him to do? What’s she going to do herself anyhow?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Don’t be so silly and impatient, young man. Well, this is where we part. I’m going to see Miss Trant. I don’t know what she’ll think about me. Do I look all right, because honestly I feel tight, though I only had one glass of that champagne? And you run along and write another song or two, just to keep your hand in. No, run away. Isn’t it marvellous? See you soon.”

“When?”

“Tonight⁠—perhaps.”

He watched her dart across the road and then trip away down the other side, so eager, so happy, like a girl in a shining fairytale. It almost hurt him to see her like that. Something old, unreasonable, stirred apprehensively inside him⁠—a little Inigo that had once looked up from his bone and his bride to see the trampling mastodon blotting out the sky. Then he grinned at himself and walked away.

IV

Once more we discover Mrs. Joe in her sitting-room, surrounded by the brown cotton-woolly moors and glens that haunted the imagination of Mrs. Pennyfeather’s uncle. Mrs. Joe is still knitting that mysterious garment, which is now more complicated and untidier than ever. She had knitted steadily through these dark idle days, and it looks as if there is a danger of her knitting herself inside this pink monster and having to be rescued with a pair of shears. We have never pretended that she was young but now, as she sits there, working away, she looks older than she did. In that mask of mingled dignity and simple foolishness, there has been a recent invasion of fine lines; her face begins to droop and sag. This past week she has suffered as an artiste, a wife, and a mother⁠—for though George is safe on Denmark Hill, he has to be paid for, for his passion for playing football in side-streets with a little india-rubber ball is creating a terrible boot problem. No doubt she is thinking about these things, the bewildering mechanics of life, as she stares into the microscopic fire, itself evidence enough of the Brundit new economic policy. For a few minutes, during which we shall do well to look upon her with kindness, for very soon, this very night in fact, she is going her way and we are going ours and the acquaintance is at an end, she sits and stares and weaves the monstrous mesh. Then she starts up. Somebody has burst into the room. It is Susie.

Susie takes a deep breath, plucks off her hat, and flings it anywhere, takes another deep breath, and falls into a chair.

“You did give me a Start, my dear,” Mrs. Joe tells her, reproachfully. “I wondered what on earth it could be.”

And now Susie begins: “Talk about news! My dear, I’m simply bursting with ’em. Jerry’s married Lady Partlit, the woman I told you about, who sent the bouquet, and I’ve seen them both, had lunch with them, and Mr. Memsworth, the Emperor, you know, the musical-comedy man, he was there too, and we’re all going to London and Jerry and I are going to have parts, really fat parts, in a new show he’s doing, and Inigo’s going to write the music, and Mr. Memsworth’s wired to a man who’s getting up a resident C.P. somewhere⁠—”

“Stop it, child, stop it,” Mrs. Joe shrieks. “You’re putting me in a Maze, with your Lady Partridges and Emperors. I don’t know whether I’m sitting in this room or where I am. Now just calm yourself down and get your breath and begin at the beginning and let me take it all in.”

“Well, you see⁠—”

“But, Susie, my dear, you’re not teasing me, are you? I mean, you’re not just making it all up. I couldn’t bear that just now. Some other time, perhaps, it would be just a little fun and frolic between ourselves⁠—nobody can say I don’t like a little joking in a friendly way⁠—but just now, what with all things being at Sixes and Sevens, no, worse than that, if you count in the injuries and loss of salaries, to say nothing of future engagements, that is, whether there’ll be any at all and if so, where⁠—I really couldn’t bear it. So don’t tell me anything you’re making up, will you?”

“Making it up! I couldn’t make it up. Nobody could. Just you listen and don’t say a word.” After which, Mrs. Joe does listen, entranced, to a very full account of the lunch.

