COME in, old boy!”

Bertha was lying on the sofa reading a large book. She didn’t put down either her little feet or the book when her young brother-in-law came in.

He also had a book in his pocket, which he took out. Then he produced a box in silver paper.

“For you,” he remarked, and then immediately cut the blue ribbon with a penknife and proceeded to begin the demolition of the chocolates.

“A present for me?” said Bertha.

“Yes,” he said, taking a second one rather quickly and glancing at the second row.

“I’m so glad you’ve got me the kind you like. I hope you’ve got those with the burnt almonds that you’re so particularly fond of?”

“Oh yes, rather!”“Thanks. That was nice and thoughtful of you; I know they’re your favourite sort.”

“Yes, they are.”

“And what I always think is so nice about you, Clifford,” Bertha went on, “is that you’re so truly thoughtful. I mean, you never forget your own tastes. You really take trouble to get yourself any little thing you like. You put yourself out.”

“Oh—I——”

“Oh no, I’m not flattering you; I really mean it. You’re such a nice thoughtful boy. I’ve seen you take a lot of trouble, rather than deprive yourself of anything you cared for.”

“Oh, Bertha!”

“Are you going to stay long to-day?”

“Yes, I am,” said Clifford, taking up the book he had brought with him. “As long as I can.”

“Oh.”

“How long can I?”

“Till dinner, or till anyone turns up that I want to talk to.”

“Right-o! But you can send me into another room. I needn’t go home, need I?”

She laughed.

“Oh, you silly boy! Of course not.”

“I say, have you seen my report?” he asked gravely.“Some of it. Your mother read out little bits.”

“Which little bits?” he asked rather anxiously.

“Oh, the worst of course!” said Bertha. “The purple patches! You’re a credit to the family, I don’t think!”

“She asked me who was my nicest little friend at school,” said Clifford.

“And what did you say?”

“I told her about Pickering. I say, Bertha, … can I bring Pickering here?”

“Of course you can.”

“May I give him a regular sort of invitation from you, then?”

“Yes, rather. Tell him that I and Percy ask him to come and live here from to-morrow morning for the rest of his natural life. Or, if that doesn’t seem cordial enough, we’ll adopt him as our only son.”

“Oh no! I think that’s too much.”

“Is it? Well, make it from to-morrow afternoon. Or perhaps we’d better not be effusive; it wouldn’t look well. So, instead of that, I’ll invite him to go to the Zoological Gardens on Sunday fortnight for an hour, and you and he can have buns and tea at your own expense there. That’s not too hospitable and gushing, is it?”

He laughed.“You do look smart, Bertha!” he remarked. “Your shoes are always so frightfully right. I say, can’t you tell mother to wear the same sort of shoes? And tell her to look narrower, and not have such high collars.”

“My dear boy, your mother dresses beautifully,” said Bertha. “What do you want her to look like?”

“I should like her to look like some of those little cards on cigarette boxes, or like a picture post-card, if you want to know,” he admitted candidly.

“That’s absurd, Cliff.”

“But, Bertha, some of the fellows’ mothers do.”

“Remember your mother is Percy’s mother, too.”

“Pickering’s mother doesn’t look much older than you,” he replied.

“Oh—what a horrid woman!”

He smiled. “Why do you call her a horrid woman? For not looking older than you?”

“Oh! tell her to mind her own business, and not go interfering with me. I shall look whatever age I choose without consulting her!” Bertha pretended to pout and be offended, and went on reading for a little while.

He took another chocolate and turned a page.

She did not ask to see the book.“That’s what I call so jolly about you,” presently said Clifford. “When I come to see you, you don’t keep asking me questions, or giving me things, or advice, or anything. You do what you like, and I do what I like—I mean to say, we both do just what we like.”

“Yes; that’s the way to be pleasant companions,” said Bertha. “I go your way, and you go mine.”

“How’s Percy?” the boy asked presently.

“Percy’s the same as usual. Only I fancy he seems a little depressed.”

