Title: The Missing Angel
Author: Erle Cox
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0701011.txt
Language:  English
Date first posted: Aug 2007
Date most recently updated: Aug 2007

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Title: The Missing Angel
Author: Erle Cox



"My Lords, there was an island of farewell,
Whence parted those things real
from those that only seemed to be."


To
MOLL, KATH and HAROLD


All characters in this story, except that of Nicholas Senior,
are fictitious.



CHAPTER I


To-know all is to forgive all. So, therefore, if you would censure
Tydvil Jones because of what happened when he made the attempt to
recapture his lost youth, you should know why and how he lost his youth.

A biographical introduction to a story is always boring, but I cannot
help that. You must know how Tydvil was brought up or it will be
impossible to understand him. When you know he began life with a
handicap that not one man in a million could carry to the winning post
you will recognise that he might have been much worse than he was.

To begin with Tydvil was an only child. His father was middle-aged when
Tydvil arrived, and was a man deeply absorbed in his business. His
mother was a woman of iron will and an ultra pious disposition. That she
insisted on calling her son Tydvil because his father had been born in
Merthyr Tydvil, and had her way, is one proof of the inflexibility of
her purpose.

It was the boy's good luck that with his mother's will he inherited the
business ability of his father. As there was not room in one family for
two will-powers such as her own, Mrs. Jones, senior, did her best to
eradicate that of her son in his infancy; but never recognised that,
though suppressed, it remained latent.

Now, Mrs. Jones as the moving spirit in half a dozen societies for the
moral improvement of everybody and everything, obtained an insight into
aspects of life that are usually kept decently covered up. Not being as
wise as she believed herself to be, and seeing results without
understanding causes, she was firmly convinced that all men were brutes.
She asserted her belief so often that the natural brutality of man
became the basic axiom of her life.

She was determined, therefore, that her son would grow up an exception,
and took measures accordingly. It was the boy's hard luck that; as an
only child, she was able to devote her entire attention to him while she
was not otherwise engaged in reforming society.

To give her her due, she was well equipped for the job. It would have
been better for Tydvil perhaps had she not been entitled to sign herself
M.A. By the time he was aged eighteen years he was better furnished
educationally than thousands of public school boys. Otherwise the
results of his home training were deplorable beyond words.

He knew no other boys of his age except at long range. His only sport
was tennis played with serious-minded seniors of either sex on the
family court. On the rare occasions when he came into contact with
youths of his own age, he could not understand them. He considered their
outlook on life to be sinful. Their opinion of him, expressed with the
freedom of youth, was far from flattering.

On one occasion, after reflecting on their manners and customs to two
amazed boys, he only escaped gathering the full harvest of his temerity
by one restraining the other on the plea that it was impossible to
strike a lady. They parted with him after giving him a brief, but lurid,
summary of his character that left him pink to the ears.

The truth was, that at this age, a more intolerable and obnoxious young
prig than Tydvil Jones could not have been found outside the pages of
"Sanford and Merton," a literary masterpiece that is, fortunately,
forgotten by the present generation.




CHAPTER II


To his father, Tydvil's belated arrival had been a cause of
embarrassment rather than pleasure. He felt secretly relieved when his
wife had undertaken to deal with a domestic problem with which he felt
himself unable to cope. He had his doubts as to the value of the boy's
education at home. But he concealed them from his wife. Thirty years of
married life had made him a domestic diplomat.

It was a relief, too, when his wife decided that Tydvil had arrived at
the age when he should enter his father's office. It was his unspoken
fear that his wife would demand a professional career for their son.

Away back in the '50's of last century, there had been established the
firm of Craddock, Burns and Despard. The firm had flourished
exceedingly. Burns's daughter had married a Jones in the '70's.
Subsequently, through a series of vital and commercial dissolutions, the
father of Tydvil Jones became the sole partner and owner of the firm of
Craddock, Burns and Despard. The head office was housed in a vast
six-storied building, and the women of six States paid tribute into the
coffers of C. B. & D.

For the first time in his life, Tydvil Jones came into direct contact
with his father. It was a belated contact that led to a mutual respect,
based, although they did not recognise the fact, on mutual suffering.

The loosening of the apron strings, however, by no means meant
emancipation. In the warehouse, Tydvil experienced the isolation of "the
boss's son." It was the isolation of the man who would eventually take
the reins. Departmental heads who imparted information were courteous
but restrained. The general staff, both office and warehouse, viewed his
advent with suspicion.

The boy's natural reticence increased, and, denied friendship, he threw
himself wholeheartedly into his work. He had sufficient sense not to
make his position too obvious to the staff. The natural ability he had
inherited from his father found a proper outlet, and it was not long
before Tydvil began to make his mark.

Gradually the staff recognised he was not presumptuous. Moreover, to
their great and abiding joy, they discovered that he was innocent of the
world and the flesh to an extent that was unbelievable to a horde of
average business pagans.