“Did you ever!” cried Mrs. Joe. “I never did. There’s your Chance, come at last, you might say, when hope had fled. Doesn’t it show you? My words, it does.” She is almost aghast at this revelation of her prophetic powers. “There was I, on Saturday, saying to you when you told me that Mortimer man was there, ‘What did I tell you? Here’s your Chance, come to you, without asking, in Gatford.’ And then when nothing came of it and the things I’ve said to Joe about what he did that night really won’t bear thinking of, not in cold blood⁠—when nothing came of it, I could have slapped myself for Leading You On. ‘You’ve only gone and made it worse, you silly creature,’ I said to myself. And yet something told me. Try as I might, it still told me. And now here you are, with a Bigger Chance. And it had to come, even if it took a marriage no more expected than the Man in the Moon to do it, you might say. It⁠—it⁠—a thing like this⁠—makes you ask yourself, Where Are We?⁠—What Are We?⁠—if you see what I mean.” She loses herself in these profundities for a moment or two. Then she throws aside all her knitting and needles and balls of wool. “I’m glad. I’m very very glad, my dear. I know it means breaking up and starting afresh some⁠—where else for us, with the season so near too, but I’m still glad, just for your own sake, my dear.” And she leans forward and kisses her young friend’s flushed face.

“But, you stupid, I’ve news for you, too,” Susie points out.

“Anything I’m sure will be welcome,” Mrs. Joe replies. Then she adds, a trifle wistfully: “There hasn’t been anything said about us, has there?”

“Of course there has. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” And out it comes, to delight Mrs. Joe.

“Though,” she is careful to say, “as things go in the ordinary way⁠—and unless Luckiness has set in all round⁠—it’s only a Shot in the Dark so far. A manager says he wants artistes for a resident season at one of our best resorts. He says it once. Well and good! He may say it twice. Twice is quite possible. But after that, he’s not going to say it any more⁠—and why? Because he’s got the artistes. They flocked in, my dear, flocked. They don’t need to be told twice. You do see what I mean, don’t you? He told Mr. Memsworth about this some days ago⁠—perhaps a week ago, perhaps longer⁠—and if he’s told other people, he’s already had the choice of a hundred. To ask for artistes for a good resident season,” she adds solemnly, “is like⁠—well, you might as well ask for haystacks for a needle.”

“Oh, he may not have booked anybody,” Susie remarks, rather carelessly. “Anyhow, we’ll soon see. He was told to wire a reply to Jimmy.”

“Joe’s over there now. Went to discuss the situation, and so I told him, ‘Very well, but if it’s to be a discussion, stay in the rooms and have something in. Send Out for a bottle or two of beer and leave it at that, and don’t go discussing on licensed premises, because that’s how the money goes.’ That’s a thing to watch when you’re married, my dear. Always get him to Send Out for something and do his discussing at home.”

Susie laughs. “I’ll remember that, though it doesn’t matter because I don’t intend ever to get married.”

“Don’t tell me, because I know how you feel. I was just the same at your age. But then⁠—all of a sudden, before you can say Jack Robinson⁠—it comes over you.”

“I think I know somebody it’s coming over now,” Susie tells her confidentially. “And that’s Miss Trant.”

“No!”

“Yes. I’ve just seen her. And I found him there, the great him. Didn’t I ever tell you about that Scotch doctor she’s been quietly in love with for ages?” To make sure of the matter, she tells her now. “And there he was the day,” she concludes, employing what passes in theatrical circles for a good Scots accent, “looking into herrr eyes and callin’ herrr Eleezabeth. He’s verra tall an’ verra bony an’ verra seerious, but wi’ a nice kind face. An’ if he’s not proposin’ marritch the morn’s morn an’ if she’s no gladly acceptin’ him, ah’ll go an’ eat ma best bonnet. Hoots, woman, its a⁠—oh, I can’t do any more, but anyhow there they are, falling in love all over again like billy-oh, and blushing away every time they look at one another. And Miss Trant pretends to be very worried about what we’re all going to do, and about the show busting up, and about all this money she may have to pay out, but she doesn’t care a damn, really. I could see it in her eye. What she’s thinking about now is her Doctorr McFarlane, ye ken. And good luck to her, the darling, I say.”

“So do I, indeed I do,” Mrs. Joe reflects for a moment. “It’s a noble profession, though I must say I could never fancy one of them. Don’t you feel that too, my dear? I mean, as soon as you said anything to keep them in their place a bit, they’d say, ‘Let me look at your tongue,’ and then where would you be? Besides, think of being married to a man who knew everything that was going on inside you, all about your liver and everything! You’d never be able to look him in the face. I remember a doctor⁠—well, he wasn’t quite a doctor but he was going to be one⁠—a medical student, you know⁠—and he was very attached to me, I couldn’t keep him away⁠—this was before I met Joe, long before, when I first went on the stage⁠—and he was very good-looking and most amusing company, but one Sunday night, when he’d had a little too much⁠—we’d been out to Richmond, I remember, and it was a very hot day⁠—and he told me what he’d been doing to a rabbit⁠—it was a dead rabbit, but still⁠—well, I never fancied him after that. I didn’t like the look in his eye. But Miss Trant, I dare say, is different. You feel⁠—don’t you, my dear?⁠—she wouldn’t care about a thing like that. It’s all Temperament.”