Presently Clifford looked up and said:

“Anyway, you’ll think it over, Bertha; and see what you decide to do about asking Pickering?”

“Rather!” said Bertha, turning a page absently. “He’s rather a wonderful chap, then?”

“Isn’t he!”

“What sort?”

“What sort?” cried Clifford, dropping his book. “Why, Bertha, I was with him, actually with him, when he went into the country post office and asked the woman if she would let him have small change for ten shillings, and he found he hadn’t the half-sovereign then, but would pay her when he didn’t see her again! And then he said if she wouldn’t do that, he’d like to buy some stamps, and asked if she’d show him some to choose from. And then he said—I saw him do it—’I’ll take those two in the middle—I like the colour.’ When she said they were fivepence he said that was too expensive, and he couldn’t run to it. And then he wanted to buy some sweets—they sell everything at those country shops—and she wrapped some up for him, and then he said he hadn’t got a penny, and would she put it down to Lord Arthur’s account—that’s an uncle of his who didn’t know anything about it, and hadn’t got any account. And when she refused, fancy, Bertha! he asked if she’d take stamps, as she seemed fond of them, and when she said she would, he stamped twice on the floor and ran out of the shop, and I ran after him. She was angry!”

“He seems a useful boy.”

“Rather! His people are frightfully rich, you know,” went on Clifford. “When they tease him about it at school, he says he’s never allowed to use the same motor twice, and that they’re made of solid gold! He chaffs everybody.”

Clifford murmured on rather disjointedly, and Bertha read without listening much, occasionally making some remark, when the telephone rang.Bertha had an extension on the little table next to her sofa.

“Shall I go?” asked Clifford.

“No. Just to the other end of the room.”

He obeyed, and fell into the depths of a fat arm-chair.

“That you, Nigel? How is it all going on? Madeline hasn’t heard from him lately—not for ages.”

“Quite so,” answered Nigel’s voice. “I’ve found out something I want you to know. It isn’t really serious—at least I’m pretty sure I can put it right, but I’d like to see you about it; it wouldn’t take you a moment.”

“But is it a thing that may make any difference?” she asked rather anxiously.

“No. Not if it’s taken in time,” he answered.

“Oh, can’t you ’phone about it, Nigel?”

“Not very well, my dear. It really wouldn’t take you a minute to hear about it viva voce.”

“But you can’t keep on calling every day!” cried Bertha, exasperated.

“Quite so. Couldn’t you go in for a few minutes to-morrow morning at the Grosvenor Gallery in Bond Street? Say at about eleven or twelve? I won’t keep you five minutes, I promise, and you can tell me if you approve of my plan.”“Very well, I’ll do that. Quarter-past eleven,” added Bertha.

“Only one thing, Bertha, don’t tell anyone—not a soul.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll explain when I see you. But you mustn’t mention it. It’s nothing—two seconds.”

“Oh, all right! But why so many mysteries? You might just as well tell me now on the telephone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t; I have to show you a letter.”

“I suppose Rupert has been seeing Moona Chivvey again? Is that it?”

“Well, yes. But that’s not all. Not a word to Madeline! Isn’t it curious, Bertha, troubles about women are always the same. Either they want you to marry them, or they won’t marry you!”

“Oh, really? Good-bye.”

“How brilliant you’re looking, Bertha! You’ve got your hair done in that mysterious new way again.”

“How on earth can you know through the telephone?”

“Why, easily. By your voice. You talk in a different way—to suit it.”

“Do I? How funny! Good-bye.”Ten minutes later Percy came in.

He seemed pleased to see his young brother.

“What’s that book you’ve brought, Cliff?”

“It’s ‘The New Arabian Nights.’”

Percy laughed.

“Oh yes, I know—the copy I gave Bertha. Have you decided to let her have it back on mature consideration?”

“Oh, I say, Percy! Come off the roof, there’s a good chap,” said the boy, blushing a little.

“I think I shall have to take a holiday from chambers to-morrow,” Percy said. “Shall we take him out to lunch, Bertha?”

“By all means; or, at any rate, you take him, Percy.”

