 Chapter 7 of Bill the Conqueror by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Mr. Slingsby invites suspicion. It is one of the delightful features of the English spring that days occur in it. In fact it is almost entirely composed of days on which, as evening draws in, the temperature is such as to render an open fire agreeable, even necessary. The one that blazed in the grate of the sitting-room of Bill's flat and marmant mansions, Battersea, some ten days after Flick's impulsive departure from Hollyhouse, was large and cheerful. It threw warm beams of golden light on the celium sleeping on the rug, on Bill smoking in an arm-chair, on Flick snug on the settee, her fair head bent over a pair of Bill's socks which she was darning. Bill, his pipe drawing nicely, had fallen into a pleasant train of thought. After that hectic night in the gardens of Hollyhouse, life had settled down to a smooth placidity. Flick was comfortably established now in a bed-sitting-room round the corner, having stumbled by good fortune on a house whose landlady, so far from objecting to dogs, had welcomed Bob with a motherly warmth, and was now conducting a campaign of systematic overfeeding which had already begun to have grave effects on his figure. This admirable woman could also cook in a manner rare among her kind. So that Flick, though after the magnificence of Hollyhouse she could hardly hope to find a bed-sitting-room luxurious, had no complaints to make, except for an occasional spasm of remorse brought on by remembrance of her Uncle Sinclair. She was enjoying life hugely. She liked the novel feeling of freedom. She liked the sense of adventure. And she particularly liked these daily visits to the home of Bill and Judson. The only phenomena in her new world which she did not like were those twelve photographs of Alice Coker, which seemed to stare at her with a hostile disdain every time she entered this room. She had now come definitely to the conclusion that she detested Alice Coker. To Bill also the present trend of life seemed wholly excellent. In a vague way he realized that things could not go on like this forever. But he did not allow the thought to diminish his happiness. Being at an age when one does not look very piercingly into the future, he was satisfied to enjoy the moment, soothed by the atmosphere of quiet and spluttering fires and sock-mending. He could not remember a time when anyone had ever darned socks for him. In the days of his careless prosperity he had simply warned the things until the holes became too vast even for his uncritical tolerance, and then had thrown them away. He lay back in his arm-chair watching Flick's busy fingers and told himself that this was life as it should be lived. Flick's fingers stopped their rhythmic movement. She looked up. What has become of Mr. Coker? She asked. She was fond of Judson. He had at last got over his embarrassing habit of gaping at her like a fish, as if the sight of her in his sitting-room made his senses real, and there existed between them a firm and growing friendship. Their relations were like those of a modified Desdemona and Othello. She liked him for the hardships he was undergoing, and he liked her that she did not pity them. Judson had never met a girl more sweetly disposed to listen to his troubles. In a black world, Flick restored his faith in human nature. He told me he was going to look up Slingsby, said Bill, and felt the faint pricking of conscience which always came to him when the name of the London manager of the Peridine pulp and paper company was mentioned. Recently he had rather permitted the dynamic Mr. Slingsby to pass out of his life, and the thought sometimes made him uncomfortable. He had achieved, he realized, absolutely nothing in the direction of fulfilling the mission which his Uncle Cooley had entrusted to him, and more and more this visit of his to London was beginning to take on the aspect of a pleasant vacation. This was all wrong, of course, but on the other hand what could he do? As his Uncle had justly remarked, if Wilfred Slingsby was baffled by the problem of why the profits had fallen off, what chance had a novice like himself to solve it? I didn't know he knew Mr. Slingsby, said Flick. Oh yes, I took him round to the office the other day and introduced him. Flick resumed work on the sock. I've been thinking, she said. I don't like what you told me about Mr. Slingsby. Oh, he's all right, said Bill, with the tolerance bread of physical well-being. I can't help feeling he may be crooked. Bill smiled indulgently. This, he supposed, was what they called feminine intuition. The only trouble with it was that it didn't work. Even since had long since caused him to abandon the doubts he had once entertained of Mr. Slingsby's honesty. Oh, I don't know, he said. I wouldn't say I liked the man, but I don't suspect him of anything like that. It's true he has let the profits fall off. And yet you say he was such a capable man. Yes, but he explained the whole thing to me the day I lunched with him. I couldn't quite follow all of it, but it seemed straight enough. Business conditions, and all that sort of thing, you know. I see, said Flick, and there was a brief silence. Bill changed the subject. I've been thinking, too. Yes? Wondering, said Bill, what your people are saying about your running away. It seems odd there hasn't been anything in the papers. Uncle George would never allow anything to get into the papers. He would be much too afraid of the scandal. They never put any reply to your letter in the personal column of the mail. It begins to look as if they intended to stick it out. Yes. What will you do if they don't climb down? Flick looked up with a quick flash of her cornflower eyes. That sudden impish way she had of jerking up her head always fascinated Bill. It reminded him of a startled kitten. I shall get a job somewhere. I'm pretty good at typing, and I can do a sort of shorthand. I used to work with Uncle Sinclair a lot at one time. At any rate I'm not going back to marry Roderick. I should say not anything, said Bill sententiously, is better than marry being someone you don't love. Love is worth waiting for. One of these days you're bound to find a man you'll fall in love with. Am I? Absolutely bound to. Comes over you like a flash, you know, quite suddenly. Does it? I remember when I first met Alice. What sort of a girl is Miss Coker? Flick interrupted. That sort of a— Bill found himself at something of a loss for words. It is a tough job describing goddesses. Why, she's—but I've told you all about her a lot of times. So you have, said Flick demurely, returning to the sock. It's been wonderful having somebody like you to talk to about, Alice, said Bill. Men isn't much use in that way. But you're different, you're a real pal. I can— Would she mend your socks? asked Flick. The question seemed to disconcert Bill. He had recently come to regard sock-mending as one of the noblest pursuits of woman, and it pained him to discover anything even remotely resembling a flaw in Miss Coker's perfection. But the fact had to be faced. Why as he might to envisage Alice mending socks? He could not do it. She's rather the dashing sort of society type of girl, you know, he said, and was aghast to find himself speaking quite apologetically. I see. There was a silence. From the fire a few glowing fragments of coal dribbled into the grate, the celium on the rug gave a little whine as he chased rats through dreamland. Don't you usually write to her on Tuesdays? said Flick carelessly. Good Lord! Bill dropped his pipe and stared at her with fallen jaw. I'd claimed forgotten. You'd better go and do it now, or you'll miss the mail. Bill was conscious of a peculiar sensation. During this he was horrified to realize that for an instant what he had been feeling was a reluctance to get out of his chair, a strange evil shrinking from the delightful task of writing a long letter to the girl he loved. For one ghastly moment the thing had seemed a bore. Letters at number nine Marmot Mansions, Battersea, had to be written in the dining room, it happening to contain the only table in the flat that did not sway like a lily if leaned upon, and somehow the thought of leaving this cozy fireside and going into the dining room depressed Bill. His better nature asserted itself. He heaved himself up and left the room. Flick, laying down the half-mended sock, sat gazing into the fire. Then with a little impatient wriggle she started sewing again. She had been sewing for some minutes when the door opened and Judson came in. �Hello!� said Flick. �We were wondering where you were. Is anything the matter?� Judson had flung himself moodily into the chair which Bill had vacated, disillusionment and dejection written plainly on his speaking countenance. He was not proof against this womanly sympathy. �Look here!� he said. �I'll tell you all about it. You've got a kind heart. You are not the sort who would simply kid a fellow. I should hope not. �Well, then, look here. You know as well as I do that there are moments, especially in this beastly country, where the wind always seems to be blowing from the east, when a fellow just has to have a nip of the right stuff to keep the cold out. It's a simple matter of health. Medicinal!� asked any doctor. �You admit that, don't you?