But now there are noises off. Enter three gentlemen, carrying bottled ale.

“Has Susie told you?” Joe roars at his wife. “Well, Jimmy’s just had a wire. We’ve just left him.” He rubs his hands and shows her a long slow delighted grin.

“What does he say then?” Mrs. Joe demands, impatiently. “Don’t stand there, without a word. Of all the aggravating men, Joe⁠—!”

“Wants to see us on Monday,” Mr. Morton Mitcham tells her. “Terms are good. Open middle of April, clean run through until end of September. Rehearse beginning of April, on full pay. And if it’s the same Bellerby I played with in Nought Six, he’s a gentleman.”

“Bit of your doing, this, Susie,” Joe roars again. “I’ve heard all about you. After this, up among the stars so high, eh? Shan’t be allowed to talk to you after this week.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Joe. But honestly, isn’t it marvellous?”

“Splendiferous! And what do you say to me for giving that other fellow a tap on the jaw? Don’t forget us, will you?”

“As if I should!”

He gives her a gigantic hug. Mrs. Joe and Mr. Mitcham explain to one another, with the ease and rapidity of veterans, the advantages of a resident season on the South coast. Inigo discovers some tumblers on the sideboard and opens the beer. The gentlemen immediately fall to drinking healths and Mrs. Joe admits that at this moment she could do with “something sharp.” Susie, perched on the edge of the table, exchanges smiles with Inigo, because the others seem so happy. Somebody wants to know where Mr. Oakroyd is, and nobody is able to supply the information. Everybody, however, has so much to say and is so eager to say it that Mr. Oakroyd, who after all has not disappeared into the blue, is soon forgotten. Susie has accepted a cigarette, Joe and Inigo have their pipes, Mr. Mitcham has brought out one of his famous cheroots, so that now the room is full of smoke. Thus we see them through a blue haze: Mr. Morton Mitcham, towering, fantastic, less like a broken-down senator than he was when we first met him at Dullingham Junction, but still the same conglomeration of creaking bone, bending brow, and retreating hair, the same traveller from unimaginable places; Mrs. Joe, flushed, almost sparkling now, ten years younger than she was an hour ago, talking away and sipping her bottled beer but still ready at any moment to play the Duchess of Dorking; the great shoulders and honest beaming face of Joe himself, as he nods and grins and agrees with everybody; Inigo of the wandering nose and wandering lock of hair, at once clean and untidy in the pleasant undergraduate fashion that remains with some men; and Susie, swinging her legs at the table’s edge, turning eagerly from one to another of her companions, talking, laughing, teasing, fooling, as if those dark eyes of hers would see ten thousand years of life undimmed. In another moment they will be nothing but names and news. We see them through this haze, which thickens, deepens, shredding away colour, blurring shape, like Time itself flowing mistily away, and then the curtain comes rustling down, and now we cannot see them at all and perhaps will never see them again.

V

And what was Mr. Oakroyd doing all this time? What has kept him in the background? The answer is⁠—a new part. For the first and last time in his life, Mr. Oakroyd played the detective, a role for which⁠—not being a reader of sensational fiction⁠—he had no particular liking or aptitude. But the great catastrophe had left him darkly brooding, and after innumerable pipes of Old Salt and some talk with his friend, Mr. Jock Campbell, a man compact of suspicion, he had begun to put two and two together. Thus it came about that he played the detective, and we shall soon discover to what purpose if we wait for him in Miss Trant’s room at the nursing home, on the morning of the day when Susie and Inigo were due to depart to London, and even Mrs. Joe and the others were thinking seriously about packing.

