The Missing Angel - Erle Cox (whitelam books .TXT) 📗

I was just

going to the show. Come in with me.”

 

She shook her head. “What’s the use? I’ve seen it twice already, and I

want to talk to you. Take me somewhere to dinner, Billykins!” she

coaxed.

 

Tydvil did some more swift thinking. True, he had sought adventure.

Again, why not? “All right,” he yielded. “Where’ll we go?”

 

She mentioned the name of a restaurant the fame of which had reached

even the virtuous ears of Tydvil-Jones-before-the-fall. The new Tydvil

agreed without hesitation.

 

The driver of a hansom, wise in his years and his calling, had his eyes

on the pair as they talked. He sent out a swift “Keb, sir?” Tydvil

nodded, and the cab drew to the kerb. She put her hand on his arm, about

to step into the cab, when Jones happened to glance over his shoulder.

He had suffered a succession of shocks that night. But when he looked

into the hostile blazing eyes of Geraldine Brand, who was passing not

six feet away with two other girls, his nerve almost failed him.

 

For a second, he forgot he was Billy Brewer. It ‘was Tydvil Jones, who,

in such a compromising situation, wilted under the relentless judgment

of those eyes. It was only for a second though. His hand went to his

hat, but Geraldine, with her head high, turned haughtily away. Tydvil

whistled softly to himself.

 

His companion, who had missed not a detail of the encounter, entered the

cab without a word. Jones named his destination to the driver and took

his place beside her. The moment he was seated she turned on him. “Now,

Billy, who was that redheaded she cat?”

 

“What do you mean?” asked Tydvil with an air of engaging innocence.

 

The woman beside him bit her lip. When she spoke he felt that tears

were very near the surface. “Oh, Billy, I used to think you cared, and

that you were something better than the rest! Who is she?” The last words

were a demand not to be denied.

 

Almost like Amy, reflected Jones. Then he said, “The girl who passed just

now was only one of the typists from the office.”

 

She was silent a moment, and then said with deep conviction, “Billy, I

think you are the most brutal, callous, hard-hearted devil that ever

lived.”

 

“Just because a girl looked at me,” he said in an injured tone. “I

couldn’t help her looking at me.”

 

She laughed shortly. “That wildcat didn’t look at you as though she would

like to scratch you, for nothing.” She paused, and then went on. “I

wonder how many others there are as well. I positively, know five now.

There are Alma, Joyce, Clara Butler, Vivian Granger, that redheaded

fury—and—I might as well add my own name, Hilda Cranston, a fool, and

at your service.”

 

The name gave Tydvil a jolt, for he knew there was a Cranston on the

pay-roll of Craddock, Burns and Despard—and he wondered. But he had

small time for wondering. He was busy making Billy Brewer’s peace with an

angry woman, though he had his suspicions that Billy would not thank him

for the service. By the time they reached their destination, he had

succeeded in establishing a truce.

 

Here a new problem presented itself. He managed to secure a quiet and

unobtrusive table in a corner of the crowded room. When she peeled off

her gloves and passed them over to him to put in his pocket, he noticed

that the fourth finger of her left hand was encircled by a plain thin

gold band.

 

Hilda took the menu card Tydvil handed to her and glanced at him over its

edge. “Let’s do the ordering, Billy,” she asked. Anxious to do anything

that might conciliate her, he acquiesced. All the more gladly because he

was himself uncertain what would be the correct thing to offer his

partner in the circumstances.

 

“Can I make it willing, dear?” That “dear” was an emblem of peace. “How’s

the exchequer, boy?”

 

“Go to the limit,” Tydvil agreed, secure in a well-filled wallet. “The

exchequer is not only healthy, it’s robust. I backed King Rufus today.”

He felt almost proud of the way the name of a horse, the existence of

which he had been ignorant of an hour earlier, slipped off his tongue.

 

“How glorious!” Her eyes sparkled. “We’ll have a big bottle of bubbles,

too.”

 

The waiter was standing beside her, and Jones watched in no little

amazement her assured and self-possessed air as she enumerated her

requirements. There was only a little hesitation when she came to the

wine. “Which, Billy?” she said, glancing over at him.

 

He laughed. The names were Greek to him. “You said you were giving the

order, and I’ll take you at your word.”

 

She named the wine and the man enquired, very respectfully, “Vintage,

sir?” Tydvil had no idea what the word implied, but nodded, and the man

went on his way.

 

The next two hours of Tydvil Jones’ life remained afterwards as a blurred

impression of soft music, white arms and shoulders, shaded lights,

strange and delectable food and stranger and more delectable drinks. He

did not know what was in the cocktail with which that repast commenced,

but it tasted like liquid happiness. When he swallowed it, it obliterated

all care of past or future from his mind. Tydvil lived in the present

only. A glowing present of a heady illusive perfume that drifted across

the table to him, and of eyes that told things of which Tydvil Jones had

never dreamed.

 

He took his fair share of the wine that sparkled, and found it good.

After the first glass he found himself saying things that could only have

obtained their brilliance from “beaded bubbles winking at the brim” of

the long-stemmed glass beside him.