� if it makes you any happier. �Well� with Bill West behaving like a darned policeman, I'm pretty much up against it in this direction. He says he's only doing it for your good. �Oh, I've no doubt he has some story to explain his behavior� said Judson coldly. Besides, he promised your sister to look after you. There is only one word� said Judson with asperity, to describe Bill's attitude of groveling servility to my sister Alice, and that word is sickening. It isn't as if she cared a hang about him. �Doesn't she?� �Not a whoop.� �But I thought they were engaged.� �Perhaps they are, but be that as it may, you can take it from me that she's just using him. I'm very fond of her, as a matter of fact, and she has always been decent to me. But a girl may be all right as far as her brother's concerned, and still be a rough citizen when it comes to other men. Much as I like Alice, it's no use kidding myself that she's not a flirt. Ever since I've known her, she's always had a dozen fellows on a string. Mark my words, she'll let Bill down. �Yes, sir. One of these days that boy is slated to get a jar that'll shake his back teeth out.� Flick, though she felt she would have liked to hear more on this theme, reluctantly decided at this point that she had no business to be encouraging these revelations. With a strong effort, therefore, she changed the subject. �That's too bad, isn't it?� she said. �But what were you going to tell me? When you came in, you know. You said I had a kind heart and wouldn't make fun of you. Oh, yes. The animation with which Judson had been discussing his sister left him. His moodiness returned. He spoke in a minor key, as befitted a painful story. I was saying that in this beastly, raw, windy weather, a fellow has simply got to have a drink now and then, or his health gets undermined. �And the trouble, as far as I'm concerned, is that it's a darned tough proposition to know which way to turn. This afternoon I thought I would try an outside chance.� �What did you do?� asked Flick, wondering. She had visions of Judson counter-fitting spectacular fainting-fits in the middle of the street in the hope of getting restored with Brandy. �I went to see if I could touch that man, Slingsby.� �Mr. Slingsby? Whatever made you go to him?� �Well, he's old Paradine's London manager, and Bill is old Paradine's nephew, and I'm Bill's best pal. It isn't as if there wasn't a sort of moral obligation. Anyway, I called on him at about four this afternoon. I can see now that I didn't choose a particularly good time for my visit. The man was in a thoroughly nasty temper, having, I discovered, just fired his stenographer. Why was that? I didn't find out, though I sat there all ready to be confided in if he wanted to slip me an earful. He isn't what you would call a very cordial sort of bird, that fellow. In fact, the whole atmosphere seemed to get so strained after I'd been there about an hour and a quarter, that I was in two minds about going away and leaving him flat. Only I wanted that drink, you understand, so I stuck around, and eventually he decided to close the office and put the cat out for the night and call it a day. It was then getting on for six, and he said he was going home. I said I hadn't anything to do for a while, so I would come along with him. He must have got very fond of you by this time, said Flick. Well, I don't know, said Judson doubtfully. He seemed to me a trifle grouchy. That's strange. How do you account for that? It beats me, said Judson. But mind you, I wasn't worrying a whole lot about it. What I was thinking about was that drink. By the way, said Flick, is this story going to end happily? Eh? I mean, does it end with you getting a drink? Judson laughed, grew some laugh. Oh! I got a drink all right. He scowled darkly at the fire. I'm coming to that. We left the office and got into the man's car. Has he a car? What sort? I forget. He did tell me. Winch something? Winchester Murphy? That's right. Big grey, limousine. Expensive? Looked as if it had cost the earth. And that's what makes it all so infernally despicable. Here's this man rolling in money, and I gave him every opportunity to invite me to dinner. But he wouldn't bite. This was after he had got to his house. Oh! He has a house, has he? As well as a big car? Where does he live? Burton Street? No, Bruton Street. It's off that square, ah, what's its name? By Devonshire House. Barkley Square? That's it, Barkley Square. You turn to the right. He lives half way down in a big-ish house on the left side. Well, he got out, and he opened the door with his latch-key, and stood there looking at me in a sort of expectant way. So I came in. And after a bit I came straight out with it as a man-to-man and asked him if I could have a drink. And he said, certainly. It's very curious, said Flick meditatively, that he should have this expensive car and live in a place like Bruton Street. And when it came, what do you think it was? It cost a lot living anywhere around there. It was cocoa, said Judson Sombrily, a cup of cocoa on a tray. And when I looked at it in a sort of stupor, if you understand what I mean, he said that Bill had told him that I was a strict tea-toddler. Bill, mind you, who's been my friend for more than fifteen years. I explained this to Slingsby Bird that he had got the facts all wrong and hadn't he a drop of scotch about the place. And the man, with a beastly mocking smile, said that cocoa was much better for me than scotch. Because in addition to being warming, it contained nourishing fats. And then he said, would I excuse him, as he had to dress for dinner? I can't understand it, said Flick. If he lives in Bruton Street and has an expensive car, he must be quite rich. Crawling with money, and that's what makes it all the more, but he can't get such a big salary as manager for Mr. Paradine, I wonder how much the London manager of a firm like Mr. Paradine's would get a year. Judson was impressed. I see what you're driving at. He said, you mean the fellow's a crook. I can well believe it. Of course he might have private means. That's true, said Judson, damped. But if he had, he would hardly go on being just manager for someone else. He would be in business on his own account. A man in his position wouldn't be paid much more than a thousand pounds a year. If that, I don't see how he does it. I want to think this out. You see, as far as I can make out from Bill, old Mr. Paradine has not paid very much attention to his business for the last few years. He's wrapped up in his old books and has just left things alone. It would be a splendid opportunity for a man in Mr. Slingsby's position to do something underhand. And he's just the man who would do it. He's so clever, you mean. I wasn't thinking of that so much, said Judson. What I feel is that there must be practically nothing to which a fellow who would offer another fellow cocoa on an evening like this wouldn't stoop. That's the way I look at it. And laughing nastily, mind you, while doing so. End of Chapter 7. Chapter 8 of Bill the Conqueror by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A job for Percy Pilbeam. Flick Sheridan and Judson Coker were not the only two people in London who were taking an interest in the affairs of Mr. Wilfred Slingsby. Such are the ramifications of this complex civilization of ours that the movements of the manager of the Paradine Pulp and Paper Company had also come under the observation of no less a person than young Pilbeam, the real power behind that entertaining weekly Society Spice, of which Roderick Pike was the nominal and unwilling editor. The morning after the conversation between Flick and Judson, recorded in the last chapter, Roderick sat at the editorial desk of Society Spice, gazing wandily at the galley-proof of an article by his impetuous assistant, which dealt with the nefarious activities of the race of turf commission agents, an article in the course of which he paladly noted the name of Mr. Isaac Bullitt was mentioned no fewer than three times, and not once in a spirit of genial praise. This series on bookmakers' swindling methods initiated by Pilbeam, discontinued by Roderick, and resumed at the express orders of Sir George, had always reached a fair level of zippiness, but never its reluctant sponsor felt had it so out zipped itself as in the present installment. Young Pilbeam, dealing with the swindling methods of bookmakers and using as his leading instance the laxness of the commercial code of Ike Bullitt, made Juvenile seem like a tactful pacifist. The pallor on Roderick's brow would seem to have been caused entirely by the perusal of this inflammatory piece of prose, and not at all by the anxiety as to the safety and whereabouts of his vanished bride-to-be. Flick's departure, though it had acted like an earthquake on others of the family group, had apparently left Roderick unperturbed. On his arrival at the office ten minutes ago he had been in a noticeably cheerful frame of mind. He had even been whistling, but at the sight of the very first paragraph of Pilbeam's Philippic the whistle had died away, and like Flick had not been heard of since, to him shrinking, quivering in his chair there now entered young Pilbeam in person, striding into the room with shining morning face, all pep, ginger, efficiency, and