The typists found with delight that, on being spoken to by one of them,
he would blush a rosy pink. Therefore, they made opportunities to
approach him, and the eyes of a dozen other minxes watched for the
tell-tale blush.

There grew up around Tydvil legends of his innocence, that lost nothing
in the telling. "Have you heard Tyddie's latest?" became a stock
question. None the less, while the staff grinned joyously at his
blameless life, they began to have a real respect for him as a business
man.

Said one departmental head to another: "He may be a mug in many
respects, but there was nothing of the mug in the way he handled that
old swine Graham of Graham and Stone over those contracts. You know the
old man's gift of language when the spirit moves him?"

The other nodded, and laughed.

"Well," the narrator continued, "he cut loose on young Tyddie. He had
hardly got his first 'damn,' when the lad pipes up, 'You will be good
enough not to use obscene and blasphemous language in my office. It does
not impress me, and it is offensive. Kindly confine your remarks to
business.'"

The listener laughed. "That must have improved the atmosphere."

"A close-up of old G's face would have been worth a fortune. He gulped
out, 'I've done business with this house for five and thirty years, and
have never been spoken to like that.' 'Hump,' snapped Tyddie, 'then it's
about time someone took you in hand. If you don't like the way I talk to
you, you can get out and close the account.'"

"That, to old Michael Graham?"

"Just that! And believe it or not, he bullied the old devil till he
didn't know whether he was awake or enjoying a nightmare. He signed up
for all the allowances we asked for and agreed to replace the defective
stuff. Tyddie may be a perfect lady, but he is no mug."




CHAPTER III


In his twenty-fifth year, Tydvil Jones married. Had he been asked at the
time, he would have said he had made free selection. Really, the choice
had been his mother's. That matron was somewhat disappointed at the
result of her matchmaking.

She knew Amy to be very pious and serious but she under-estimated her
generalship and fighting strength. Amy suddenly developed a will that
was more inflexible than her own. In the several ruthless but brief
battles fought for the ownership of Tydvil Jones, Amy was signally
victorious.

The bone of contention knew nothing of the war that had been fought. He
found he had merely exchanged one domestic ruler for another. To him the
gynecocracy that would have driven another man to drink or crime, was a
normal state of affairs. The only effect of the change was that he
noticed Amy talked a good deal more than his mother did.

After his marriage his home life took on a new aspect. Under his
mother's rule Tydvil had been able to avoid taking part in her
activities for the reformation of society.

Amy had other ideas.

First, she waged war on her mother-in-law to obtain control of several
of her pet societies. To give the elder woman her due, she put up a
perfectly willing fight. Outside of actual physical violence, there was
no limit to their endeavours. The war was waged under Rafferty's rules,
and Amy was again victorious.

What Mrs. Jones, senior, said about Mrs. Jones, junior, though in the
main true, was libellous and scathing. Indeed, there was no need to
embroider the stories, the facts were more scandalous than anything she
could have invented. Amy's methods were new and atrocious beyond the
wide experience of her vanquished mother-in-law.

Who but Amy would have thought of telephoning to every one of her
mother-in-law's supporters, on the morning of a vital meeting, that the
meeting had been postponed? But Amy did that, and came down with her
own gang and elected all her own nominees for office unopposed.

Partly to irritate his mother, and partly for her own convenience, Amy
enlisted Tydvil for social service. Having no other interests outside
his business, he found the work an outlet for his surplus energies. Amy
found his clear judgment no small assistance in her campaigns.

Therefore, in certain circles, Tydvil Jones became a somewhat notable
figure. He studied social questions and spoke from many platforms. He
also subscribed to causes the value of which he doubted, though at that
period his doubts were kept to himself.




CHAPTER IV


At the age of thirty an avalanche smote the life of Tydvil Jones. In the
one six months he lost both his parents. Early in the year, a moment of
indecision settled the fate of his mother. The driver of the motor car
was severely censured by the coroner, though the jury brought in a
verdict of misadventure.

Just six months later, his father relinquished his life as unobtrusively
as he had lived. Their actual loss had little effect on their son.
Neither had been demonstratively affectionate. None the less, the result
was to sweep Tydvil from a harbour of comparative calm into an ocean of
serious responsibilities.

He knew when he succeeded to the control of Craddock, Burns and Despard,
that his father's death had made him a wealthy man. But when the figures
relating to the estate were known, confreres of the deceased merchant
opened their eyes with astonishment, and the State Treasurer of the day
licked his lips over the death duties.

Thanks to his previous attitude towards his staff, the succession of
Tydvil Jones to the throne of C. B. & D. was accomplished without
friction or unrest. Despite its great prosperity, the thirty years of
conservative autocracy of the late ruler lay heavily on the warehouse.
Without undue haste, and carefully feeling his way, the new ruler
instituted reforms that sent a sigh of relief from basement to roof.