Miss Trant was still in the nursing home, but if she had been in a hurry to leave it, she could have done so. She preferred, however, to stay on until her arm was completely better, to the great content of her new medical adviser, Dr. Hugh McFarlane, who contrived to visit her every day. He had now gone into the matter of the Hippodrome claims with Mr. Gooch, and this meant, of course, that he had to see her as often as possible, whatever might happen to a good general practice and the parathyroid glands. Having completely recovered from the shock, Miss Trant was now able to get up, but for the time being she was keeping to her room. When Hugh called, on this particular morning, he found her sitting in an armchair.

“I telephoned to Gooch,” he explained, “and he’s coming along to see you. Something very special, he says. I don’t know that I can stay for long, but he’ll tell you all about it, Elizabeth.”

“It’s a shame, your doing so much,” she told him. “I’m sure you can’t spare the time. You mustn’t bother any more about it, Hugh.”

And he replied that it was no trouble at all, and she said she was sure it must be, and he replied again, quite gruffly, that it was a pleasure, and by this time their eyes had joined in the dialogue and were making the most reckless remarks to one another, so that though their tongues had framed only the most innocent friendly syllables, she was bright pink and he was brick-red. Shy people can engage in this commerce for quite a long time before anything decisive happens, and it is not a stage of the passion that has any interest at all for outsiders (though Miss Trant’s nurse, who had followed every move, noted every blush, and taken the temperature of the affair each day, must be excepted), so that we can safely withdraw to await the arrival of Mr. Gooch.

Mr. Gooch was a solicitor with a very large practice and also a marked Midlands accent. These two things taken together indicate that he was an unusually astute man who knew a great deal about everybody in Gatford, Mundley, and Stort. Miss Trant’s family solicitor, Mr. Truby of Cheltenham, would not have approved of Mr. Gooch at all, but then Mr. Truby would have been afraid to contest claims that Mr. Gooch regarded as mere whims, impudent triflings. Hugh’s Scotch instinct for a good fighting lawyer had not been at fault when it had taken him to Mr. Gooch. For the rest, it only remains to be said that Mr. Gooch was not at all sharp, wizened, ferret-faced, but a stout rubicund man with an enormous flat face that suggested nothing but a sleepy good-humour.

Having bluntly told Miss Trant that he was pleased to meet her and glad to see she was sitting up, Mr. Gooch came at once to business. “Now, Miss Trant,” he began, “I’ve looked into this matter. I thought at first it was a hopeless job. You can’t deny your liability, you see. I’ve had a look at your agreement with the Hippodrome, and your liability’s there all right. Of course you never thought of anything of this sort happening, did you?”

“Naturally not,” Miss Trant replied. “Who would? I mean, it’s not the kind of thing that does happen, you see.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Gooch, creasing his vast face. “Only you’ve got to be prepared for anything in this world. That’s what agreements and contracts are for. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred they’re only time and money thrown away, but there’s always the hundredth. This is it. It’s a pity you put your name to that agreement, Miss Trant, if you don’t mind me saying so. These theatrical lettings are out of my line⁠—and I don’t pretend to know a lot about ’em⁠—but that one you signed doesn’t look right to me, smells fishy, that one. And that’s going to be worth looking into, I fancy⁠—afterwards, just to make a bit of mischief. But it’s watertight, no mistake about that. You’re liable, and when they claim, you’ll have to pay up.” Having said this, he looked at her in a manner that suggested he was quite pleased about it.

Miss Trant was not pleased and came to the conclusion that Mr. Gooch was a fool. “It’s a shame,” she cried. “I wouldn’t care if it was my fault in any way. But it wasn’t, as you know, and I’ve had to suffer anyhow. I and my party have lost money, you see, quite apart from anything I may have to pay. And then we’ve suffered in other ways too. And all because a few hooligans were determined to spoil our performance.”

Here Dr. McFarlane muttered something that hinted what he would do to such fellows if he caught them. It may have concerned their parathyroid glands.

“Quite so,” said Mr. Gooch again, still smiling good-humouredly. “But though we might whittle the claim down a bit when it comes⁠—it hasn’t come yet, you know, but it’s on its way, you might say⁠—we can’t contest it. I want to make you understand that, Miss Trant. That’s clear, isn’t it? All right, then that’s settled.”

He still seemed very pleased with himself, and Miss Trant began to think that even poor Mr. Truby, though he may have been thinking for months she was wrong in her head, could have done better than this. And what made it much worse was that he was Hugh’s choice. Poor Hugh!⁠—he had looked so knowing about his Mr. Gooch.