alertness. This youth with a future was about twenty-three years of age, diminutive in stature and shinily black of hair. He wore a lively young check-suit, and his upper lip was disfigured by a small fungoid growth of mustache. He accosted his chief genially. A tactful man, he had never shown any disposition to rub his recent victory into Roderick. Roderick was still technically his superior officer, and he always treated him as such. Ah! said Pilbeam, having passed the time of day, I see you're reading that little thing. Roderick, coming to himself with a start, dropped the little thing as if it had been an adder. How do you like it? added the second in command, and without waiting for an answer proceeded, I say, I've had a great stroke of luck, happened by pure chance. To stumble over something last night, that looks pretty bubbly. We shall just be able to bung it into this week's issue. Roderick licked his lips, not with relish, but because they felt dry and cracked. The thought of bunging into this or any week's issue, anything which a critic of Pilbeam's exacting standards considered pretty bubbly, gave him a dull, aching sensation in the pit of the stomach. What is it? he asked, hollowly. Young Pilbeam removed his coat, hung it on a peg, dawned a faded blazer, bearing the colors of the cricket club, which enjoyed his support on Saturdays, and wielding a skillful pair of scissors, shaped from the cover of an old number of society spice, the paper cuffs, which it was his prudent habit to wear when in the office. I happened to go and have a bit of supper last night at Mario's, said Pilbeam, and there was a man a couple of tables off with a girl in pink. I didn't know the girl, but she looked chorus girlish. I suppose she came from one of the theaters. The man was a chap I've seen around the place, named Slingsby. Know him? Roderick said he had not had that pleasure. Wilfred Slingsby does a good deal of putting up money for shows and so on, explained Pilbeam. Sort of man you're always seeing at Romanos, and that sort of place? Well, that's who he is, and he was sitting there having supper with this girl, and suddenly ever meet a girl named Prudence Striker? Roderick said he had not had that pleasure either, and endeavored somewhat austerely to make it clear to Pilbeam that his knowledge of the more roistering strata of London society was not so extensive and peculiar as he seemed to imagine. American girl, said Pilbeam, was in the Follies in New York for a long time, but came over last January to join the chorus at the Alhambra, big, dark, Spanish-looking girl with black hair and large, flashing eyes. Roderick shuddered. Miss Striker appeared to be the exact type of girl he disliked most, and he hoped that the story was not leading up to the information that his young assistant proposed to bring her to the offices with a view to securing her reminiscences. Well, Prudence Striker suddenly came in with a chap, and no sooner did she see this fellow Slingsby having supper with this girl in pink than she gave a yell, rushed across the room, swept all the plates and glasses off the table, and then swung her right, and Plugged Slingsby a perfect beauty in the eye. How's that, eh? said Pilbeam, with the honest enthusiasm of a good scandal-sheet conductor. Not so bad, what? The only trouble is that the poor girl was so instantly chucked out by the management that I didn't get a chance to have a talk with her and find out what it was all about. Why Pilbeam should allude to the muscular Miss Striker, who had apparently acted so dramatically in accordance with her second name, and with so lamentably little consideration for her first, as the poor girl Roderick could not understand. So, what I thought I would do, said Pilbeam, was to go and interview this fellow Slingsby, and bring back a nice story for this week's issue. I find he's got an office in St. Mary Acts. I can pop down, get a statement from him, and have the article in type by lunchtime. I'll be off there as soon as I've cleaned up these proofs. Roderick looked at the enthusiast with a growing horror. It seemed to him as if fate was going out of its way to make life difficult. An article such as that envisaged by Pilbeam must infallibly lead to his incurring in his editorial capacity the enmity of this Miss Striker, who would naturally be sensitive about the matter and disinclined to see it exposed to the myriad eyes of London in the staring nudity of print, and last night's drama showed with a hideous clearness what happened to those whom prudence regarded with disfavor. A vision of himself being plugged a perfect beauty in the eye came to Roderick as vividly as if he had seen it in a crystal. I don't think we want that story, he said tremulously. I can't use it. Pilbeam stared at him aghast. But it's a corker. He urged everybody who reads Spice knows Slingsby. Roderick, in his desperation, snatched at the suggestion offered by this statement. If he's as well known as that, he said he may be a friend of my father's. No, no, not a chance of the boss knowing him. There is, persisted Roderick. Why shouldn't there be? The man may be his closest friend for all you know, and you remember how furious he was the time you put in that story about Sir Claude Molesy and the Brighton Bungalow. I shouldn't run the risk of having that sort of thing happen again if I were you. Pilbeam looked thoughtful. Roderick's words had given him pause. The incident to which he had eluded was the only existing blot on the Pilbeam escutcheon. As nice a little things you want to know, don't you know? Paragraph, as he had ever written. And then it had turned out that the victim at whom it was directed was one of Sir George's most intimate cronies. Most certainly he did not want that sort of thing to happen again. A way out of the difficulty came to him. I'll go up and see the boss, he said, and ask him. He removed the paper cuffs, changed the blazer for his check coat, and thus suitably attired, left the room to seek an interview with the great chief. Up in his office on the fourth floor, meanwhile, Sir George Pike was in conference with his sister Frances, and had been for the last half hour. The subject before the meeting was, as usual, the total disappearance of Flick. Just think how long it has been since she ran away, Mrs. Hammond was saying, and how little we've done. Why, we're no nearer finding her than we were two weeks ago. I know, sighed Sir George. I know. The proprietor of the mammoth publishing company was looking more like a stuffed frog than ever. This matter of Flick's mutiny was weighing hardly upon him. You surely do not suggest, I hope, he said, having taken a couple of Napoleonic turns up and down the room, that we should give in to her and insert that advertisement in the daily mail. And the last two words escaped from him in a sort of miniature explosion of pent-up disgust. If Flick had only known, the one thing in the whole unfortunate business that had smitten her uncle most sorely was her tactless request that the family capitulation should be announced in the alien mail, and not in the home-grown daily record. Certainly not, said Mrs. Hammond decidedly. Of course not. Nothing could be farther from my thoughts. I am only saying that we ought to take some definite step of some kind. And you, George, are our only hope. Sinclair is perfectly useless. Sometimes I am not sure that he does not in his heart of hearts secretly sympathize with the girl. You must do something, George, and at once. George frowned thoughtfully. I did put the matter into the hands of a private detective, you know. A private detective? Using the utmost discretion, of course, Sir George assured her. I told him that Felicia was the daughter of an old friend of mine, suggested that she must have been stricken with amnesia, which I thought rather a happy idea. But there have been no results. The fact is, these private detectives are no good. No good whatever. They exist only to take fees in advance and do no work to earn them. The telephone buzzed discreetly. Mr. Spielbeam would be glad if you could see him for a moment, Sir George. Sir George turned from the instrument with the air of one whose troubles have been divinely solved. Good gracious! What is it? I never thought of him. What an amazing thing. The one man ideally fitted for. Young Pilbeam wants to see me. He explained, you remember him? Does all the work on spice? One of the brightest, keenest fellows in the place, a man in a million, the finest young chap for this sort of business in London. Have him in at once. Mr. Spielbeam cried Mrs. Hammond excitedly. I will. Two Francis Hammond's keen vision, one glance at the assistant editor of Society Spice, was enough to justify her brother's eulogy. Percy Pilbeam was not an ornamental young man. Aesthetic critics would have found much to cavill at in his Czech suit. And physiognomists might have clicked their tongues disapprovingly at the sight of his mean little eyes. An unpleasant smile on his badly-shaped mouth. But for the task in hand, his qualifications stuck out all over him. He looked what he was, a born noser out of other people's coyly hidden secrets. She bowed amiable, as Sir George, with a brief word, made them officially known to each other. You wish to see me, Pilbeam? Just a