Grey Mask

CHAPTER XXXV

Miss Silver called that evening at Mrs. Foster’s.

She did not see Miss Greta Wilson, because Greta had gone out to dine and dance with Archie Millar. Mrs. Foster had, in fact, sent them out.

“It’s no use, Archie. I’ve taken her in to please you, but I’m not going to put my table out. It holds eight, and it won’t hold any more. So you’ve just got to take her away and dance with her. She won’t mind.”

Greta was frankly delighted.

“Does Charles dance as well as you do?”

“Haven’t you danced with Charles?” said Archie.

“Not yet. Does he dance as well as you do?”

“Oh, he couldn’t do that. I don’t want to shatter any of your young illusions, you know; but after four years explorin’ in desert wastes I shouldn’t wonder if poor old Charles wasn’t a bit of a back number.”

Greta gave a little shriek.

“Oh! Archie! There’s Ambrose!”

“Who’s Ambrose?”

“There! He’s Ambrose Kimberley. He came to the flat one day when Margaret was out. And I went for a walk with him, and Charles was in a most frightful temper about it. I do think Charles has got a temper. Don’t you? He was in a frightful temper about Ambrose. Oh, Archie, he’s seen me! He waved his hand! Did you see? Don’t you call him frightfully good looking?”

Archie eyed Mr. Kimberley coldly.

“He’s the brand they grow for the movies-good old Hollywood vintage-full of bouquet-mellow on the palate- sweet as cream-flappers like it.”

Greta giggled.

“He’s got lovely eyelashes. Charles was frightfully cross because I told him they were yards longer than his.”

“Men don’t have eyelashes,” said Archie sternly. “It’s not done.”

Charles, after dining alone, walked to Thornhill Square. He thought he would like to have a talk with Mrs. Lattery.

“I think I shall be coming to live in the house next week,” he began, and had to endure Mrs. Lattery’s very voluble plans for his accommodation.

“And I don’t know whether you’ll be wanting to entertain, sir.”

“Probably,” said Charles.

Mrs. Lattery embarked on the question of the staff that would be required.

“My brother, sir, will be looking for a place. I don’t know whether you would consider him. He’s been in very good places.”

“As?”

“As butler, sir-he’s been in very good places indeed, sir.”

Charles found himself a good deal interested in Mrs. Lattery’s brother. Pullen was the name-yes, Pullen.

“He was with Lady Perringham, sir, and before that with Mr. Mackay. He has always given every satisfaction.”

“And where is he now?” said Charles.

“He was in the service of the late Mr. Standing, sir. But I hear the house is to be closed, and my brother-Pullen’s the name, sir-he’ll be looking for something else and I thought-”

“Quite so,” said Charles. He wondered whether William Cole, alias Leonard Morrison, also wished to take service with him; and he wondered what would happen if he were to engage these two interesting persons.

He left the house and betook himself to call on Margaret. It was by now rather after half-past nine. He climbed the steep, narrow stair and stood for a moment on the dimly lighted landing. He had come to see Margaret, but having come, he was in two minds as to whether he would not turn round and go away. He came slowly to the door of the flat and stood hesitating. As he did so, he noticed that the door was not fastened. He pushed it gently, and heard a faint click. Someone had just put out the electric light.

Charles took one step across the passage and thrust open the sitting-room door. The room was in darkness. He called “Margaret!” and felt for the switch. Someone charged him with a headlong rush that carried him back through the door into the tiny passage. He fetched up against the wall with a bang.

In the half minute’s struggle that followed he had the man by the throat, was violently kicked on the shins, lost his grip, had an impression of a long, thin, twisting form, extraordinarily strong, extraordinarily supple, and gripped a bony wrist, only to have it wrenched away. The door of the flat slammed. Charles got it open and pursued. The intruder was away before he reached the entrance. After prospecting, Charles returned to the flat and put on the light.

The old green desk stood on the table. It had been turned inside out. The drawers of the bureau were standing out upon the floor.

Charles whistled. He went over to the bedroom, knocked, and then in sudden deadly fear, pushed in. The light showed him Margaret’s black day dress lying across a chair. The room was empty. The little kitchen was empty too. Margaret was clearly out.

Charles returned to the sitting-room and sat down to await her return. He left the room in its disorder, and as he sat looking at his disorder he thought very deeply.

Margaret-what a mess she had got herself into! That little ass Freddy! If there was a comic opera conspiracy knocking around, it was just like Freddy to get mixed up in it-all very earnestly-very much pour le bon motif. He could imagine Freddy full of bright and boring enthusiasms, full to the brim of absurd zeal, and then suddenly discovering that he’d got let in by a lot of crooks and being scared to death. A well-meaning little fool if ever there was one. But Margaret-what could one do about Margaret? That she should have been dragged into the mess to save Freddy’s skin! She must be got out again-that went without saying; and if Freddy had got her in, it was for Freddy to get her out. Those statements she had signed must be got back. By hook or crook Freddy must get them back. He couldn’t have been mixed up with the Grey Mask lot for twenty-five years or so without getting to know a bit. He probably knew where the papers were likely to be; it was even barely possible that he had kept them himself. An early interview with Freddy Pelham was certainly indicated.

Margaret came in at eleven.

“Charles! What on earth?”

“You’re not as surprised as I was when I got here and found a burglar in possession.”

“A burglar!”

“Did you think I’d been going through your desk and bureau?”