“But there’s another point,” Mr. Gooch continued, with relish, “and this is where we really come in. You’re responsible to them, all right. But who’s responsible to you? Who, in fact, is the guilty party?” He paused and looked at her expectantly.

She gave a mental if not an actual shrug. “That’s soon settled too,” she replied, not without irony, “but it doesn’t help much. A gang of roughs⁠—from nowhere. If it hadn’t been for them, nothing would have happened. But what good will that do us⁠—I mean, knowing that? Oh⁠—it’s all stupid! I’m sorry, but it really is.”

“It might turn out stupid for somebody,” said Mr. Gooch, who was quite unperturbed, “but it’s not half so stupid as it looks. Quite tricky up to a point, in fact⁠—quite tricky. I didn’t want to bother you just now with all this, but I thought you’d better know the line I’m taking. If you don’t mind waiting a minute, I’ll just see if he’s here. I left a message for him to come along.” With that, he lumbered out, leaving Miss Trant staring at her companion.

“I don’t understand what he’s talking about,” she confessed, frowning. “Is he⁠—really⁠—a reliable man?”

Hugh laughed. “I’ve been watching you, Elizabeth. I saw you thought he wasn’t going to be any use to you.”

“No, that’s not fair. I didn’t. Only⁠—”

“Just wait. He’s here.”

He was and there was somebody with him. It was Mr. Oakroyd, tightly clutching his cap and looking very embarrassed. He gave her a very uneasy grin.

“Well, Mr. Oakroyd,” and she smiled, “this is very nice. I didn’t expect to see you.”

Mr. Oakroyd cleared his throat. “Ar yer getting on, Miss Trant?”

“Very well, thank you. What have you been doing lately?”

“Well⁠—er⁠—I’ve been busy⁠—like.” And he nodded towards Mr. Gooch.

“Oh!” cried Miss Trant. “I didn’t understand. You’ve come here with Mr. Gooch, have you?”

“That’s right,” replied Mr. Oakroyd, more at ease now. “Any rate, he left word for me to come here. Said I’d better tell yer mysen.”

“And you got hold of the other chap,” Mr. Gooch inquired, putting his head on one side in a droll fashion, “made sure of him, did you?”

“He’s here,” said Mr. Oakroyd, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

“He’s here, is he?” Mr. Gooch was quite lively. “Where? Outside?”

“On t’mat,” replied Mr. Oakroyd, grinning. “D’you want him in?”

“If Miss Trant doesn’t mind,” said Mr. Gooch, glancing at her.

“Of course I don’t mind,” said Miss Trant, staring at them. “But what is it all about?” And she suddenly began to laugh.

“It’s like this here, Miss Trant,” Mr. Oakroyd began, earnestly; “After that there do o’ Saturday, I begins to put two an’ two together. There’d been summat up all t’week, though it were nowt to Saturday. Saturday capped t’lot, as yer knaw very well. Nar there’s one or two had said to me they thowt it were a put-up job, them chaps makking all that to-do. I didn’t like look on it at all, I didn’t. So I put my thinking cap on.”

“That’s the way,” said Mr. Gooch approvingly. “Thinking cap.”

“Nar a friend o’ mine that doesn’t belong here but ’ud been here a bit, this chap ’ud dropped a remark to me when I saw him last week⁠—it were in t’Market Tavern o’ Thursday⁠—an’ when I towd him I was here wi’ T’Good Companions, then he says, ‘You had any bother lately, ’cos you’re going to have some right sharp?’ Summat like that, he says. Well, I didn’t tak’ much notice on it at time, an’ he were off afore I could say owt. So I lets it drop, you might say. But t’other day, o’ Monday it wor, when I begins to puzzle it out a bit, I thowt, ‘Ar did he knaw we’d have some bother?’ He’d said we would have and⁠—by gow!⁠—we’d had some bother an’ all. So I puts two an’ two together. I thowt to mysen, ‘He’s in t’know, he is. If this here’s a put-up job, he’s been where they’ve been putting it up, as you might say.’ That’s what I thowt.”

Mr. Gooch wagged his huge head at Miss Trant. “That’s the way,” he said once more. “Thinking cap again.”

Miss Trant was interested now. “Go on, Mr. Oakroyd. This is exciting.”