trifling matter, Sir George. I'm on the track of rather a good story about a fellow named Slingsby, Wilfred Slingsby. I just thought, before going any farther, that I would make certain that he did not happen to be a personal friend of yours. Slingsby. Slingsby never heard of him. Who is he? He has some sort of business in the city, and he is rather well known in theatrical and sporting circles about town. He has had a finger in backing one or two musical comedies. Just the sort of man the readers of Spice are interested in. Exactly what I thought, Sir George. What has he been doing? He was mixed up in a rather spectacular affair at one of the nightclubs last night. I thought it might be worth following up. Undoubtedly, most decidedly, by all means, follow it up. Thank you, Sir George. Oh, Pilbeam, said the big chief, as that promising young man turned to go, one moment. He went to his desk and took out the photograph of Flick, which he had recovered from the Rocks Hall Detective Agency, after dispensing with that organization's disappointing services. I want you just to glance at this. Pilbeam took the photograph and studied it deferentially. That, said Sir George, thrusting his fingers into the armholes of the Pike waistcoat, and speaking in the loud, bluff, honest voice of the man who was about to do some hard lying, is a photograph of a miss, miss, has his always the way on these occasions, he found himself utterly unable to think of a single name that sounded even remotely like the sort of name a girl would have. Mrs. Hammond stepped adroitly into the uncomfortable pause. Miss Faraday, she said, brightly. Exactly, said Sir George, relieved. Miss Angela Faraday. The name pleased him, and he repeated it. I want you, Pilbeam, to find that girl for me. She's the only daughter of a very old friend of mine. She left home recently, said Mrs. Hammond. Just so, said Sir George, disappeared. In fact, said Mrs. Hammond, frankly, ran away. You see, Mr. Pilbeam, the poor child had only just recovered from a severe attack of influenza. You know how it is when you are recovering from influenza. Quite, murmured Pilbeam, quite. We think, said Sir George, feeling on solid ground once more, that she must have got amnesia. Yes, said Mrs. Hammond, there must be some reason, like that, to account for her staying away. There was no trouble at home, said Sir George. None, whatever. Don't imagine that for an instant. The girl was quite happy, perfectly happy, and contented. Quite, said Pilbeam. He spoke with unruffled calm, but inwardly he was a tortured man. His memory for faces being excellent, he had recognized the photograph the moment it was handed to him as a very good likeness of Roderick's fiancee, that pretty girl. The boss's niece, who had called for Roderick at the spice-office a week or so ago, and the realization that he had stumbled upon the most gorgeous scandal of his whole career, and that there was no hope of being allowed to use it in the paper, was the bitterest thing that had ever happened to him. Not even on the occasion, when, peaked by his persistent questioning, as to the motives of his wife and suddenly removing herself to East Uganda, a large husband had kicked him down a full flight of stairs. Had Percy Pilbeam felt sadder. You are a fellow who goes about a good deal, said Sir George. I know that you have a sharp pair of eyes. Take that photograph, Pilbeam, and see if you can't find that girl. She must be somewhere. I must ask you, of course, to treat the matter as entirely confidential. Quite. Quite. That is all, then. Very good, Sir George. I would do my best. And in regard to the other matter of which I spoke, I will call on this man's slingsby directly after lunch and see what I can find out. Just so. And touching this business of Miss Faraday, you will, of course, charge to the office any expense in which you may be involved. Oh, quite, said Pilbeam. Quite. There was a ring in his voice which told his employer that in that side of the affair at any rate he might rely on him implicitly. End of chapter 8. Chapter 9 of Bill the Conqueror by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The chase begins. In the heart of the city of Lungeons, Bussle, and Dyn, some fifty yards to the east of Leddenhall Market, there stands a small and dingy place of refreshment, bearing over its door the name of Pirandello. In addition to alluring the public with its rich smell of mixed foods, the restaurant keeps permanently in its window a dish containing a saintly-looking pig's head, flanked by two tomatoes and a discouraged lettuce. There are also cakes of dubious aspect, scattered here and there. Through the glass you can see sad-eyed members of the Borgia family and stained dress suits, busily engaged in keeping up the ancient traditions of the clan. In the narrow doorway of this establishment, about three hours after Pilbeam had left Sir George Pike's office in Tilbury House, Bill West was standing with his young friend Judson Cocher. They were looking up and down the street with an air of expectancy. You're sure this is the right place? asked Judson in a voice of melancholy. The jaconda smile of that placid pig had begun to weigh upon his spirits. That's what she said in her telegram. Pirandello's in Leddenhall Street. Very mysterious. The whole thing, said Judson, frowning at the pig. Ah! said Bill, stepping from the doorway. He had observed Flick threading her way through the traffic from the other side of the street. Flick, in marked contrast to Judson, seemed in the highest spirits. She waved cheerily as she eluded a passing van. She sprang on to the pavement with a gay leap. So you got my wire. That's splendid. Come in. I'm hungry. You aren't going to lunch here? said Judson incredulously. Certainly! It's a very good place. Henry recommended it strongly. He always lunches here. He said he would have treated me to-day, only he's in conference with another man at Blake's chop-house. Henry, said Bill, perplexed. Who's Henry? The office boy where I work? Bill and Judson exchanged a bewildered glance. Where you work? said Judson. Where you work? said Bill. Yes. That's what I've come to tell you about. That's why I wired you to meet me here. I've got a job as a stenographer at the London branch of the Peridine pulp and paper company. What? I can't explain till I've had something to eat. You idle rich don't realize it, but working gives one an appetite. They followed her daisily into the restaurant. A warm, sweet-scented blast of air smote them as they entered. Flick sniffed. Smell the cocoa! She said to Judson. Doesn't it tantalize you? She sat down at one of the marble-topped tables. Mr. Coco likes cocker! She said to Bill. I mean, Mr. Coco likes cocoa! Bill, staring in astonishment at Judson, found the latter eyeing flick with the reproachful look of one who has been disappointed in a friend. The light-hearted girl appeared unaware of his penetrating gaze. She was busy with a waiter who accepted her order dejectedly and wrote it down on a grubby pad. With a non-committal air. As if disclaiming all responsibility. There, said Flick, when the lethal provender was on the table and they were alone once more, now we can talk. I chose this place because nobody's likely to come in here. Not unless they're dippy, said Judson gloomily, poking cautiously at his plate. Bill, who was less wrapped up in the matter of food than his fastidious friend, was able to turn his mind to the extraordinary statement which Flick had made a moment back. You've got a job with Slingsby? He said, marveling. What on earth for? Because I suspect that sinister man, and I want to keep an eye on him. What is this? Demanded Judson, who had now summoned up courage enough to swallow a mouthful. I know it's paraffin, but what have they put in it? I don't understand. When did you get this job? This morning, at about ten o'clock. But how? I just walked in and said I heard there was a vacancy for a stenographer. How did you know there was? Mr. Coker told me so last night. He spent the afternoon with Mr. Slingsby. There must be something awfully attractive about Mr. Coker, because Mr. Slingsby simply wouldn't let him go. Would he? Eh, said Judson absently. I said Mr. Slingsby just kept you sitting in his office for hours yesterday, didn't he? I'm off that man for life, said Judson, with somber emphasis. I have no use for him. You see? Said Flick, Mr. Coker thinks there's something wrong with him, too. We had a long talk last night. She went on, after you had gone off to write your letter, and we came to the conclusion that Mr. Slingsby is a thoroughly bad man. What on earth made you think that? Flick sipped daintily at the odd muddy liquid which the management laughingly described as chocolate. What would you think of a man who's probably got a salary of a thousand pounds a year or so, and runs a Winchester Murphy car, and lives in Bruton Street? Why shouldn't he live in Bruton Street? Asked Bill, mystified. His knowledge of London was small. Bruton Street, Barkley Square, said Flick, you have to be pretty rich to live there. Anyhow you want a good deal more than a thousand a year. But Slingsby goes in for theatrical ventures. He told me so. He probably makes a lot out of those. Well, how did he get the money to go in for theatrical ventures? It's