But, from the day he assumed the reins, Tydvil began to live a double
life--but not in the usually accepted sense of the term. One was the
domestic life in which he was the subject of an autocrat. The other, his
real life, was as ruler of an establishment capitalised at
three-quarters of a million, and controlling the destinies of some four
hundred fellow beings.

From his elevated position his horizon was enlarged. He came into direct
contact with his peers in business, who received him with some
circumspection, having heard stories of his peculiar views. It was not
long before they recognised that he was a man not to be despised in the
game of buying and selling by which they all made a more or less honest
living.

Outside their common interest, however, they were at a loss what to make
of him, and he could not understand them. But after relinquishing the
first very natural idea that he was pulling their legs, they summed him
up as a most amazing prig.

There was some justification for their verdict. He had been brought up
to believe that a theatre was a vestibule to Hades, and shared with
race-courses and hotels the distinction of wearing the hall-marks of
depravity. If you hammer a doctrine, however fantastic, into a human
being from childhood, it will take an immense amount of eradicating.

But, in these early days of his responsibilities, Tydvil did a lot of
quiet thinking and observing. It did not take him long to arrive at the
conclusion that it was he and not his business associates who were
abnormal. Then the revolutionary truth gradually shaped itself in his
mind, that all his life he had allowed others to do his thinking, and he
awoke to the knowledge that all his ideas apart from his business, were
second hand.

At home he allowed no sign of his changing ideas to be noticed. He
entered into his social activities as an observer rather than a
participator. His admiration for his associates faded when he noticed
how they fawned on Amy. He also awoke to the fact that it was the cheque
book of Tydvil Jones rather than Tydvil Jones himself that commanded
the respect given to him. He obtained a good deal of cynical amusement
from watching how eagerly Amy lapped up the flattery of her friends.

It was about this time that Tydvil began to study his wife. But it was a
study of her habits and customs and not a study of her comfort. Amy was
good looking; there was no doubt about that. But there were lines about
her mouth that were seldom seen by anyone but her husband. They showed
up immediately he questioned any act or opinion of hers. When her
friends complimented him on the unfailing sweetness of "dear Amy," Jones
agreed cheerfully and dutifully, but the thought of those lines was
always in the background.

Few but he recognised the diamond hardness of the sweet nature of Amy.
He had occasionally met other women who took the good things of life
thankfully and graciously. They were women who laughed naturally and who
did not want to reform society.

Once, experimentally, he suggested a modification of her Spartan hair
dressing and more expensive frocks. After Amy's first shock of surprise,
her discourse on frivolous dressing lasted for 45 minutes. Who had
hinted she was unbecomingly clothed? Had she ever shown a tendency to
extravagance? Nothing but her knowledge of his impeccable life saved him
from a suspicion of having sideslipped from grace. Indeed, her
insistence on returning to the subject of the reasons for his suggestion
awoke in Jones the thought that she would find the pain of a misdemeanour
eased by the joy of reforming him, if necessary.

However, as he listened to her homily, he tried, without much success,
to reconcile her ideas of economy in dress with a twenty-roomed house,
three motor cars and eight maids.



CHAPTER V


However, Tydvil's study of Amy led him to the discovery that though he
had been married to her for six years, he knew very little of his wife.
It was a little disconcerting at first to realise that she was no saint,
and that in pursuit of her objectives her methods were, to put it
mildly, peculiar. Recollections of passages between Amy and his mother,
unnoticed at the time, strengthened this conviction.

Then the discovery of a letter from his mother to his father opened his
eyes still wider. It narrated the episode of Amy's telephone tactics
before referred to, and wound up with a summary of Amy's character as it
appeared to the writer: "A more selfish, deceitful and hard-hearted
woman never existed. I feel that her piety is the grossest hypocrisy,
and that faith and charity are as far beyond her as my poor son is
beyond hope in her hands."

Allowing for his mother's habit of emphasis, Jones was forced to
conclude that there was something in the unflattering sketch of Amy.
Then he remembered his father's self-effacement, and he saw a light. As
he ripped the letter viciously to pieces, for the first time in his
life, at the age of thirty-two years, Tydvil Jones swore. "No more! No
more!" he said aloud, bringing his clenched fist down on the table
before him, "I'm damned if I'll stand it any longer!" The trouble was,
that Tydvil learned he had been robbed of his youth and the joy of
living it. That the robbery was committed with pious intent, was no
salve to his feelings. Affection may have misled his mother, but Amy had
been an accessory, not for love, but ambition. It was not sweet to
realise that he was subject for amused pity among the men he met in
business. The worst of it was he felt his case was beyond remedy.

Two incidents occurred about this time that made him resolve on
emancipation. In both of these he was an unwilling eavesdropper.

One night, while returning home from a meeting, he entered an empty
railway compartment. At the next station, two men, well known to him,
took the adjoining compartment. When he recognised their voices, he was
prevented from making his presence known by their first words, evidently
the continuation of a discussion. "Tydvil Jones--heavens, what a
name!--is a hopeless wowser. And I can't stand a wowser."