“So I sets off to look for him, this here friend o’ mine. Any rate, I maks a few inquiries. Meantime, I goes to see Jimmy Nunn, an’ he tells me what Soosie towd him about Doctor McFarlane here going to Mr. Goodge about this here job, so I goes to Mr. Goodge an’ all an’ tells him what I think about it an’ he says there might be summat in it an’ I’d better keep on looking for this friend o’ mine, d’you see. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he says, ‘to help you to find him. What’s he like?’ he says. An’ I tells him, an’ off I goes again an’ comes on one chap ’at ’ud seen him an’ he puts me on to another chap. Eh, it were a business! But at finish up, I finds him.”

“Was he here in Gatford?” Miss Trant asked.

“Here! He wor fowty mile away an’ just settin’ off to go another fowty or fifty. He’s allus on t’move,” he added, not without pride. “I were wi’ him one time⁠—on t’road. If I hadn’t been, he wouldn’t ha’ come back. He worn’t set on it⁠—’cos he didn’t want to be mixed up in t’job⁠—but he come i’ t’finish, being a pal o’ mine.”

“Well, we’d better have him in now,” said Mr. Gooch, “unless Miss Trant doesn’t want to be bothered. You can leave it all to me, you know, Miss Trant, but I thought you might like to hear what he has to say.”

“I should think so!” cried Miss Trant. “Hurry up and bring him before he runs away.”

“Nay, he’ll noan do that,” said Mr. Oakroyd, almost reproachfully. “I’ll fetch him.” And off he went.

“And you really think there’s something in this?” said Dr. McFarlane, looking anxiously at Mr. Gooch.

“I’m pretty sure there is,” that gentleman replied, smiling and half-closing his eyes. “Pre‑tty sure there is.” Then he opened his eyes, wide. “But I can’t tell you exactly what⁠—not yet.”

“Well, whether there is or not,” cried Miss Trant excitedly, “it’s lovely. And I hope there is, just for Mr. Oakroyd’s sake. I’ve told you about him, haven’t I, Hugh?”

“This is him,” said Mr. Oakroyd, returning at that moment, “Joby Jackson. Nar, Joby lad, yer can tell ’em yersen.”

Our old friend Mr. Jackson looked from one to another of his audience and rubbed his chin dubiously. We see him for a moment robbed of that bright confidence which was part of his charm.

“Now then?” said Mr. Gooch.

“It’s like this,” said Joby hoarsely. “Yer not making a police-court job o’ this, are yer? If y’are, I want to keep out, see? Anything to oblige a pal⁠—an’ anyhow they did the dirty on yer⁠—but I don’t want to be put in a little box with a clever bloke on the other side saying, ‘And where were you on the fourteenth of July last?’ No witnessing for me. Oh no! I’ll tell yer what I know for George ’ere, but yer don’t put me in the box, see?”

“There isn’t going to be a box; don’t worry,” said Mr. Gooch. “It isn’t that sort of business at all.”

“Good enough then,” said Joby, hesitating no longer and speaking with more freedom. “What yer want to know is ’ow did I come to know there might be a bit o’ bother, that’s it, isn’t it? Right.” He paused, gave a sharp glance round, thoroughly enjoying the situation. “Well, I’m ’ere in Gatford, see. One morning in a boozer⁠—not the Market Tavern, lower class of ’ouse altogether⁠—tell yer its moniker in a minute⁠—the Black Bull, that’s it. Know it?”

Mr. Gooch pondered for a moment. “Corner of Castle Street,” he said finally. “Little place. Nearly got its licence taken away last year.”