no use arguing the man is a crook. He must be. Apart from anything else, he had a black eye when I called on him this morning. A man like that, said Judson in a hard voice, is bound to get a black eye sooner or later. I wish I had given it him. A black eye? What do you mean? Just what I say. Now, do honest men get black eyes? Of course they don't. And besides, anybody could tell that he wasn't straight just by looking at him. That man's a scoundrel of the worst and lowest description, said Judson. How do you know, said Bill? Never mind, said Judson, Darkly. I have my reasons. He pushed away his plate and nibbled in a disheartened way at a roll. Bill turned to Flick again. Tell me exactly what happened, he said. All right, said Flick. I lay awake in bed last night, for ever so long, thinking over what Mr. Coker had told me, about Bruton Street and the car, you know, and the longer I thought, the fishier it looked. And then I remembered that Mr. Coker had also said that when he called at the office yesterday, Mr. Slingsby was in a bad temper because he had just got rid of his stenographer. It occurred to me that if I called early enough in the morning, I might get there before he had sent out to some agency for another. And luckily I did. I saw Mr. Slingsby, and he engaged me at once. Didn't ask for references or anything. To Bill, though he had little knowledge of what was the customary ceremonial that led up to the engaging of stenographers, this seemed somewhat unusual. Surely he felt the proceedings were not always so rapid as that. The fact was, Mr. Slingsby had happened to be in a frame of mind that morning when his ideal of feminine attractiveness was something differing in every respect from Miss Prudence Stryker, and Flick's fair slimness, so opposite to the brunette heftiness of that militant lady, had soothed him on the instant. She would have had to be a far less efficient stenographer to fail to secure the post. Well, there I was. Said Flick, he told me to start right in, so I started right in. There's a nice old clerk in the office who has been there for years and years. He was under three other managers before Mr. Slingsby, and it wasn't long before he was talking to me about the terrible state of the business now, as compared with the dear old days. I suppose I encouraged him a little. But he gave me the impression of being the sort of man who would have confided in anyone who was ready to listen. I found out all sorts of things. She purred triumphantly over her chocolate. Bill, in spite of his sturdy belief that this was all nonsense, and that the well-meaning girl had started off on the wildest of wild goose chases, could not help being interested, as he sat there thinking. Another aspect of the matter struck him. But look here! He said, Why are you doing all this? Going to all this trouble, I mean. Flick looked up with that swift kitten look of hers. There was something odd in her expression which puzzled Bill. Why shouldn't I go to a little trouble to help you? She said, We're pals, aren't we? There was a silence. For the briefest moment Bill was conscious of a curious feeling as if the atmosphere had become suddenly charged with something electric. There had been a look in Flick's eyes as they met his for an instant that perplexed him. He felt that he hovered on the brink of some strange revelation. Then the spell was shattered by Judson. I want the body, said Judson, who had seemed plunged in a deep coma for the past few minutes, to be sent to my people in New York. Flick's seriousness vanished as quickly as it had come. She laughed. What a fuss you are making! She said, I shan't take you out to lunch again in a hurry. The food's perfectly good. Look how I'm eating mine. Judson are extraordinary. Said Judson, refusing to be cheered, they must have cast iron insides. Don't be indelicate, Mr. Coker. Remember, there are gentlemen present. I've seen my sister Alice wolf with obvious relish. Said Judson, stuff what would kill a strong man. A woman's idea of lunch is tomeane germs washed down with tea and iced lemonade. Dimension of the absent Miss Coker had the effect of producing another momentary silence. But almost immediately, Flick hurried on. I was telling you about this old clerk. She said, he seemed to have the worst opinion of Mr. Slingsby as a businessman. I can't remember all he said, but one thing did strike me as curious. He told me that almost all the wood pulp is being sold at prices which allow only the smallest profit to Mr. Paradine, to a firm named Higgins and Bennett. Well, said Bill, well, said Flick, doesn't that seem odd to you, only the smallest profit? But you don't understand, that's just what Slingsby was talking about at lunch that day. Business conditions. Nonsense, said Flick, decidedly, it's fishy, and you know it is. Because he told me something else. He said that a letter had come from a firm offering a much higher price than Higgins and Bennett, and that he had particularly noticed that no deal for this had been entered in the contract book. During that, for some reason or other, Mr. Slingsby had refused the offer. What do you think of that? It does sound queer. I'm glad you admit it. Sounds very queer to me, and I'm going to keep my eyes open. And now I think you had better be escorting me back to my office, or I shall be getting dismissed on my first day. Henry tells me three quarters of an hour is the official time for lunch. Bill was thoughtful as they walked towards St. Mary Acts. A simple-minded young man, he found these puzzles uncongenial, and suddenly another disturbing thought struck him. Look here! He said, is it safe for you to be round these parts? Aren't you apt to run into somebody you know? Of course not. Uncle George never comes into the city. I'm as safe here as I am in Battersea. Oh, well, that's all right. I was only wondering. They stopped at the entrance of the building on the third floor of which the Paridine Pulp and Paper Company had its offices, and as they stood there a young man in a vivid check suit came out, a small young man with close set eyes, and the scenario of a mustache. He was walking rapidly, and in so preoccupied a condition that he almost canoned into flick. Why, big, you're pardoned," he said. Flick smiled forgivingly and turned to Bill. Goodbye, she said. Goodbye, Mr. Coker. Goodbye, said Judson. You'll be coming to dinner tonight? Of course. Flick entered the building and started to climb the stairs. The young man in the check suit, who had been tying his shoelace, straightened himself and followed her. He moved cautiously, like a leopard. This stupendous stroke of luck, coming so unexpectedly out of a blue sky, had for a moment almost unmanned Percy Pilbeam. He had recognized Flick the instant he saw her, and that feeling that comes to all of us at times, of a mysterious power benevolently guiding our movements, flooded over him. If he had terminated his interview with Mr. Slingsby two minutes sooner, and Mr. Slingsby's attitude and behavior on being questioned about last night's affray had given him every excuse to do so, he would have missed the girl. As it was, everything was working out with the most perfect smoothness. Though he had recognized her, Flick, he was certain, had not recognized him. She was entirely unaware that she was being trailed. The only thing he had to do was to ascertain where she was going, and if she intended to stay there long, and then to send word to Sir George Pike to come and get her. Wherely he tiptoed after her up the stairs. They reached the first floor. They reached the second. They reached the third. When Pilbeam, peering with infinite caution, saw the girl pass through the door he had so recently left, the window of which bore the legend, parodying pulp and paper company. It was now necessary only to wait and see if she was paying a brief visit, or if she intended to remain. Pilbeam camped on the stairs, and the minutes went by. When a reasonable period of time had passed without any sign of Flick, he hurried downstairs. In the doorway he paused and scribbled a note. This he gave, with a shilling, to a passing boy. Then he stationed himself in the doorway to await Sir George's arrival. In assuming so complacently that Flick had not recognized him, Percy Pilbeam had made a tactical blunder. It is true that in the first moment of their meeting he had seemed a stranger, but suddenly, she started to mount the stairs, her subconscious mind, which, after the helpful habit of subconscious minds had been working all the time on its own account, sounded an alarm. Vaguely, in a nebulous, uncertain fashion, she began to feel that somewhere at some time she had seen this chequesuited young man before. But where? And when? She had just reached the second floor, when memory leaped into life as if she had touched a spring. It was in Roderick's office, the day when she had called to take Roderick out to tea, that ever to be remembered day when all the trouble had started. This was the man, Pilbeam, wasn't that his name, who assisted Roderick in the control of Society Spice. It was lucky that this illumination came to flick with such a startling abruptness, for this very abruptness had all the effect of a physical shock. It actually jerked her head sideways as if it had been a blow. And so it