The rest of the conversation came in illuminating patches. "I don't
believe he ever..." What it was, the angry listener could not
catch, but the shout of mirth that accompanied the expression of
unbelief, made Tydvil's blood boil. "McRae or Daglish should take him in
hand and complete his education..."

"He would be an awfully decent fellow if someone would de-moralise him."

Fortunately, in the midst of ribald suggestions for the improvement of
Tydvil Jones, the train drew up at a platform, and the subject of their
speculations, stooping low, fled.

The second incident was far more pleasant, and gave Tydvil even more
food for reflection.

One evening he was working back in his office some time after the staff
had left. Through a mind concentrated on his work, he became conscious
of voices near him, but for some time their purport did not sink in.
Then suddenly, without volition, he found himself alert and listening to
the words, "Well, anyhow, Tyddie is a dear in spite of his innocence."

The voice was that of his senior typist. In a moment he realised that to
make his presence known at that juncture would be exceedingly
embarrassing both to himself and the speaker. With a grim smile, he felt
that, of the two, he would suffer the more acutely. He hoped the
conversation would lose its very personal note.

But the next words convinced him that the hope was vain. "I'll bet,"
came a second voice, and he recognised the accents of that impertinent
little Miss Marsden, "that no one has ever told Tyddie how good looking
he is. I just love the way his hair waves, and those brown eyes of his.
Did you ever notice what a kissable mouth he has?"

The listening man felt perspiration on his forehead. Then came the voice
of the senior typist. "Why don't you tell him that, Jess?"

There was a ripple of happy laughter, and Jess replied: "Poor Tyddie! If
I told him that I would be tried for manslaughter. Tyddie would perish
from spontaneous combustion brought on by his own blushes."

Little Miss Jessica Marsden never knew how near she was to bringing
about that catastrophe. "It's a jolly shame to think he's tied up to
Amy," from the senior typist. "My sister, Jean, was at school with her,
and she says that Amy wasn't fit for human consumption." Jones started,
and drew a deep breath. This was getting home with a vengeance.

"She is a beast," commented Jess simply and sincerely.

The senior typist took up the tale. "It gives me the pip to see her come
sailing along with her condescending--'Is Mr. Jones in his office, my
dear?'"

The words were such a perfect imitation of his wife's voice, that it
took Jones all his time to keep still. "Pity she can't get someone to
tell her how to dress herself."

Jessica echoed the wish, and went on, "I always call them the beauty and
the beast. It's a reversal of roles, but it's accurate."

The voices died away down the empty warehouse. When he was sure they had
departed, the sole partner of Craddock, Burns and Despard drew a long
breath of relief. The next thing he did was rather unusual for him. He
rose and walked across the room to the mirror that hung over the fixed
basin behind the screen in the corner. Jones surveyed his reflection
long and earnestly. Whether Miss Marsden's judgments were right, he was
too modest to decide. But he did think that thirty-three years of sober
and upright living had left him looking curiously youthful. The
discovery was not unpleasing.

On the following Friday evening when the senior typist and that impudent
little Miss Marsden received their pay envelopes, they were amazed to
find a wholly unexpected and totally unaccountable increase of ten
shillings a week in their salaries.

Had they known that the portent announced the awakening of Tydvil Jones,
they would have been still more bewildered.




CHAPTER VI


So now we see why Tydvil Jones was ripe for rebellion against life in
general, and his wife in particular. He felt he had had a raw deal. He
did not quite know what to do about it, but he was determined to do
something, and in the humour he was in, he did not care much what he
did.

The overdue explosion occurred about a fortnight after the episode of
the two typists. He entered his breakfast room, as usual, the first
arrival. It was Amy's practice to appear at breakfast always, but unless
she had something particular to say to him, usually annoying, she seldom
arrived on the scene until a few minutes before he was timed to depart
for his office.

She did not like early rising, but she did like to say to her friends,
"I think, my dear, it is a wife's duty to give her husband her society
at breakfast." She considered it marked her as a devoted spouse who was
willing to sacrifice her comfort for her husband's pleasure. She
certainly did sacrifice her comfort, but whether Tydvil found pleasure
in it is open to argument.

The maid who attended to his simple wants found the master unusually
unresponsive. He was as much loved by his household staff as Amy was
disliked--which says volumes for his popularity. Tydvil had slept
badly, and was still simmering from a domestic argument of the previous
night.

There was, among others, an institution known as the Moral Uplift
Society, of which Amy was president. Its aim was to assist unfortunate
girls, who had run off the rails, back to the tracks of righteousness.
Jones had, on several occasions, contributed lavishly to its upkeep. A
quiet investigation, however, had suggested to him, that though its
expenditure was real, the results accruing from its efforts were
doubtful.