“That’s the place,” said Joby. “Well, I’m in there, see⁠—one morning, havin’ one with some o’ the lads. When I say some o’ the lads, I don’t mean they was pals o’ mine. But I knew some of ’em. Matter o’ fact, some of ’em was on the road, same as meself. They wasn’t workin’ just then, ’cos Gorley’s place is near ’ere, see⁠—an’ Gorley’s the feller that owns some o’ them Cock’rels and Swishbacks⁠—and they was ’ere, waitin’ for the engines to be over’aulded, see. The other fellers I didn’t know-local fellers, they was, all in a click, y’know, a gang, with about the price of a pint between the lot of ’em. Well there we are⁠—when in comes a feller, a biggish bloke, all dressed up, smart feller. One or two o’ the lads knows ’im, see, same as if they’d done a bit o’ work for ’im one time, when they did work. This feller then looks us over, nods ’ere an’ there, very friendly like, calls the landlord an’ orders drinks all round. Sensation in court! Then when the landlord’s gone and we’re all well into the pig’s ear, he sort o’ gathers us round like an’ says quietly, ‘Any o’ you fellers like to earn some easy money?’ ‘What’s the idear?’ we want to know. ‘Only a bit of a joke on my part,’ ’e says, ‘just payin’ somebody off,’ ’e says, ‘an’ money for nothing for some o’ you lads.’ He didn’t look a money-for-nothing bloke to me, I don’t mind tellin yer, an’ when ’e says, ‘Before we go any further, who’s game?,’ I didn’t catch on, see. I thought, ‘I don’t like the look of you, chum. Bit too careful about your joke. Too much lookin’ over the shoulder.’ So me an’ two or three more wasn’t in it, see, an’ we sits in the other corner, tryin’ to look as if we wasn’t still drinkin’ the beer he paid for. ’E whispers for about ten minutes, then slings it. But I got a word or two, something about a show at the Hip. When ’e goes, the other fellers lets on then, see. ‘Why don’t yer come in?’ they says to us. ‘Quid each for sittin’ at the back o’ the Hip. an’ giving ’em the bird, an’ p’raps another quid for Saturday if it pans out all right,’ they says⁠—”

“And those were the men then,” Miss Trant gasped. “But why? I don’t understand. Who was this man?”

“Now we come to it,” said Mr. Gooch. “Who was he?”

“I ’eard ’is name,” Joby replied slowly, “ ’cos, as I say, some of ’em knew ’im⁠—”

“Good! And what was it?”

“That’s it. I’ve forgotten it. Clean gone. An’ me with a memory, my God! that’s won me more pints o’ beer in bets than you could swallow from now to⁠—”

“Come along,” said Mr. Gooch. “This won’t do, you know. You might as well give us the name now. It’s just that we want.”

“It’s no good yer coming along me,” cried Joby aggressively. “Yer can come along till yer blue an’ it won’t make no difference. I’ve tried to remember that feller’s moniker all day. ’Ere, George, you can tell ’em. Wasn’t I tryin’ to remember it all along the road’ere?”

“Ay, yer wor, Joby,” Mr. Oakroyd replied mournfully. It began to look as if he had had all his trouble for nothing.

“Well, can’t you remember anything about him?” said Mr. Gooch, who looked neither sleepy nor good-humoured now.

“Let’s see. ’Alf a minute. Biggish bloke. Clean-shaved. Reddish face. Baggy under the eyes, poached-egg style. Too much whisky.” But that did not seem to help much, for Gatford and district could boast of dozens of middle-aged gentlemen exactly like that. Then Joby remembered something else. “ ’Ere, ’alf a minute. Pitchers. Something to do with pitchers.”

“Pitchers?” Mr. Gooch stared at him.

“That’s ri’. Yer know, films, cinemas!”

“Ah!” Mr. Gooch sounded triumphant. “Was his name Ridvers?”

“You’ve got it, chum,” shouted Joby, in great excitement. “You’ve got it in one. Ridvers, that’s it. Now ’ow the⁠—I mean⁠—’ow did I come to forget that? Ridvers. That’s it all right an’ no mistake. Do yer know’im, Mister?”

“I know Mr. Ridvers,” Mr. Gooch replied, a trifle grimly, “and Mr. Ridvers knows me. I don’t think I shall have a lot of trouble with Mr. Ridvers. I happen to know he’s trying to sell his three cinema halls to a big syndicate. In fact, I know a lot about Mr. Ridvers. And now I know a bit more, don’t I? Well, well! Hello!” He stared at Miss Trant, who was wrinkling her brow. “Do you know him too?”

“I’m just trying to think. There was a man, a horrid man, pushed his way into my room at the hotel one afternoon, two or three weeks ago, and he said he had something to do with cinemas here. He was awfully rude and disagreeable⁠—a beast of a man⁠—and so I wouldn’t listen to him, just told him to go. And I heard afterwards that some of the men in the party had some trouble with him after that, downstairs. I’m sure that must be the same man.”

