E. Phillips Oppenheim

Lady Mary’s boudoir was certainly the most luxurious apartment of its sort into which Saton had ever been admitted. There were great bowls of red roses upon the small ormolu table and on the mantelpiece. Several exquisite etchings hung upon the lavender walls. The furniture was all French. Every available space seemed occupied with costly knick-knacks and curios. Photographs of beautiful women, men in court dress and uniform, nearly all of them signed, were scattered about on every available inch of space, and there was also that subtle air of femininity about the apartment, to which he was unaccustomed, and which went to his head like wine. It was evident that only privileged visitors were received there, for apart from the air of intimacy which seemed somehow to pervade the place, there were several articles of apparel, and a pair of slippers lying upon the hearthrug.

Lady Mary herself came rustling in to him a few minutes after his arrival, gorgeous in a wonderful shimmering gown, which seemed to hang straight from her shoulders—the very latest creation in the way of tea-gowns.

“I know you will forgive my receiving you like this,” she said, holding out her hand. “To tell you the truth, I dined here absolutely alone, and I thought that I would not dress till afterwards. I am going on to the ball at Huntingford House, and it is always less trouble to go straight from one’s maid. You have had coffee? Yes? Then sit down at the end of this couch, please, and tell me whether you think you can help me.”

Saton was not altogether at his ease. The brilliancy of his surroundings, the easy charm of the woman, were a little disconcerting. And she was Rochester’s wife, the wife of the man whom he hated! That in itself was a thing to be always kept in mind. Never before had she seemed so desirable.

“If you will tell me in what way I can be of service, Lady Mary,” he began——

She turned towards him pathetically.

“Really,” she said, “I scarcely know why I asked for your help, except that you seem to me so much cleverer than most of the men I know.”

“I am afraid you over-rate my abilities,” he said, with a slight deprecating smile. “But at any rate, please be sure of one thing. You could not have asked the advice of anyone more anxious to serve you.”

“How kind you are!” she murmured. “I am going to make a confession, and you will see, after all, that the trouble I am in has something to do with you. You remember that night at Beauleys?”

“Yes!” he answered.

“We won’t talk about it,” she continued. “We mustn’t talk about it. Only it gave me foolish thoughts. From being utterly incredulous or indifferent, I went to the other extreme. I became, I suppose, absolutely foolish. I went to one of those stupid women in Bond Street.”

“You went to have your fortune told?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Oh, I suppose so!” she said. “I asked her a lot of things, and she looked into a crystal globe and told me what she saw. It was quite interesting, but unfortunately I went a little further than I meant to. I asked her some ridiculous questions about—a friend of mine.”

He smiled sympathetically.

“Well,” he said, “this all seems rather like a waste of time, but I scarcely see how it would be likely to land you in a difficulty.”

“But it has,” she answered. “That is what I want to explain to you. The woman insisted upon having a letter in the handwriting of the person I asked questions about, and I foolishly gave her one that was in my pocket. When I asked for it back again, the day afterwards, she said she had mislaid it.”

“But was the letter of any importance?” he asked.

“There wasn’t much in it, of course,” she answered, “but it was a private letter.”

“It is infamous!” he declared. “I should give information to the police at once.”

She held out her hands—tiny little white hands, ringless and soft.

“My dear man,” she exclaimed, “how can I? Give information to the police, indeed! What, go and admit before a magistrate that I had been to a fortune-teller, especially,” she added, looking down, “on such an errand?”

He drew a little nearer to her.

“I beg your pardon,” he answered. “I was thoughtless. That, of course, is not possible. Tell me the name and the address of the person to whom you went.”

“The woman’s name was Helga,” she answered, “and it was in the upper end of Bond Street. Daisy Knowles told me about the place. Heaps of people I know have been.”

“And the letter?” he asked. “Tell me, if you can, what is its precise significance?”

“It was a letter from Charlie Peyton,” she answered—“Major Peyton, in the Guards, you know. There wasn’t anything in it that mattered really, but I shall not have a moment’s peace until it is returned to me.”

“Have you told me everything?” he asked.

“No!” she admitted.

“Perhaps it would be as well,” he murmured.

She produced a letter from the bosom of her gown.

“I received this last night,” she said.

He glanced it rapidly through. The form of it was well-known to him.

“Dear Madam,

“A letter addressed to you, and in the handwriting of a certain Major Charles Peyton, has come into our hands within the last few hours. It is dated from the Army and Navy Club, and its postmark is June 1st. The contents are probably well-known to you.“It is our wish to return same into your hands at once, but we may say that it was handed to us in trust by a gentleman who is indebted to us for a considerable sum of money and he spoke of this document, which we did not inspect at the time, as being a probable form of security.

“Perhaps your ladyship can suggest some means by which we might be able to hand over the letter to you without breaking faith with our friend.

“Sincerely yours,
“Jacobson & Co.—Agents.

“17, Charing Cross Road.”

“A distinct attempt at blackmail!” Saton exclaimed, indignantly.