His insistence on being given some concrete evidence of its usefulness
was met with replies so vague, and so conflicting, that he arrived at
the conclusion that its secretary was a son of Ananias, and several of
the helpers were daughters of Sapphira. Moreover, his requests for a
balance sheet had been fruitless, though he admired the skill with which
his curiosity on the subject was baffled.

For several days Amy had been angling for a cheque for one thousand
pounds for the Moral Uplift Society. Usually he submitted to her
exactions patiently. This time, however, she met with a flat refusal
until he had seen a balance sheet prepared by his own auditor.

Amy was annoyed, but had no misgivings as to the outcome of Tydvil's
extraordinary stubbornness. On the previous evening she had given up an
engagement to devote herself seriously to the matter. From eight o'clock
until ten-thirty, when he fled to his room, still recalcitrant, and
locked himself in--and her out--she had wrought with him faithfully.
He had remained silent, sullen and unyielding under the ordeal by
tongue.

All this may explain, if it does not excuse, the outburst of Tydvil
Jones as his eyes ran over the columns of the newspaper the maid had
placed beside his plate. Suddenly he sat erect. He dropped his half
lifted cup back into the saucer with a clash of china and jingle of
silver that shattered the dignified silence of the room.

In both hands he grabbed the paper, and glared at it with incredulous
eyes. It was no wonder he doubted their accuracy, for he read, under
triple and flattering headlines, the following paragraph: "Members and
friends of the Moral Uplift Society passed a hearty vote of thanks to
Mr. Tydvil Jones, the well known philanthropist, at their monthly
meeting yesterday afternoon. Mrs. Tydvil Jones, the president of the
Society, read a letter from her husband in which he offered a donation
of one thousand pounds to be used for any purpose the committee may
direct. This is the third cheque for a similar amount which Mr. Jones
has contributed to the funds of the society."

"That well known philanthropist, Mr. Tydvil Jones," read that paragraph
three times before its enormity filtered thoroughly into his system. The
third time, he read it standing up. The startled maid regarded her
employer with wide-eyed concern. She thought he was choking, so suffused
had his face become. Then the long suppressed volcanic eruption took
place. Tydvil hurled the newspaper to the floor and ground it tinder his
heel. This was bad enough, but his language..."It's an outrage!" he
shouted. "A damned outrage and a damned conspiracy! Not a penny! Not one
damned penny!"

Fate decreed that, at that moment Amy entered the room and both saw and
heard her husband's demonstration. It was only when his wife had
advanced towards the table that he was aware of her presence. Not that
that made any difference, Tydvil was beyond caring two hoots for Amy or
anyone else.

Scenting battle, the wide-eyed maid fled--but not out of earshot. Amy
advanced, showing no sign of emotion, and, stooping down, drew the
newspaper from under her husband's foot. Deliberately she smoothed out
the creases of the torn page, and quietly placed it on the table. Then,
as quietly, she walked round the table and took her seat. She leaned
back in her chair with her cold eyes fixed on his flushed face. There
was a long thirty seconds' silence.

Then Amy spoke calmly, "I am waiting, Tydvil."

"For what?" he snapped.

"For your apology." Her eyes never left his for a moment.

"Then you'll wait a dashed long time!" He had leaned towards her with
both hands resting on the edge of the table, and his out-thrust chin
gave him an unusually bellicose air.

The lines about Amy's mouth hardened. Her lips compressed to a straight
pink line, and there was cold fury in her grey eyes. Very few of her
friends would have recognised "Dear Amy" at that moment.

"I think, Tydvil, dear," she said evenly, though the white knuckles
clenched on the arm of her chair showed what it cost to control her
voice--"I think, Tydvil, dear, that you have been overworking yourself.
I will ask Dr. Morris to call this evening. Perhaps a holiday will be
necessary.

"Morris, be hanged!" he snorted.

Amy raised her brows slightly. "Perhaps, my dear Tydvil," she knew of
old how the reiterated "Dear Tydvil" grated, "you will explain the cause
of your irritation. Your conduct may be, indeed is, unpardonable." She
waved a hand slightly and went on, "I am quite unused, as you know, to
hearing such language. Neither am I used to being sworn at before my
servants."

The statements were unassailable facts. Usually she would have
side-tracked Tydvil into a defence that he had not sworn at her. But he
was too full of wrath to be distracted by minor issues. He snatched up
the crumpled paper and, in a voice that she scarcely recognised, he read
that outrageous paragraph aloud. "What's the meaning of that infernal
falsehood?" he demanded. "You know I have refused to subscribe to that
den of racketeers. Eh? Eh?"

There was a nasty little smile on the corners of Amy's lips as she
answered.

"The paragraph is quite in order, my dear Tydvil. It states what
actually took place at our meeting yesterday." She paused, and the smile
deepened. "Indeed, I handed the paragraph into the newspaper offices
myself."

"Meeting--yesterday--afternoon!" He gasped his surprise with each word.
"You told me you knew I particularly wished to be present. You told me
yourself it was--postponed." Amazement struggled with his wrath.