Margaret gazed at the turned out drawers, the ransacked desk.

“What did he come for?” said Charles quickly. “What did he come for, and what did he get away with?”

“Oh!” said Margaret. “Oh, I left it locked.”

“The bureau?”

“This drawer.” She turned over the papers that lay in confusion. “Charles, it’s gone!”

“What’s gone?”

“The certificate. No, it wasn’t the certificate-it was only the envelope. I forgot-you don’t know that Greta found it. Charles, do you know who Greta’s mother was? She was my mother’s sister. She was Margaret Brandon. The certificate was in my mother’s desk. Greta is my cousin.”

“You found the certificate?”

“No-only the envelope, endorsed by Edward Standing. The marriage was secret-a Scotch marriage by declaration. I’ve just been hearing the whole story from my mother’s oldest friend.” She told him what Lesbia Ravenna had told her. “I don’t know how the envelope came to be in my mother’s desk.”

“You say Standing gave the declaration back to Mrs. Faring. She probably wouldn’t keep it herself-I think she would have been afraid to keep it herself. But perhaps she wouldn’t destroy it, for the child’s sake and perhaps for her own sake too, in case the story ever came out. I expect she gave it to her sister to keep.”

“But the envelope was empty.”

“Well,” said Charles, “Mrs. Faring had committed bigamy. They may have been frightened about that. It was certainly safer not to keep the declaration.”

“They kept the envelope.”

“Aren’t women like that? They like to keep something. They don’t go the whole hog and make a clean sweep of the past like a man does. You say the envelope’s gone.”

“Yes. It was here. Look! The lock’s been forced.”

“What was on it?”

“Mr. Standing’s endorsement-Greta recognised his writing at once: ‘Our declaration of marriage. E.S.’ I think she had signed it too, because something had been rubbed out-initials, I think, like his. I thought the second one was a B. You could only just see the marks.”

“There was nothing inside the envelope?”

“Nothing at all.”

The drawer that had been locked was full of tumbled papers. Margaret began to straighten them. As she lifted one, a snapshot of Charles looked up at her. She covered it quickly. That old boyish smile was gone.

“Here, let’s put these things away.”

Charles spoke from just behind her. She did not know whether he had seen the photograph or not. He helped her to put the drawers away. It was strange to be doing these things with Charles; strange and yet extraordinarily natural to be talking to him in her flat at midnight. It was the first time since their parting that they had talked without bitterness. The hour comforted Margaret. He would go away, and he would marry Greta; but at least there would have been this moment when he didn’t hate her. Perhaps when he was married to Greta he would stop hating her altogether. The thought touched something that lay dead, and the old vehement, passionate Margaret woke.

All at once she was so intensely aware of Charles and of herself that they might have been new creatures in a new world. The colour came into her cheeks.

Charles looked at her in astonishment. The sad pale ghost of Margaret was gone. This was Margaret herself.

They looked at one another in silence. The little green clock which he had given her ticked from the mantelpiece. Charles pushed the last drawer home and rose to his feet. She was only a yard away, but there were four years between them still.

“Why did you do it?” he said. It was the third time that he had asked the question; he had not meant to ask it now.

“I told you,” said Margaret with her head up.

“It wasn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I’ve got.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth four years ago?”

“What was the good? There was no way out.”

“There’s always a way out. We could have made one together.” He spoke with extreme vehemence; the flood of it carried him beyond his own control. “You never loved me. That’s the truth.”

Margaret looked at him. The tide of passion rose and ebbed again. She would not protest that old dead love to the Charles of today. She looked at him, and the strange sense of newness passed away. This was the flat, unprofitable every-day to which all romance came in the end. You had to go on and do your best without it-you had to go on. The colour and the fire went from her. She looked very tired.

Charles became intensely aware of having made a fool of himself. He gave a short angry laugh.

“It’s a bit late in the day for scenes-isn’t it? I don’t know why I dug that up-it’s rather a poor thing in ghosts. I meant to talk business with you. I’d like to still, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s very late.” The words came slowly. Charles was quite right-it was very late-it was four years too late.

“I won’t keep you long. I wanted to ask you about those statements you signed. Have you any idea who’s got them?”

“I suppose Grey Mask has got them.”

“You don’t think it possible that Freddy has them?”

“Oh no-I’m sure he hasn’t. He told me he had to satisfy the others.”

Charles frowned.

“Those statements must be got back. I can’t move whilst you’re compromised-and I’ve got to move for Greta’s sake.”

Margaret leaned against the mantelpiece.

“I’m afraid there’s no way of getting them back. You had better leave me out of it.”

“How can I?”

“Very easily.”

Charles looked at her coldly.

“I call that unintelligent. Do you really expect me to do anything that would land you in a police court?”

A bright flame burned her cheeks.

“I don’t ask to be considered. Do you suppose I care what happens to me? Do you suppose I want you to risk Greta?”

Charles’ frown darkened.

“I haven’t any choice. Please be practical. Freddy got you into the mess, and Freddy ought to get you out of it. When is he off?”

“He moved out of the house today. You heard what he said-he may be off any day. He hates to be tied.”

“I see. All right, I’ll be going.”

He went as far as the door, then turned, strode back, and jerked a sudden question at her;

“Who’s Grey Mask?”

“I don’t know,” said Margaret.

“You’ve no idea? None?”

She shook her head. She was frightfully pale.

“Does Freddy know?”

“I don’t believe any of them know,” said Margaret in a whisper.