“Isn’t it wicked?” Lady Mary replied, looking at him appealingly. “But how am I to deal with it? What am I to do? I don’t wish to correspond with these people, and I daren’t tell Henry a thing about it.”

“Naturally,” he answered. “My dear Lady Mary, there are two courses open to you. First, you can take this letter to the police, when you will get your own letter back without paying a penny, and these rascals will be prosecuted. The only disadvantage attached to this course is that your name will appear in the papers, and the letter will be made public.”

“You must see,” she declared, “that that is an absolute impossibility. My husband would be furious with me, and so would Major Peyton. Please suggest something else.”

“Then, on the other hand,” he continued, “the only alternative course is to make the best bargain you can with the scoundrels who are responsible for this.”

“But how can I?” she asked plaintively. “I cannot go to see these people, nor can I have them come here. I don’t know how much money they want. You know I haven’t a penny of my own, and although my husband is generous enough, he likes to know what I want money for. I have spent my allowance for the whole of the year already. I believe I am even in debt.”

Saton hesitated for several moments. Lady Mary watched him all the time anxiously.

“If you will allow me,” he said, “I will take this letter away with me, and see these people on your behalf. I have no doubt that I can make much better terms with them than you could.”

She drew a little sigh of relief.

“That is just what I was hoping you would propose,” she declared, handing it over to him. “It is so good of you, Mr. Saton. I feel there are so few people I could trust in a matter like this. You will be very careful, won’t you?”

“I will be very careful,” he answered.

“And when you have the letter,” she continued, “you will bring it straight back to me?”

“Of course,” he promised, “only first I must find out what their terms are. They will probably begin by suggesting an extravagant sum. Tell me how far you are prepared to go?”

“You think I shall have to pay a great deal of money, then?” she asked, anxiously.

“That depends entirely,” he answered, “upon what you call a great deal of money.”

“I might manage two hundred pounds,” she said, doubtfully.

He smiled.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that Messrs. Jacobson & Co., or whatever their name is, will expect more than that.”

“It is so unlucky,” she murmured. “I have just paid a huge dressmaker’s bill, and I have lost at bridge every night for a week. Do the best you can for me, dear Mr. Saton.”

He leaned towards her, but he was too great an artist not to realize that her feeling for him was one of pure indifference. He was to be made use of, if possible—to be dazzled a little, perhaps, but nothing more.

“I will do the best I can,” he said, rising, as he saw her eyes travel towards the clock, “but I am afraid—I don’t want to frighten you—but I am afraid that you will have to find at least five hundred pounds.”

“If I must, I must,” she answered, with a sigh. “I shall have to owe money everywhere, or else tell Henry that I have lost it at bridge. This is so good of you, Mr. Saton.”

“If I can serve you,” he concluded, holding her hand for a moment in his, “it will be a pleasure, even though the circumstances are so unfortunate.”

“I shall esteem the service none the less,” she answered, smiling at him. “Come and see me directly you know anything. I shall be so anxious.”

Saton made his way to the cafÉ at the end of Regent Street. This time he had to wait a little longer, but in the end the man who had met him there before appeared. He came in smoking a huge cigar, and with his silk hat a little on one side.

“A splendid day!” he declared. “Nearly double yesterday’s receipts. The papers are all here.”

Saton nodded, taking them up and glancing them rapidly through.

“Do you know where I can find Dorrington?” he said. “I want that letter—the Peyton letter, you know.”

Huntley nodded.

“I’ve got it in my pocket,” he said. “I was keeping it until to-morrow.”

Saton held out his hand.

“I’ll take it,” he said. “I can arrange terms for this matter myself.”

Huntley looked at him in surprise.

“It isn’t often,” he remarked, “that you care to interfere with this side of the game. Sure you’re not running any risk? We can’t do without our professor, you know.”

Saton shivered a little.

“No! I am running no risk,” he said. “It happens that I have a chance of settling this fairly well.”

He had a few more instructions to give. Afterwards he left the place. The night outside was close, and he was conscious of a certain breathlessness, a certain impatient desire for air. He turned down toward the Embankment, and sat on one of the seats, looking out at the sky signs and colored advertisements on the other side of the river, and down lower, where the tall black buildings lost their outline in the growing dusk.

His thoughts travelled backwards. It seemed to him that once more he sat upon the hillside and built for himself dream houses, saw himself fighting a splendid battle, gathering into his life all the great joys, the mysterious emotions which one may wrest from fate. Once more he thrilled with the subtle pleasure of imagined triumphs. Then the note of reality had come. Rochester’s voice sounded in his ears. His dreams were to become true. The sword was to be put into his hand. The strength was to be given him. The treasure-houses of the world were to fly open at his touch. And then once more he seemed to hear Rochester’s voice, cold and penetrating. “Anything but failure! If you fail, swim out on a sunny day, and wait until the waves creep over your neck, over your head, and you sink! The men who fail are the creatures of the gutter!”

Saton gripped the sides of his seat. He felt himself suddenly choking. He rose and turned away.

“It would have been better! It would have been better!” he muttered to himself.