“Are you engaged in the morning?” he asked her very quickly.

“I ought to look in at my dressmaker’s for a minute,” she said, feeling angry with Nigel that he had made her promise to conceal even a few minutes of her day.

No more was said on the subject.

Presently, Percy went upstairs to his room and turned the key. He then took out of a drawer and placed in front of him, in their order, three rather curious-looking letters, written in typewriting on ordinary plain white notepaper. The first two, both of which began “Dear Mr. Kellynch,” were four pages long, and gave some information in somewhat mysterious terms. The third one had no beginning, and merely mentioned an hour and a place where, he was told, he would find his wife on the following morning, if he wished to do so, in the company of an individual with the initials N. H. The letter further advised him to go there and find her and take steps to put a stop to the proceedings which had been watched for some time by somebody who signed the letter “your true and reliable friend.”

The right thing to do, according to all unwritten laws of the conduct of a gentleman, would be to destroy such communications and at once forget them. To show them to her, Percy felt, would be degrading to himself and to such a woman as his wife, whom he now realised he placed on a pedestal. The idea of seeing the pedestal rock seemed to take the earth from under his feet. But not only that, he now felt that, though he hadn’t known it, he loved her, not with a mild, half-patronising affection, but with the maddening jealousy of a lover in the most passionate stage of love. A man placed in his position nearly always thinks that it is the idea of being deceived that hurts the most. Particularly when the object of suspicion is his wife. Now he knew it was not that; he could forgive the deception; but he couldn’t bear to think that any other man could think of her from that point of view at all. And if he found that the mere facts stated in the three letters were true, even if the inferences suggested were utterly false, he had made up his mind what to do. He would go and see Nigel on the subject, forbid him the house, saying that too frequent visits had caused talk, and never mention the subject to Bertha. That was his present plan. Perhaps it would not be possible to carry it out, but that was his idea.

The fact that Bertha had been vague about her morning engagement—for it was really unlike her not to seem pleased at the idea of spending the whole day with him and the little brother—so agonised Percy that he pretended to have a headache and saw practically nothing of Bertha till the next day. He said then that he would go to chambers, meet Clifford at Prince’s and come home after lunch and take Bertha out somewhere. This was to leave her perfectly free, so that she need not alter any arrangements. He wished to see what she would do.

It was a glorious morning, and Percy felt rather mean and miserable and unlike the day as he left the house.Bertha was already dressed, looking deliciously fresh and pink, and sparkling and fair as the sunshine. A second of acute physical jealousy made him remark rather bitterly before he left that her hat was a little bit striking, wasn’t it? Upon which she at once, in her good-tempered, amiable way (only too delighted that he should have noticed anything in her toilette even to object to it), plucked the white feather out of the black hat and put a little coat on over her dress, so as to look less noticeable.

At a quarter past eleven Percy paid his shilling at the gallery, walked in, looking slowly at the drawings on the walls in the narrow passage that led to the rooms.

The moment he reached the first door on the left-hand side, which was open, he saw through it, exactly opposite to him, seated on a sofa, Bertha, looking up and chattering to Nigel Hillier, who was looking down in a protecting manner, and listening with great interest to her conversation.

Neither of them saw him.

The pain of finding one part of the letter true was so startling and terrible that he dared not look another moment; a second more, and he might have made a scandal, perhaps for ever after to be regretted, and possibly entirely groundless.He walked straight out of the gallery again, and drove to Sloane Street in a taxi. During the drive he felt extraordinary sensations. He remembered an occasion when he had been to a dentist as a little boy, and the strange new suffering it had caused him. Then he thought that when he got home, he would feel better. Instead of that the sight of the familiar house was unbearable agony; he could not endure to go into it; he drove back again to the club of which both he and Nigel were members, and where Nigel was generally to be found before lunch. There he tried to wait and master himself a little; it was peculiar torture to have left them there now. He felt he would like to go back to the gallery and at least spoil their morning. But that, his sound sense told him, would be a mistake. He would wait there till Nigel came in.