“Then what about you and me?” said Archie. “I must have somethin’ to cheer me up after the horrid blow I’ve just had-straight out of the blue, and no time to put an umbrella up.” He addressed Miss Greta Wilson, who inquired if it were raining.

Archie looked at her reproachfully.

“I’ve had a blow that’s dashed my proudest hopes into what-you-may-call-’ems.”

“What has happened, Archie?” said Margaret. “Tea is ready.”

“Unconscious of their doom, the little blighters played.”

“What little blighters? Yes, Charles, two more chairs.”

“My fondest hopes,” said Archie-“shattered by a bolt.” He produced a crumpled copy of the evening paper and waved it. “I shall want heaps and heaps of tea. The blow had driven me to drink.”

“What on earth’s happened? Charles, will you cut the bread? The knife’s most awfully blunt.”

“There’s womanly sympathy for you!” said Archie. “I’ve got a broken heart, and she talks about blunt knife! I’ve lost my heiress. Pain and anguish wring my brow. And no one offers to be a ministerin’ angel-unless Greta will. Will you be a ministerin’ angel, Greta?”

The late Miss Margot Standing dimpled, coloured, and said,

“It’s frightfully romantic. I’d love to.”

“Here’s your tea, Archie. I didn’t know you’d got an heiress. Charles, that’s yours-there are four lumps of sugar in it.”

“Nobody knew but me. Concealment’s been preyin’ like a tiddleyum upon my damask cheek-Shakespeare! And I’ve been sittin’ like Patience on a thing-ummy-jig smilin’ at grief-more Shakespeare-same speech-ibid, as they say in the books.’

“Who was she?”

“She wasn’t an heiress,” said Archie mournfully. “What’s the good of my fixin’ my young affections on a girl with several millions tacked on, when the evenin’ paper suddenly bursts out with the horrid bomb that she isn’t goin’ to have the millions after all? Alas, they are another’s; they never can be mine-not Shakespeare this time. The cash is Egbert’s.”

Greta dropped her tea-cup with a splash. The tea dripped on the green jumper. She repeated, “Egbert!” giggled, and repeated it again.

“Egbert Standing,” said Archie. “Revoltin’ name! The daily press that never lies says that Egbert scoops the lot-he gets the whole caboodle, and Margot doesn’t even get a smell of it. I’ve taken to drink.”

He passed up his cup.

Miss Greta Wilson made no attempt to wipe the tea off her jumper. She fixed her pale blue eyes on Archie with the unwinking stare of a kitten and asked,

“Did you know her?”

Archie shook his head.

“Perhaps she’s frightfully ugly,” pursued Greta.

“She’s probably hideous,” said Archie. “If she weren’t, there’d have been about a million photos of her in all the papers.”

Greta’s colour rose.

“Would you marry a girl who was perfectly hideous, just because she had heaps of money?”

“Ah!” said Archie. “If it were to keep my Aunt Elizabeth’s parrot out of the workhouse, I might. Some day I’ll tell you about it-‘A Hero’s Sublime Sacrifice. A Parrot’s Trust Rewarded. Devoted Nephew Saves Indigent Feathered Friend. Matchless Masterpiece In Seventeen Episodes Featurin’ Archibald Millar.’ Hullo, that’s an idea! Let’s all go to the pictures. I feel as if it might soothe me to sit in the dark and hold Margaret’s hand.” He said “Margaret,” but he looked at Greta. Greta blushed.

CHAPTER XXI

They went to the cinema. Charles did not see very much of the film. What on earth were they to do with the girl? Margaret was out all day. Would Greta sit at home like a good little girl and twiddle her thumbs? “I don’t think,” said Charles. He gazed gloomily at a close-up of a glad-eyed heroine embracing a strong, silent hero. The embrace seemed to last an unconscionable time.

They came out into a fine drizzle of rain. Charles felt himself touched on the arm. He looked round and saw an old lady in a black cloak and an old-fashioned bonnet. She was holding up an umbrella, but she held it tilted sideways so that Charles could see her face. Under the meekly banded hair Miss Maud Silver’s nondescript eyes looked at him.

For a yard or two they walked side by side. The umbrella was no longer tilted, but a small, old voice spoke from beneath it:

“Jaffray is just ahead of us-there, beyond the big man in the overcoat. I’d like you to follow him. He’s going to meet someone.”

Charles said, “All right,” and looked round for the rest of his party. Archie was in the road waving to a taxi; Margaret and Greta on the kerb.

He reached Margaret, said good-night hurriedly, and pursued the deaf man. It was easy enough to keep him in view without being remarked as long as the pavement was so crowded; one had only just to keep one’s own place in the stream and move with it. Presently, however, there was no stream, and Charles fell back a little. Mr. Jaffray got into a Hammersmith bus, and as he went inside, Charles thought it as well to go outside.

At Hammersmith Broadway Jaffray got out and walked again. Charles kept the other side of the narrow street. It went on drizzling, but Jaffray had no umbrella, nor had Charles. He reflected that an umbrella was the best disguise in the world.

Jaffray walked on and on. Charles had been wondering whether the man was merely going home; but he passed the turning that led to Gladys Villas and kept on at the same steady pace. When he came to the Great West Road, he turned on to it and kept on walking. Charles began to wonder whether he meant to walk to Slough-or Bath. However, after a quarter of a mile Jaffray stopped, took out a watch, looked at it, and began to walk slowly up and down.

Charles felt at a disadvantage. There is no cover on the Great West Road. Pedestrians are sufficiently few in number to attract attention, and every inch of the roadway and the spaces beside it were continually lit up by the glare of passing headlights. The place was about as public as the middle of an empty ball-room, and almost as brightly lighted.

Jaffray walked up and down, and Charles lurked as far from the track of the headlights as he could. Ten minutes passed. Charles decided that he had no vocation for the life of a sleuth; it appeared to him unutterably dreary, boring, flat, and dull. If it hadn’t been so damp, he would have sat down, gone to sleep-and finished the night as a drunk at the nearest police station. This exhilarating thought had just occurred to him, when something happened.

A large Daimler coming from London slowed down as it passed him and stopped near Jaffray. It stopped at the moment that Jaffray was shaking out an unusually large white handkerchief.

Charles meandered slowly toward the car. It had a London number. He noted it. By the time he had done this, Jaffray was in the car, and the car was off.

One cannot pursue a Daimler on foot. Charles went home in a most disgruntled mood.

On Monday morning he visited Miss Silver. She had finished the grey stockings, and was knitting something small, white, and fleecy that looked like a baby’s boot. She nodded to Charles and went on knitting,

“Sit down, Mr. Moray. Did you follow Jaffray?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What happened?”

Charles told her what happened. She nodded again.

“Yes, I knew it would be the Great West Road, and I didn’t think my make-up was altogether suitable. Did you see who was in the car?”

“One man.”

“Did you see his face?”

The busy needles stopped for a moment as she asked the question.

“He was wearing dark goggles,” said Charles.

Miss Silver went on knitting.

“I wish you had seen his face-but it can’t be helped.”

“I’ve got the number of the car.”

“So have I,” said Miss Silver. “Jaffray bought it on Friday.”

“Jaffray bought it!”

“Jaffray bought it from Hogstone and Cornhill. He paid for it in notes and took it away on Saturday afternoon to a garage in the Fulham Road.”