 

“Billy,” she said at the last, “you’ve been delightful tonight. I’ll

forgive you even that redheaded cat, but you’ll have to see me home.”

 

Tydvil Jones, the once Tydvil Jones, faintly, whispered caution. Two

robust Scotch whiskies, a sidecar, a glass of sherry, three glasses of

vintage wine and a benedictine all shouted, “Why not?” and all cheered

together when Tydvil Jones threw his life’s training and all discretion

to the winds, and told her he would see her to the end of the world and

beyond, provided she brought her dimples with her.

 

In Collins Street as they stood on the footpath, she said, “Don’t take a

taxi, Billykins, get a hansom, taxis are too quick,” and as she

commanded, so it was done. There was one anxious moment, however, when

the cab drew up. To where was he to tell the man to drive? But Tydvil

found himself as full of devices as he was of high spirits. “Don’t you

think we had better not drive to the house?” he asked.

 

“Perhaps not, dear,” she conceded. “No use attracting attention. Tell him

to put us down at the corner of Fitzroy and Acland Streets.”

 

Jones gave the man his sailing orders and took his seat. It was not until

they had crossed Princes Bridge that she spoke again. “There’s not much

need to worry, though. He’s in Sydney.”

 

Tydvil gave an interrogative, “Oh?”

 

“I thought you would have known he had his holidays. That’s why I wrote.”

 

At that moment two and two added themselves together in Tydvil’s mind.

Cranston, the head of the Manchester Department, was on his annual leave.

He recollected that Cranston, whom he liked least of his staff, had

mentioned he was going to Sydney. When in the friendly obscurity a soft

arm stole round his neck, it suddenly occurred to Tydvil that Cranston

must have treated this little woman abominably; aye, and neglected her,

too. How else would she so crave love and sympathy. He felt it almost a

duty to comfort her.

 

Let us not hold a brief for Tydvil Jones, but let us be just, and let

him, who says he would have resisted where Tydvil fell short of his early

standards, remember the fate of Ananias. The hansom rolled along St.

Kilda Road, and as it rolled, Tydvil started in pursuit of those dimples.

But in spite of strict attention to the business in hand, he had not

captured one by the time the cab stopped. Unnoticed, he had passed his

home where he had fully intended to escape.

 

He could scarcely believe that the five miles had not been done at a

speed of twenty miles an hour, so brief had been the journey. He assisted

Hilda to alight. Absently he gave the cabby the note that was uppermost

in his wallet, and told him to keep the change—which amounted to four

pounds twelve shillings and sixpence. Tydvil’s troubles!

 

Taking her arm and shortening his step to hers, they turned into Acland

Street and presently, turned again down one of the side streets leading

to the esplanade. At the gate Hilda paused. Jones opened it and stepped

into the little garden. “Goodnight, little girl,” he said, “I’ll have to

get home. It is nearly eleven.”

 

She put her hand on his shoulder and looked up at him. “Oh, Billykins,

just half an hour. Come in with me. There’s not a soul in the house.”

 

Again we can hold no brief for Tydvil, and can make no concession to his

weakness. His behaviour was deserving of the severest censure. Still,

perhaps Amy and Hilda were not altogether blameless. Mr. Nicholas Senior

might apportion the blame fairly.

 

Hilda opened the door with a latchkey, and switched on a light in the

passage. She led Tydvil to a small room half way, down it. There was a

large, heavily-shaded kerosene lamp on the table, which she lit, and then

switched off the electric light. Turning to him, she said, “Wait a

little, Billy, I shan’t be long,” and he found himself alone.

 

It was a dainty and cosy apartment, and Tydvil sank into an armchair with

a feeling of intense well-being and comfort. The silence was only broken

by the busy ticking of a travelling clock. Minutes passed. Then he heard

a door open down the passage. Then a “swish, swish,” which made his heart

go faster.

 

She stood in the doorway smiling at him. It must have been a lightning

change, for, in place of the walking frock, she was wearing a long, soft,

neckless, sleeveless robe that suited and fitted her to perfection. How

it retained the status quo in defiance of the laws of gravity was a

mystery to Tydvil. She kissed the tips of fingers to him, and with her

hand motioned him not to rise.

 

There was a little cupboard in the corner, and to this she went. From it

came a cheerful clinking, and when she turned she bore two glasses and a

small foiled bottle which she placed on the table. “Billy,” she said,

“one more little one won’t do us any harm. I’ve been keeping this for

you.”

 

The original Tydvil had considerable doubts on her optimism. The present

emancipated Jones agreed heartily. He had never seen, he thought, a more

charming picture than she made in her new robe. Tydvil put the thought

into words as he watched her deftly unwire the bottle. She positively

refused to allow him to assist. With a table napkin to act as silencer

and splashboard, the cork came out with a friendly “pop.” Then she sent

the wine creaming into two glasses without losing a precious drop. One

she handed to him, and, taking the other, she perched herself on the arm

of his chair.

 

“So you like my frock,” she said as she leaned over him.

 

He