Amy nodded slightly, quite unabashed. "I am quite aware of that, as I
was aware that you intended to make a very disagreeable fuss over a
quite unnecessary balance sheet. I most strongly object to your
interference in matters in any of my societies that do not concern you."

Staring at her, open mouthed, Tydvil sank slowly back into his chair.
"But the letter!" he gasped, "the letter..."

"I saw to that, too." She spoke as though humouring a petulant child.

Jones turned the revelation over in his mind. "Do you mean to tell me
you wrote that letter yourself?" he said at last.

She nodded. "I typed it myself, and read it to the meeting. It was not
signed, and no one saw it but myself."

"And," his voice shook with his rising wrath again, "you expect me to
hand over that cheque!"

She nodded emphatically. "I most certainly do."

"Then let me tell you this," he shouted, thumping the table while
everything on it jangled to his blows, "I'll see you to Jericho before I
give you a farthing; and you can explain why as you dashed well please."

"After the publicity the matter has been given, you will find it rather
awkward to say that you have changed your mind." Amy smiled her
derision.

Jones pressed his finger furiously on the bell button. The maid arrived
with a rapidity that would have excited suspicion had either combatant
been in a mood to notice trifles.

He turned to her. "Tell Carter to bring round the single-seater," he
said abruptly. "Tell him I wish him to drive me to the office." The girl
vanished on the word.

Meanwhile, the tension between the two increased. Up till now, Tydvil's
actions, to use diplomatic phraseology, had been merely unfriendly. The
ordering of the car had been a declaration of war. Like some other good
people, Amy's self-denial extended only to others. She had laid it down
that the exercise of the walk along St. Kilda road to the city was
necessary for his health. Moreover, it set the staff an example of
unostentation. Now, his ordering of the car was flat and flagrant
rebellion.

When the maid disappeared, Amy said acidly, "I think, Tydvil dear, we
have already settled the question of your using a car to take you to the
office."

"Well, I'm unsettling it," he snorted. He picked up the paper and,
turning a most aggressive back on his wife, he pretended to read.

Five minutes passed in strained silence. The maid returned. "The car is
waiting, sir."

Before Jones could move, his wife said quickly, "Oh, Kate! Mr. Jones has
changed his mind. Tell Carter to take the car back."

This was one of Amy's choicest methods of management. She relied for its
success on Tydvil's horror of scenes, even in private, and felt certain
he would shrink from a brawl before the maid. But, for, once, she had
misjudged the extent of the revolt.

Jones sprang to his feet, and arrested the maid as she moved, with a
barked "Wait!" The girl stopped. "If you convey that message, both you
and Carter will be summarily dismissed. Bring me my hat and coat."

The girl hesitated, and looked at her mistress for guidance. She was
between a horde of devils and a very deep sea. "Do you hear me!"
thundered the voice of the master, and never before had she heard it
with such a ring of fury. Suddenly she recognised that she was a
spectator to a revolution. When, a minute later, she returned, Amy was
sobbing, with her face in her plate.

"Oh, Tydvil! To think you would insult me before the maids!"

"I haven't begun insulting you yet!" he growled truculently. "Just wait
a bit!" and he left without even glancing at her again.

That he reached his office by car instead of using his legs, added one
more link to the chain of circumstances. He arrived just twenty minutes
before the time his staff had learned to expect him, and saw certain
things that were as unexpected as he was.




CHAPTER VII


Beside the door of Tydvil Jones's private office at the warehouse, was a
railed enclosure containing a large writing table. This was presided
over by Miss Geraldine Brand, who was a young woman of no small
importance in C. B. & D. She was not only guardian of the door, but was
Tydvil's private secretary and his link with the departmental heads.

The self-possessed and entirely adequate Geraldine knew as much of
Jones's affairs as did his banker or his solicitor. Heads of departments
paused at her desk and treated her as a fellow and an equal. From her
they learned if their visits were propitiously timed.

Tydvil, who had tested her carefully, knew that she would correct lapses
of English in his dictation, and that she knew how to keep silent in
matters where silence was golden. She remembered nothing which she
should forget and forgot nothing she should remember. Their relations
were entirely impersonal. To him, she was a perfect instrument for his
business needs. No one ever knew what Geraldine thought of Tydvil.

On the morning of the revolution, Geraldine arrived on the stroke of
nine. In the inner office she spent a few moments patting a helmet of
hair, more red than gold, into order. Systematically she surveyed the
great oaken desk, saw the date stamp had been altered, straightened the
wide blotting pad and glanced over, the pen stand. Then she opened one
of the two office safes, and took from it two basket of papers, one of
which she placed on either side of the blotting pad. Satisfied that all
was well, she seated herself opposite the leather padded chair for the
first work of the day.

