“An aunt,” said Algy gloomily. “Gay is staying with her. They’re cousins of Lady Colesborough’s.”

He got another keen look.

“Known this young lady long?”

“About three months, sir.”

“Well, you took her to the Ducks and Drakes. Were you alone, or in a party?”

“We went there alone, but we joined up with the Wessex-Gardners.”

“What!” It was more of an exclamation than a word. A disturbed look crossed Montagu Lushington’s face. “I should like to know who you danced with.”

“Poppy Wessex-Gardner, Sylvia Colesborough, and Gay-mostly with Gay.”

“Could one of them have put the envelope in your pocket?”

“Not while we were dancing.”

“But you sat out?”

“We sat at a table and had drinks, and things to eat-I hadn’t had any dinner.”

“Yes, it could have been done then. You agree?”

“I suppose so.”

“Who were the men of the party?”

“Wessex-Gardner and his brother. His brother’s wife was there too. And a man called Danvers -I don’t know anything about him-and Brewster.”

“I didn’t know Brewster went to night-clubs.”

Algy laughed, not very cheerfully.

“He doesn’t. Mrs. Wessex-Gardner dragged him, and he’s fallen for Sylvia Colesborough-a hopeless, respectful passion-she didn’t even know he was there half the time.”

“I can imagine that! What was this man Danvers like?”

“A bit of an outsider, I thought-the I’ll-tell-the-world-I-did-it touch. He seemed to go down very well with Mrs. Wessex-Gardner.”

“Yes,” said Montagu Lushington-“an old friend. At least so I gathered.”

“What-he was at Wellings?”

Lushington shook his head.

“Not quite. He was expected, but he didn’t turn up-at least not on the crucial Saturday. I believe he came over on the Sunday afternoon, but Maud and I had motored over to Hindon, so we did not see him. I wish now that we had, because it comes to this-any one of these people could have put that envelope in your pocket.”

Algy thought for a moment.

“I suppose they could-” he said.

XIII

Algy had plenty to think about all day. Monty had been very decent. “Stick to your job, and stick to your ordinary way of life. Go about the show yourself. Behave as if the whole thing was too ridiculous to be answered. That’s my advice to you both as a member of my family and as a member of my staff.” It was good advice too, and it fell in with Algy’s mood, which was a fighting one. All the same it was easier said than done. Carstairs, always remote, now hardly appeared to be aware of him at all. Communications reached him by way of Brewster, and Brewster, nervously correct, made things worse by a hint of embarrassment and a tinge of apology. Not a nice day at all.

The worst part was the recurrent remembrance of Gay looking at him with serious eyes and asking him what he would do if someone tried to blackmail him. He had been trying hard not to remember it, but it kept gate-crashing in among his thoughts, and behind it there came, sidling, peeping, whispering, a whole crowd of perfectly idiotic suspicions, fancies, fears. If Gay was being blackmailed, what was the threat, the compulsion? You can’t blackmail a girl with just nothing at all. You’ve got to have a hold over her. What sort of mess had Gay got herself into?

He revolted sharply. She wasn’t that sort. He felt an anger which surprised and discomfited him. He felt also a burning desire to weigh in and knock the blackmailer’s teeth through the back of his head.

He tried to remember what she had said. She had flared up. He had a vivid recollection of how she had looked with the bright angry colour in her cheeks. And she had said, “What do you think I’ve done?” and they had been very near a quarrel. And afterwards-afterwards she had said that what the blackmailer wanted wasn’t money, but something dreadful. One of those gate-crashing thoughts got in a word here. With perfect succinctness it observed, “He might have wanted her to put that envelope in your pocket.”

She could have done it, and she was the only one who could have done it. He had known that all along. She could have done it in the taxi. She could have done it at the Ducks and Drakes. And she could have done it without any risk… He had a good deal of difficulty in keeping his mind on his work.

When he went out to lunch an enterprising representative of the brighter press waylaid him.

“Mr. Somers?”

Algy said, “Not particularly,” and the young man looked pained.

“Now, Mr. Somers, I’d like to have your story.”

Algy gazed at him and solemnity.

“I don’t use them.”

A faint shade passed over the young man’s face.

“Now, Mr. Somers-what’s the use? Everyone knows about the missing papers. You would naturally like to have the story presented from the right angle. Our circulation-”

“I prefer a hot water bottle,” said Algy. He walked at a brisk pace, the young man beside him, notebook in hand, incessantly vocal. “For the exclusive rights… And it would be so very much to your advantage… I think you can hardly realize-”

Algy smiled upon him.

“Perhaps it’s night starvation. Have you tried Horlick?”

“But, Mr. Somers-”

“Walk the Barratt way,” said Algy with bonhomie.

The encounter cheered him a good deal. He lunched, and rang Miss Gay Hardwicke up. The conversation did not take quite the line he had intended. He had meant to be polite and a little detached. Unfortunately it was not Gay who came to the telephone. The voice which said “Who is there?” was the kind of voice that takes the chair at public meetings. He could picture it addressing a conference of head mistresses. It recalled painful interviews with an aunt who had been a strong believer in corporal punishment for the young.

He said, “Can I speak to Miss Gay Hardwicke?” and was rather proud of himself for having the courage.

The voice called “Gay!” on a ringing note, and Gay arrived rather breathless from the stairs.

Algy was too much relieved to be aloof.

Gay said, “Oh, it’s you?” And then, “That was Aunt Agatha. What is it?”

The sound of her voice did something to the gatecrashers. They cast sickly looks at one another, and got into corners. Algy said,

“Come out tonight, Gay-will you? I want to talk to you.”

Gay said, “Well-” in a tone which she hoped would sound doubtful, and was rewarded.

“Please, Gay, I must see you-I must talk to you.”

“I can’t dine. Aunt Agatha’s got some of her committee coming. She’ll be peeved if I’m not in to dinner, but I don’t think they’ll want me afterwards.”

“Same as last time?”

“Yes, that will do.”

“All right, I’ll be round at half past nine.”

By half past nine Gay was more than ready to drag herself away from an earnest committee which had been talking about executions for an hour and a half.

“You’ve no idea how grim. I’m converted absolutely, but I simply couldn’t have listened to them for another minute. I feel as if I’d gone pale green all over.”

“The bits I can see are all right,” said Algy, as the light of a street-lamp slid over them.

She came closer and slipped a hand through his arm.

“Where are we going? I want to have my mind distracted.”

“Would you mind awfully if it was the Ducks and Drakes again?”

“No. Why?”

“I’ll tell you later on.”

But at first they danced. And then the star turn held the floor, an apparently boneless girl dressed in her own brown skin and some strings of beads which caught the light and flashed it back in ruby, emerald, and sapphire. She had a black fuzz of hair, eyes like pools of ink, and the largest, reddest mouth and the whitest teeth in the world. To the sound of strange percussion instruments and the rhythmic beat of a drum the brown girl twisted, writhed, and swayed. Her black eyes rolled, her white teeth gleamed. There was a fascinating play of muscle under the shining skin. She really didn’t seem to have any bones at all.