“So am I,” said Mr. Gooch.

“I’ve a mind to call on this Ridvers,” Dr. McFarlane began, looking very fierce.

“Leave him to me, Doctor, leave him to me,” said Mr. Gooch. “I’ll attend to him. He’s had his little joke, and this is where he pays for it.” He turned to Joby. “And don’t you worry about courts of law. This won’t get that far, if I know Mr. Ridvers; But I tell you what you can do, my lad, and I’ll see you don’t lose by it. You can just give me as many names of those other fellows as you can remember. That’ll help us to show Mr. Ridvers we know all about his little games.” He whipped out paper and pencil and took Joby aside.

“Well done, Mr. Oakroyd!” said Dr. McFarlane, shaking him by the hand. “That’s fine.”

“Isn’t it?” cried Miss Trant. “Whatever happens, I’m very very grateful to you. You’ve been wonderful, finding all this out for us.”

“Nay, I’ve done nowt. It’s Joby who’ll ha’ done t’trick.”

“No, it’s you really, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am. And listen, I’ve been wanting to talk to you, now that we’ve all broken up. Aren’t you sorry?”

“Eh, I am, Miss Trant. I don’t like thowt on us all leavin’ one another, I don’t. Ther’s Soos an’ Inigo off this afternoon⁠—I’m off to t’station wi’ em if I can get⁠—an’ though I’m right glad they’re doing so well, I’ll be right sorry to see ’em go, I will that. Eh, we’ve had wer bit o’ fun together, three on us.”

“But tell me,” said Miss Trant, looking at him very earnestly, “what are you going to do? I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.”

“Nay, I’ve been so throng wi’ this business, I don’t fairly knaw. Ther’s been a bit o’ talk about it. Soos wants me to go to London afore so long, ’cos she fancies she can get me summat to do there. An’ Joe says if I went wi’ them, p’raps ther’d be a job there⁠—”

“And I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do,” she said, “but that’s what I was going to say to you too. But look here, will you talk to the others seriously today, and then come to see me⁠—let me see⁠—tomorrow morning sometime, and then we can talk about it properly. Will you do that?”

“Ay, I will,” said Mr. Oakroyd solemnly, and then awkwardly took his leave of her. But he did not talk it over with the others and he did not call upon her the next morning.

“Yer mun come an’ have a bit o’ dinner wi’ me, Joby lad,” he said, as they left the nursing home in triumph. “I towd t’landlady yer might⁠—she’s a right good sort is this, an’ I’ve been there a time nar⁠—an’ she’ll have it ready.”

“I’m with yer, George,” said Joby in great content. He had been promised a reward for his services by Mr. Gooch, and, reward or no reward, had enjoyed his morning.

They had hardly set foot in the house, however, before the landlady rushed up and thrust something in Mr. Oakroyd’s face, just as if it had been there some time and she was anxious to get rid of it, fearing that it would explode at any moment. And indeed this is indeed exactly what she felt, for the thing she handed over was a telegram. At the sight of it Mr. Oakroyd’s triumphant morning crashed to smithereens. “By gow!” he muttered, staring.

It was Joby’s turn to read it now. Come at once mother bad. Leonard. He made a little clucking noise. “That’s ruddy ’ard lines, George,” he said, seriously, sympathetically. “The old trouble-and-strife, eh? Bad, eh? Aw, that’s rotten, George. ’Ope for the best, though.”

“I knew ther were summat. I did, I knew,” Mr. Oakroyd was muttering. Then he looked at Joby. “I mun be off soon as I can. When’s t’next train up there, lad?”

Joby knew, for he was an authority on trains. There was one in the middle of the afternoon, and this gave him time after dinner to scrawl his Bruddersford address and a few words of explanation on a bit of paper, to be conveyed to Miss Trant by “t’landlady’s little lad,” to put his things together and settle his bill, to hurry round and say goodbye to Susie and Inigo. There was no time to see the others, but perhaps they would not be gone when he returned, if he did return. Joby went with him to the station, though his own train did not go until five o’clock.

“All the best, George. An’ don’t forget⁠—Joby Jackson, World’s Fair⁠—finds me ev’ry time, see. Keep smilin’.”

“So long, Joby lad. See thee again some day. On t’road, eh?”

And then the train went roaring North.