There was a long pause until she heard the sound of hasty steps
approaching. A junior hurried in bearing a large bag, from which he sent
an avalanche of letters on to the table in front of Geraldine. As the
boy turned away, she halted him with a peremptory "Stop!"

He looked at her uneasily. "Listen, Jimmy," she said decisively, "this
is the third time in a fortnight you have kept me waiting. If it happens
again you'll be hunting another job--understand?" She cut short a glib
explanation with, "No good, Jimmy! I've heard that yarn better told by a
procession of your pre-decessors. Your job is to have the mail on this
table at nine. Chase yourself!" The boy fled. With the deftness of long
practice, Geraldine sorted the letters into piles. Some few she passed
untouched to the blotting pad opposite. Then, taking a long, pliant
blade, she swiftly cut envelope after envelope along three sides,
leaving the contents undisturbed. As she cut them she stacked them
neatly at her right hand.

She was so intent on her work, that the new-corner who had entered
quietly, had ample time to enjoy the picture she made before a movement
on his part impelled her to turn. The slight frown at the interruption
changed to a smile as he walked round the table and, without ceremony,
seated himself in the chair sacred to Tydvil Jones.

After the first glance, the girl had turned to her work again without
speaking. The man watched her for a while as one who gazed on something
worth seeing. Presently he said, with mock ceremony, "Good morning,
Geraldine."

Without pausing to look up, she said quietly, "Good morning, Mr.
Brewer." There was just enough emphasis on the prefix to convey a
rebuke.

The man smiled. "My name, Geraldine, happens to be William, but it's
generally Billy."

"And mine," the girl retorted, "happens to be Miss Brand. I wish you
would remember it.'

"I've a shocking memory," pleaded Billy, "and Geraldine is about the
only name I think of."

The letters passed swiftly through the slender white hands to the
zip-zip-zip of the flying blade. If she had noticed what he said, she
gave no sign. Brewer was silent, content in looking at her. Presently
she glanced up. "Do you realize that you are occupying Mr. Jones's
chair, and that he is likely to be in at any moment; and also,"--she
paused to draw a fresh pile of letters towards her--"you have no
business in this room whatever."

Billy looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Oh! That one so lovely
should be so false." He chuckled. "Tyddie will not be here for another
thirty-five minutes, as you know better than I do. I consider looking at
you to be most important business. As for the chair, it fits me
admirably. So much for your objections to my presence."

The girl gave a light laugh. "God gie us a guid conceit o' orselves.
You're not nearly big enough to fit that chair comfortably, Mr. Billy
Brewer."

"If you would admit how extremely capable I am, you would not have said
that. However, Geraldine, your attempt to hurt my feelings has failed.
Flopped! My pride remains uninjured."

"I don't flatter myself that anything I could say would shake your
colossal self-conceit," she retorted.

Billy laughed heartily. "It is not often you are really complimentary,
Geraldine..."

"Miss Brand," she interrupted sharply.

"Geraldine," he continued unmoved, "but when you are you make a man
blush."

"You blush!" she said scornfully. "The fact is that you think because
you are easily the best salesman in the city--I grant you that..."

"Please don't!" he protested. "You make me feel dizzy."

"You are an ass," she said dispassionately. "Because no buyer, man or
woman, can resist your insidious influence, you think you are big enough
to run C. B. & D. But you're not, my friend, not by miles."

"Would that you were a buyer, Geraldine," he said, grinning
provocatively and leaning towards her. She prodded at him with the paper
knife and returned to her letters.

"Perhaps," she said presently, "you think you should be offered a
partnership."

"Would you accept a partnership if it were offered to you?" he asked,
smiling.

"Rather!" she replied incautiously.

"Hooray!" he exclaimed. "Then I do offer you one. Let us go into
partnership as Brewer and Brand, doing business under the style of
William Brewer--unlimited."

Geraldine placed the last of the letters together and leaned back in her
chair. Unabashed at the suggestion, she met his eyes steadily. For
months there had been this sparring between them. The girl knew he was
in earnest. Worse still, she had reached a stage where she scarcely
cared to analyse her own feelings. She looked at him reflectively before
speaking, and then said deliberately, "Indeed, and how many sleeping
partners would there be in the firm?" There was no mistaking the
intention or the innuendo. Billy flushed under her unwavering eyes, and
tried to pass it off with a jest.

"Really, Geraldine, you shock me," he said, half laughing. "If I am
dumb, I am not deaf," she went on. "You're not dumb, Geraldine, I'll
swear you're not. I heard you speak most distinctly just now."

"You think," she took up the tale, "that because people make no comment
to you, that they are blind to the habits and customs of Mr. William
Brewer. You might just as well disabuse your mind of the idea. I believe
in saying what I think."

"Yes," he broke in, "I have noticed that."

She went on without noticing the interruption. "And I'm not blind to the
fact that you have seen fit to give me the benefit of a good deal of
your society lately. If a fraction of what is said about you is true, if
you have any regard for a girl, you can show it best by keeping away
from her."