came about that out of the corner of her eye she was unable to see her pursuer just a moment before he made one of his wary slidings into the shadows on the staircase. An instant later and she would have missed him. She gave a little gasp. Of all the unpleasant sensations that can attack us in this world, one of the least agreeable is the feeling of being hunted. A brief flurry of panic shook flick. Then pulling herself together she went on up the stairs. Perl quickens the wit, and she had thought of a plan of action. The success of this plan depended entirely on whether that other door in Mr. Slingsby's private office, a door whose existence she had completely forgotten, until her subconscious mind, that admirable assistant, now presented a picture of it for her inspection, led anywhere. It might, of course, be merely the entrance to a cupboard in which case she was trapped. That hope seemed to whisper that a man of Wilfred Slingsby's evil mind, a man who got black eyes and sold wood pulp cheap to Higgins and Bennett when he could have disposed of it more advantageously elsewhere, would be extremely likely to select for his office a room with a bolt hole for use in case of emergency. She entered the office with a high heart. A loud and angry voice proceeding through the door had warned her before she turned the handle that a disturbed atmosphere prevailed within. She found Mr. Slingsby in a state of effervessing fury, engaged in a passionate passage with Henry the office boy. One cannot altogether blame Wilfred Slingsby for his lack of self-control. His unfortunate encounter with Miss Prudence Stryker at Mario's restaurant overnight had brought him to the office in a mood of extreme edginess. And when a good lunch had to some extent pulled him round, he had been plunged into the depths once more by the totally unforeseen intrusion of Mr. Percy Pilbeam. These things upset a man and render an office boy's whistling more than ordinarily disturbing to the nerves. The consequence was that Henry, a dreamy youth who was apt to forget his surroundings, when he became absorbed in his work, had secretly got halfway through the latest song-hit before something that seemed for an instant like a charge of cavalry shot out of the private office. And the next moment young Master Smith—Henry was one of the smiths of Somerstown—was being told things about himself, which even the companions of his leisure hours, and they were a candid and free-speaking band, had never thought of saying. Mr. Slingsby, roused, had a large vocabulary, and Henry was getting nearly all of it. The instinct of self-preservation rules us all. Flick, though their acquaintance had been so brief, was fond of Henry, and had her own affairs been less pressing might have attempted to create a diversion. As it was, she merely welcomed the fact that Mr. Slingsby was busy outside of his private office, and walked into that sanctum without a pause. And there was the second door beckoning her. Flick opened this second door and thrilled with exquisite relief. It was not a cupboard. The door led into a passage. The passage, in its turn, led to a flight of stairs. The stairs led into a small dark courtyard full of boxes and barrels. And the courtyard, after she had threaded her way among these obstacles, proved to lead into a street. Flick reached this street and, hurrying down it without a backward look, left the employment of the parody and pulp and paper company for ever. A matter of half an hour or so after Flick's departure, a cab stopped at the main entrance of the building, and Sir George Pike sprang out. Pilbeam, leaving his doorway, advanced, gambling about him like a faithful dog. Where is she in here? Demanded Sir George. A man of few words. Quite, said Pilbeam, a man of fewer. They entered the building. Pilbeam explaining as they climbed the stairs the events that had led up to this tense situation, events which he had neither time nor space to record in his brief note. Or sure it was the right girl? Quite. Now, what in the world? Mused Sir George as they halted outside the door. Could the fool of a girl be doing here? Pilbeam baffled by the same problem, forbore to speculate. They went into the office. A meek and chastened Henry took Sir George's card into the inner room where Mr. Slingsby outwardly calm once more, but inwardly still a mirror of volcano, scrutinized it capsiously. Who's this? Don't know, Sir. What's he want? Don't know, Sir. Well, show him in, blast him! Said Mr. Slingsby forcefully. We have already seen Wilfred Slingsby considerably persecuted by fate. But even in the brief interval which has elapsed since his last appearance another blow had be fallen him. On top of all the prudence strikers, Percy Pilbeams and whistling Henrys that had recently made life so hard to bear, he had now discovered that his stenographer had mysteriously disappeared at just the time when he needed her assistance most. There were a number of important letters waiting to be dictated. And if the plight of a man, all dressed up and having no place to go, is bad, that of one full of dictation with nobody to dictate it to, is hardly less enviable. Small wonder that the world looked black to Wilfred Slingsby. The episode of the vanishing stenographer, as Mr. Slingsby would have called it if he had been a writer of detective stories, had that quality of utter and insane inexplicability which makes a man moan feebly and stick straws in his hair. He had with his own eyes seen her come in, and now she simply was not. The thing got right in amongst Wilfred Slingsby's nerve-centers, and just as he was feeling that he could stand no more, he saw sailing in, in the wake of Sir George, the loathly figure of young pill-beam. It is a curious phenomenon, which can be vouched for by anyone who has ever boiled an egg, that a slight increase of provocation added to a bubbling fury produces a condition strangely resembling calm. The water which has hissed and shrieked in the saucepan seems to subside almost flagmatically when it reaches the boiling-point. It was so with Mr. Slingsby now. The sight of pill-beam seemed to produce in him a kind of frozen in urgeness. With his unblacked eye he looked venomously at his visitors, but he did not spring from his chair and bite them in the leg. And though his fingers closed for an instant on the large ink-pot on his desk, he released it again. Pill-beam did the honors. "'This is Sir George Pike, of the mammoth publishing company, Mr. Slingsby,' he said. "'Do you publish Society Spice?' asked Mr. Slingsby in a dull voice. "'Among a great number of other papers,' replied Sir George, with a touch of pomposity. "'Ah,' said Mr. Slingsby, he toyed with the ink-pot once more. But again relaxed his grasp. Pill-beam proceeded briskly to business. He had had a word with the elderly clerk in the outer office, while waiting, and ascertained the reason for Flick's presence in this place. "'We have just discovered,' he said, that your stenographer is the daughter of an old friend of Sir George's, Mr. Slingsby. She recently left home. "'Amnesia,' said Sir George. "'Quite,' said Pill-beam. "'Indeed,' said Wilfred Slingsby, still in the grip of that sinister calm. Sir George glared impressively. He intended to stand no nonsense from this man. Mr. Slingsby's black eye, and the knowledge of how it had been acquired, had made an unfavorable impression. I have come to take her back to her home. Oh, have you? The poor girl is in an unfit state to be wandering about alone. Oh, is she?' "'And so,' said Sir George, imperiously, I should be obliged, Mr. Slingsby, if you would produce her. Wilfred Slingsby, his mind working with cold swiftness during these exchanges, began now to see his way to getting a bit, a small bit, but nevertheless a bit, of his own back. He forced a winning smile into his bleak face. "'I should be only too glad to produce her,' as you put it, but she is not here. She came in here. Exactly, and went away again. She said she had a headache and wanted to go home, so I let her off for the afternoon. But I had been watching the door, and she didn't go out,' said Pilbeam, keenly. "'Yes,' said Sir George, how do you account for that?' "'You are at liberty,' said Mr. Slingsby, to search the premises if you wish. Here are the keys of the safe, and the drawers of this desk are not locked. The waste-paper basket, as you see, is empty. I imagine,' he continued, for the solution of the puzzle which had been vexing him, had now presented itself. That she went out by that door there, which leads to another exit. By now, I expect, she is well on her way home. What is her address?' "'Seven Paradise Walk, Earlsfield,' said Mr. Slingsby promptly. The locality had not been selected by him at random. Paradise Walk, Earlsfield, was, he knew, in a particularly unpleasant part of London, and had, in addition, been quite recently the scene of a rather unusually spectacular murder. Mr. Slingsby was not without a faint hope that the inhabitants, if given to that sort of thing, and having nothing better on their hands, might turn their talent for slaughter in the direction of his visitors. "'Thank you,' said Sir George. "'Not at all,' said Mr. Slingsby. "'Much obliged,' said Pilbeam. "'Don't mention it,' said Mr. Slingsby. The visitors picked up their hats. As the door closed, behind them there came into Mr. Slingsby's drawn face, something almost resembling a smile of happiness. