Gay said, “Tell Francis, you mustn’t do what this man wants you to. If you tell Francis you’ll be safe, because he won’t have a hold over you any more.”

Sylvia choked down a sob.

“I can’t-I can’t-you don’t understand-and you don’t know Francis-I can’t tell him.”

Gay said, “Let me,” and saw Sylvia’s face go grey.

She caught at Gay and stood there trying to speak. The words wouldn’t come, not till Gay got her into a chair and knelt beside her saying every soothing thing that she could think of. Then the words came with a flood of tears.

“You mustn’t-you won’t-you can’t! Oh, Gay!”

Gay was ready to promise her the moon. The attendant still snored, but she would be bound to wake if Sylvia went on crying like this. In any case what could she do except say, and swear, and mean it, that of course she wouldn’t dream of telling Francis what Sylvia had told her in confidence?

This had the desired effect, and with no more than a tear or two entangled in those long lashes, Sylvia gazed at her reproachfully.

“Darling, you did upset me. I’ve always told you things, and I never dreamed you would think of telling anyone, especially Francis.”

Gay was relieved but provoked.

“Well, I never meant to,” she said.

Sylvia turned to the mirror.

“You’ve made me look too frightful.” She produced cream and powder from a be-diamonded bag and began to repair the damage. “You know, Gay, you really ought to be careful not to upset people. I might have fainted, and then what would you have done?”

Gay couldn’t help laughing.

“Rubbish, Sylly-you’ve never fainted in your life!”

Sylvia looked back over her shoulder quickly, as if there might be something behind her.

“I thought-I was going to-I felt-” She shivered again, then went back to rubbing cream into her face. “I don’t generally put any colour on, but I think I’d better have a little-don’t you?”

Gay said, “Yes, I think so.”

“But I’m sure it will be all right really. I mean, if I do what this Zero man wants me to this time, he won’t ever ask me anything again-he’s absolutely promised that. You see, he says the letters are really his and Francis won’t let him have them. And of course, he says, he could go to law and get them that way, but it would cost such a lot that we might all be ruined, so it’s much better for me to do what he wants, and I’ve told him it’s no good his thinking I’ll do anything more, because I won’t. I really feel quite all right about it now.”

She got up, smiled at her own reflection, slipped her arm into Gay’s and said,

“I don’t know what made me feel like that. It was horrid-just as if something dreadful was going to happen.”

XV

It was next day that it began to dawn upon Algy that Brewster was sorry for him. The remoteness of Carstairs continued. The atmosphere of the office was glacial in the extreme. Brewster, in the capacity of intermediary, wore a worried and deprecating air. Impossible as the day wore on to escape the conviction that Brewster was being kind. Algy, conscious of ingratitude, wished that Brewster wouldn’t. In the role of Samaritan he found him frankly intolerable. He preferred him as a human encyclopaedia. This being Saturday, there was, however, only half a day to be endured. There was hope that the kindness of Brewster might have expended itself before they met again on Monday morning. Possibly, though not probably, Carstairs might have thawed. Anyhow, whatever had happened or was going to happen, Algy intended to play golf. Too much office-too many stuffy rooms-too many feelings, thoughts, suspicions. He had a conviction that fresh air and exercise were most urgently required.

The new Bentley had never run better. He returned to town a good deal soothed. He had played like an angel, done a 76 off the back tees, and taken half a sovereign off Smithers, who was as sick as mud.

He came whistling up the stairs, and was arrested half way by Barker, who emerged soundlessly from the dining-room and informed him that a lady had been ringing him up-“No name, sir, and no message, except that she said she would be ringing again later.”

Algy went on up to his room and proceeded to have a bath. The capacity to produce boiling hot water at any hour of the day or night was one of Mrs. Barker’s shining virtues. She had others. Her pastry was a dissolving dream, her pancakes melted in the mouth, and her soups were of an infinite variety. With these things she had doubtless ensnared the heart, head and stomach of Barker, who had rightly esteemed them above the attractions of face and figure. Vast and shapeless was Mrs. Barker, small of eye and scanty of hair, emerging only at the rarest intervals from the underground kitchen where she stoked fires and meditated rare sauces and omelettes.

Algy wallowed in his bath and anticipated his dinner with pleasure. When the telephone bell rang he cursed it bitterly. Never is a hot bath so agreeable as when you have to leave it. Never is the voice of a friend less welcome than when you listen to it girt with a hastily snatched towel. Algy dripped, Algy cursed, Algy contorted his agreeable features into a scowl. He said “Who’s there?” in the voice that means “Why weren’t you drowned at birth?” and heard Gay Hardwicke say rather breathlessly,

“Oh, Algy, is that you?”

It was the sort of ridiculous thing that girls did say. Because if it was, why ask him, and if it wasn’t, why call him Algy? But the scowl subsided into a mere frown as he replied,

“It’s me. I’m dripping all over the Barkers’ new carpet.”

“Why?” said Gay in an interested voice.

“Because I was in the middle of having a bath.”

He distinctly heard her laugh. Then she said,

“Darling, how grim! Go away and finish having it and then come back all clean and tidy and ring me up.”

“Can’t you tell me what you want?”

She laughed again, a little nervously he thought.

“Not whilst you drip. I want you in your very best mood. You sounded perfectly ferocious when you asked who I was.” She hung up, and Algy went back to his bath.

When he rang up ten minutes later she enquired anxiously after his temper.

“I thought it sounded quite feverish just now.”

“It’s in the pink,” said Algy.

“Really? Because I want to ask you something, and I’d rather know beforehand if you’re likely to blow up.”

Algy smiled at the pattern of humming-birds and roses on his sitting-room wall.

“No explosives on the premises. You wrong me, my child. I am known as Algernon, the man who never lost his temper.”

“How awful that sounds! Has anyone really ever called you Algernon?”

“My grandmother did. I can just remember her saying, ‘Here are threepence, Algernon. Do not spend them all at once.’ ”

“And did you?”

“Of course. And then she died and left me a great deal more than threepence, bless her. Did I ring you up to talk about grandmothers? I mean, was that the original intention, or were you just asking after my temper?”

Gay’s voice dropped. She said,

“Well, I want to ask you something.”

Algy took her up.

“Last time you said that, I offered you half my kingdom, but you only wanted to talk about being blackmailed. What is it this time?”

“Cars,” said Gay in a burst of confidence. “I mean your car. I mean-”

“What do you mean? You’re not getting anywhere, you know.”

“Well, that’s just what I want to do. I want to get somewhere, and-I don’t see how I can without a car, and-I wondered-whether you’d lend me yours-”

Algy stopped smiling. He stared at the nearest humming-bird and received the impression that it was rather a sinister fowl. He said quite slowly,

“You want me to lend you my car. When?”

“Tonight,” said Gay.

“Can you drive? Have you got a licence?”