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of Bill the Conqueror by P. G. Woodhouse. The chase continues. The callousness of nature in times of human suffering has been commented on so often by poets and others that it has become a truism. If nature had possessed a heart, the day following that, on which Sir George Pike and his young assistant had visited the office of Mr. Wilfred Slingsby, would have been one of dark clouds and weeping skies. As it was, it reached a level of bright serenity that had not been equalled in London since the summer of the previous year. Tilbury Street, whose inhabitants still seemed to be boiling cabbage as if their lives depended on it, stewed in the sunshine so that horses drooped their heads and strong men went gaspingly about their work, counting the minutes till the pubs should open. The pavement in front of Tilbury House was all inlaid with patines of bright gold, and sparrows reveling in the warmth chirped merrily as they lunged in the gutters. In a word all nature smiled. Nevertheless, as has been suggested by our opening remarks, there were aching hearts in Tilbury Street, hearts to which the glorious weather brought no balm. Chief among these was that of Percy Pilbeam. He sat in the office of Society Spice in that dismal half-hour that precedes luncheon, brooding miserably. Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these it might have been. And the thought of how narrowly he had missed pulling off the coup of a lifetime, nod at Pilbeam's vitals like a vulture. If only Flick had proved less elusive what a triumph would have been his. Sir George would have showered commendation upon him. And what is more, could hardly in decency have avoided giving him a handsome rise of salary, instead of which. It is a defect in the characters of Napoleonic men that they are apt to demand from their subordinates success and nothing but success. To come within an ace of triumph advances the subordinates' stock not at all. Indeed it rather depreciates it. Pilbeam realized that he would now be standing considerably higher in Sir George's esteem if he had never got on Flick's trail at all. His employer had exhibited a disquieting disposition to blame him for everything that had happened. Number 7. Paradise Walk, Earlsfield, had proved, when reached after a long and expensive journey in a taxicab, to be an evil-smelling bird and snake shop, owned by a dirty and cheerful old man with gray whiskers and a skull cap, who had proceeded to answer their inquiries for Flick by urging them to examine his stock with a view to purchase. Sir George had read into the man's words a suspicious evasiveness, and it had been his idea that they should sit down and wait. The memory of that vigil had seared Pilbeam's soul deeply, and the recollection of the long green snake which he had suddenly found nestling in his lap was destined to haunt him for many days. Eventually the realization that Mr. Slingsby, in his low fashion, had sent them to a false address, had dawned upon them both at about the same time, and they had gone away, pursued to the last by the owner of the shop, who wanted to do a sacrifice deal on a parrot. The last they had seen of him, before threading their way through the local murderers, and starting back to civilization, he was standing in the street with the parrot on his shoulder doing some spirited price-cutting. It was just about this point that Sir George had become peevish. Pilbeam sighed. It was hard that he should be blamed for what was none of his fault. Sir George's statement that he ought to have had the sense to know that a man like Slingsby, with one eye black and the other gleaming with the light of pure deceit, would naturally send them to the wrong address struck him as unjust. Still, there it was, he had failed, and he was suffering the penalty always meted out to failure in Tilbury House. He had just begun to busy himself with the revision of an article on plague spots of the West End. He was alone in the office to-day, Roderick being absent with a cold in the head, when a boy in Buttons entered bearing a form. Jamp to see you, sir! Pilbeam took the form listlessly. His sufferings had had the effect of subduing his normal pep and ginger, and for a moment so greatly did he desire solitude in his hour of travail, he had the churlish intention of telling the boy to say that he was out. Then his eye fell on the name written on the paper in his hand. Judson, Coker? Something stirred at the back of Pilbeam's mind. Coker? Why was that name vaguely familiar? Coker? Why were those two simple syllables somehow oddly significant? Mr. Coker, where had he heard? He gasped, awed by the sudden suspicion of a terrific possibility. Now he knew where he had heard the name before. Goodbye, Mr. Coker! They were the last words that infernal girl, for so he was now unshivalorously accustomed to think of Flick, had spoken before going into her office building. Goodbye, Mr. Coker! He remembered it distinctly. And then he had asked her if she would be coming to dinner, and she had said, of course, what could this mean but that she was in the habit of visiting this Coker so frequently that her presence at his dinner table had become a matter of routine? What sort of a looking fellow is he? He cried. The boy in Buttons seemed perplexed. It was not usual for the editorial staff of Society Spice to demand word portraits of visitors. A kind of bloke? He said vaguely. Pilbine perceived that to continue examining this unprofitable witness would be wasting time. The thing to do was to have the fellow up and inspect him face to face. Unusual as the name Coker was, he dared not allow himself to hope that this could be the same man. That would be too much like a miracle. Yet as he waited, nervously pulling at his small mustache, he could not keep himself from hoping. And when the door opened and Judson was ushered in, he saw with a pang of excitement which seemed to stop his heart beating that his hope had been fulfilled. The million-to-one chance had come off. This was the fellow he had seen yesterday in St. Mary Acts. Come in, come in! He cried ecstatically. Do take a seat, won't you? Thanks, said Judson, a little surprised at this cordiality, but rendered by it distinctly happier. It began to look to Judson as though his mission was to be plain sailing. It was the story which Flick had told on visiting Marmont Mansions on the previous evening that had brought Judson Coker to-day to the office of Society Spice. Flick's description of Pilbeam's pursuit and how she had eluded it had been spirited and absorbing. But though all of it had interested him, the point that interested him most had been the revelation that Roderick was not the only official in charge of things at the Spice office. His knowledge of the inner workings of weekly paper offices was slight, and he had assumed until now that the only person to whom he could apply for a correction of that paragraph about Todd Yvonne Ryter and the silks was the fellow who had batted Bill West over the head with his stick, obviously a man of the worst, and one from whom it would be hopeless to seek justice. The discovery that Roderick had a partner altered the whole aspect of the affair. He had come here, of course, in a spirit of the utmost weariness and caution. Very much on his guard, Judson was. On no account, he realized, must he let fall a word that would establish in the mind of this man a connection between himself and Flick. Pilbeam, he understood from Flick's narrative, was acting as a sort of amateur bloodhound as far as she was concerned. It caused Judson a faint amusement as he sat down to reflect what a lot this man would give to know that he lived in a flat to which the girl he was hunting came every night for dinner. What did you want to see me about? Asked Pilbeam. Well, it's like this, Judson began. You had a piece in your paper a couple of weeks ago. Pilbeam looked at his watch. I didn't know it was so late. He said, you haven't lunched yet, have you? No, said Judson, thrilled from head to foot by a sudden spasm of hope. In his wildest dreams he had never foreseen a bit of luck like this. How about coming out and having a bite? I can see you've got all sorts of interesting things to tell me, and we can talk better at lunch. So we can, said Judson enthusiastically. So we can. You're American, aren't you? Said Pilbeam. Yes, then we'll go to the Cheser cheese. You must see the Cheser cheese. You aren't a tea totaler by any chance? No, said Judson vehemently. I only asked because they have some rather special port. Port? Whispered Judson, tawny port. Judson's eyes closed for a moment in a prayerful ecstasy. Lead me to it, he said in a low, reverent voice. It is strange how the views of different people concerning any given individual can differ. There were men in London, dozens of them, who heartily disliked Percy Pilbeam. If you had asked Wilfred Slingsby what he thought of the young man behind Society Spice, it would have taken him ten minutes to reply, and scarcely a word of his remarks would have been printable. Yet Judson Coker found him one of the most delightful fellows he had ever met. The Cheser cheese, that historic tavern, pleased Judson immensely. Its old associations, it is true, made but small appeal to him, and he was only tepidly interested in Dr. Johnson's chair. But the lark-staken kidney-putting, that famous specialty of the house, went with a bang from start to finish. Washed down with tankards of old ale, it appealed to all that was best and deepest in Judson. By the time the tawny port arrived, he was in a mood so mellowed that it was difficult for him to realize that the man with the slightly blurred outline sitting opposite him had not been a trusted friend since the days of boyhood. Besides, apart altogether from the port and the old ale, Pilbeam had endeared himself to Judson by his thoroughly sympathetic and understanding attitude in the matter of that silk's article. It was unforgivable, declared Pilbeam warmly, that such a mistake should have occurred. But a man of the world like Judson would understand how hard it was to keep a paper like Society Spice free from these occasional errors. Of course. They would creep in from time to time, exactly, but it should be corrected in the very next issue. Awfully good of you, said Judson, not at all, not at all, said Pilbeam. Oh, but it is. No, no. Oh, but it is. Not a bit. Oh, but it is, but it does, but it is. Insisted Judson with enthusiasm. He drained his glass and gazed with goggle-eyed affection at this obliging man whom he liked. He was now convinced quite a good deal better than anyone else in the world. I'll write an article myself, said Pilbeam, putting the matter straight, and look here, we don't want any more mistakes. I'd better send you proofs. How's that? Proofs? No, sir. Judson waved his hand in a wide and generous gesture. Don't want any proofs. Take your word for it. Proofs of the article, explained Pilbeam gently, so that you can see it before it appears. Oh! Ah-ha-ha! Where shall I send it? Nine Marmot Mansions Battersea. Right, said Pilbeam, and now, he went on, for triumph had made him kindly. Tell me all about the Fifth Avenue silks. You must have had a great time. I can't think how you ever happened to get the idea. It was a flushed and uplifted pill-beam who parted from Judson outside the treasure cheese at a few minutes after, too, and made his way with great strides down Fleet Street to Tilbury House. The sight of Sir George's limousine drawn up at the curb told him that his employer had returned from lunch. He went straight up to the office on the fourth floor. "'Well,' said Sir George, his manner was distant, but pill-beam had been prepared for a cold reception. He would,' he told himself, soon, thaw the ice. "'I have great news, Sir George. I have found out where we can make inquiries of Miss—' There was an uncomfortable pause. Pill-beam had forgotten the name, and so had Sir George. The latter, after a moment of swift thinking, decided on candor. "'Perhaps I'd better tell you, pill-beam. I am sure that you will treat the information in the strictest confidence. Quite. The girl is my niece.' "'Is that so?' said pill-beam, trying to inject a sharp amazement into his voice. "'My niece,' repeated Sir George with gloomy impressiveness. "'It makes me all the happier that I have found her,' said pill-beam devoutly. "'Found her?' "'Well,' amended pill-beam, found the place which she seems to be visiting every day. He told his story with the crisp expertness of one accustomed to squashing the vice of a great city into a column at a quarter. Sir George listened, wrapped. "'Pill-beam,' he said, "'I knew all along that I could rely on you. "'It is very kind of you to say so, Sir George. I train my young men to be bright, and you are the brightest of them all. You may take this note to the cashier. "'I will,' said pill-beam fervently, pocketing the slip of paper. "'Thank you,' said Sir George Rose. "'I shall go at once to this marmant mansion you speak of. I shall see this man cocker.' "'I don't think he will be in for some time,' said pill-beam. When I left him he was saying something about going and having a nap in the park. "'Then I will wait for him, and when I see him,' said Sir George portentously, "'I shall stand no nonsense.'" A powerful car was standing outside marmant mansions when Sir George Pike arrived at the storm-center. Beside it, one foot on the running board, a pleasant-faced young man of impressive physique, smoked a cigarette. This young man watched Sir George as he alighted and approached. He had no recollection of ever having seen Sir George before. Nor did his appearance seem in any way familiar to the older man, yet they had met, and in dramatic circumstances. Sir George was peering up at the building. His chauffeur had told him that this was marmant mansions, but there was no name over the door to prove it. He decided to seek a further opinion. "'I am looking for marmant mansions, Battersea.' "'Right here,' said the young man agreeably. "'Thank you.' "'Not at all. Nice day.' "'Very,' said Sir George. He passed through the doorway. The young man, who seemed to be expecting someone, resumed his vigil. Presently he smiled and waved his hand. A girl in a floppy and unbecoming, seal-skin coat was advancing briskly along the pavement. Sir George's chauffeur, sitting stolidly at his wheel a few yards down the street, eyed her with approval. He had a nice taste in female beauty, and not even the seal-skin coat could hide the fact that Flick was an unusually pretty girl. "'Here I am,' said Flick. "'Haven't I been quick? What do you think of the coat?' "'Fine,' said Bill. "'It isn't. It's awful. But it was the only thing I could get that was warm enough. I borrowed it from my landlady.' She climbed into the car and settled herself cosily. The idea of hiring a car and taking Flick for a drive out into the country had come to Bill as a luminous inspiration while they lunched together in the neighborhood of Shaftesbury Avenue, a locality which seemed well outside the danger zone haunted by Sir George Pike and his minions. The fineness of the day had not escaped their notice, and they had decided that it would be unwise to waste it. Bill, moreover, being a young man used to the possession of a car of his own, had been experiencing for some days that restless and starved sensation which comes to habitual motorists whose motoring is cut off for any long period. His fingers itched to close themselves over a wheel again, and he had sent Flick off to her lodgings to borrow a warm coat while he negotiated for the hire of a car for the afternoon. He climbed in after her. "'Where would you like to go?' "'It's lovely out at Hindhead.' "'All right. How do you get there?' "'And, of course, anywhere down on the river is wonderful. "'Well, you choose.' But they were destined to go that afternoon neither to Hindhead's majestic heights nor to any silvery reach of old Thames. While Flick was still trying to make her choice, the decision was taken out of her hands. Bill, leaning back in a restful attitude, was startled by a little squeak of dismay, and looking up saw that she was staring with round and horrified eyes at something beyond him. Turning his head, he perceived that the stout man who had asked him for marmot mansions had returned and was coming out of the doorway. "'Quick!' gasped Flick. "'Oh! Be quick!' Bill was quick. Though not an abnormally intelligent young man, he gathered that this was no time for waiting and asking questions. He started the car without a word, and they began to glide off. And as they did so, the stout man uttered a sharp bellow and became a thing of leaping activity. The reappearance of Sir George at this point was due to the fact that he had got tired of ringing the bell of number nine. There appeared to be nobody at home, and he had decided that it would be more comfortable to wait. And he intended to wait for hours, if necessary, down below in his limousine. The sight of Flick seemed to him, as it had seemed to Percy Pilbeam twenty-four hours earlier, direct evidence that Providence looks after the righteous. It was only when he saw her being born rapidly away from him that he realized that his position was not so advantageous as he had supposed. In this crisis Sir George lost his head. He shouted uselessly. He galloped along the pavement. Not until Bill's car was twenty yards away and moving swiftly westward along the Prince of Wales Road did it occur to him that he too had a car, and that the pursuit could be conducted far more agreeably on wheels than a foot. He waved like a semaphore to his chauffeur. Hi! Hi! He shouted here! Hi! Briggs! Come on, you fool! The chauffeur, blandly unemotional, stepped with dignity on his self-starter. He drew up beside his fermenting employer. Sir George brang in and gesticulated with both hands in the direction of Albert Road, the corner of which Bill and his companion had just turned at a high rate of speed. Grr! Grr! Grr! Gurgled Sir George. The chauffeur touched his cap aloofly. He gathered that his employer wished him to pursue the other car, but he was not thrilled. It took more than this sort of thing to excite Augustus Briggs. That was Uncle George! said Flick. Bill had deduced as much. He nodded and glanced over his shoulder. It still is, he replied briefly, and drove his foot down on the accelerator. They whirred over the Albert Bridge. End of Chapter 10