Billy whistled softly. "Your hand is not nearly as light as it looks,"
he said. "However, I suppose none of my kind friends has told you that I
have cut out all that sort of thing these many moons." He paused. "Just
because I realised what you have just told me. Give me a chance," he
pleaded, and his voice was very soft.

She shook her head and stood up. "Billy Brewer, you have been a very bad
boy, and I'd want to be very sure of you before I gave you a chance."

"If you were sure?" he asked.

For the first time, her eyes fell. "Prove to me that I can be sure."

She bent to pick up the letters from the table as he moved round beside
her. Then, thinking that direct action might succeed where persuasion
failed, Billy Brewer made a false move. As she bent, he swiftly flung an
arm round her, pinning her arms to her side. Instantly she straightened
and half turned. Billy took a complete tactical advantage of the
unguarded lips.

With a little cry, she wrenched her arm free. As she did so, a strange
thing happened. Brewer released her suddenly and stood with his eyes
fixed on some object over her shoulder.

Blind with anger, Geraldine did not notice the change in Billy's
attitude. "You brute! You utter brute!" she gasped, and, with all her
force, she struck him in the face with her clenched hand. It was an
active tennis and golf hand, and Geraldine struck to make her mark--and
did. Three times that hand landed on the same spot before Geraldine
awoke to the fact that Billy was staring over her shoulder, and made no
effort to defend himself. He might have been cast in bronze for all the
notice he took of her enthusiastic assault.

Then she, too, turned, and herself became frozen into one of a group.
For, there in the doorway surveying the scene, stood Tydvil Jones. Aye!
Tydvil, who by his self made laws, should not have arrived for another
twenty minutes, at the earliest.




CHAPTER VIII


It would be difficult to say which of the three was the most astounded
by the episode. It was Tydvil, however, who first recovered himself.
"If, Mr. Brewer, you have all you needed, there is no reason for you to
wait." The freezing politeness of the words matched his manner. He stood
aside, holding the door open for the exit of the culprit. And--Mr.
Brewer went, but not gracefully. The flushed girl waited beside her
chair as Tydvil hung up his coat and hat. He took his seat and motioned
her to hers. As she sat down, Geraldine stammered, "Oh, Mr. Jones--I--
I."

He held up his hand. "I think, Miss Brand, that unless you particularly
wish to discuss the--er--episode, which, I have no doubt, was
extremely distasteful to you, we will not refer to it--for the present,
at any rate. Let us get to our mail first."

Geraldine murmured her thanks, and passed the piled letters across the
table. In a few minutes they were deep in work. Long practice and a
complete understanding of his methods made words almost unnecessary
between them. Papers passed to and fro almost in silence. Occasionally
he paused to give her a note to be brought before him later. In a
remarkably short space of time, the piled letters vanished, leaving only
those that required his personal attention. As she took the last letter
from his hand, she picked up her pencil. "Ready?" he asked. The girl
nodded assent.

"First," he said, "I wish you to look through all of the morning papers
for a paragraph similar to this." He passed her a cutting. "Then send
this note to the editor of each paper in which it appears. I want this
done at once, and sent out by special messenger."

"To the editor.--Sir, my attention has been drawn to a paragraph in your
columns this morning which stated that I have offered a gift of one
thousand pounds to the funds of the Moral Uplift Society. I would be
pleased if you would give similar publicity to my personal statement
that I did not make any offer of the kind. Further, I would like it to
be clearly understood that I do not intend in future to make any
contributions to the society mentioned."

Tydvil paused, and said smilingly, "What happens when one burns one's
boats, Miss Brand?"

Geraldine glanced up from her note-book. "I suppose you stay where you
are, or swim home."

"Exactly," he replied, "and I cannot swim."

That morning Geraldine found a strange indecision in Tydvil's dictation.
Usually her pencil had to fly to keep up with him, but now, for minutes
at a time, she found herself tracing patterns with her pencil while
waiting for him to continue.

The fact was that Tydvil had found that his skirmish with Amy, followed
so closely by the Brand-Brewer episode, had thoroughly disjointed his
normal orderly mind. For the first time since she had taken on her
duties as his secretary, he recognised that Miss Brand was not only a
young woman, but a positively beautiful young woman. It seemed as though
Brewer, by some magic, had opened his eyes.

Again and again he found himself wondering how he had, until now,
overlooked the beauty of that rich head of hair. Never, until that
morning, had he observed those mischievous little curls that nestled
against her neck. Again, as he paused, his eye was taken by the delicate
line and perfect colour of the half turned cheek.

Between two sentences in an important letter to the manager of his
Sydney branch, Tydvil was staggered by the intrusion of an idea that,
after all, Billy Brewer was not so much to blame for falling from grace.
This was followed by a thought still more heinous. He found himself
envying Billy's freedom to kiss a lovely girl without disturbing his
conscience; and contrasting it with his own enthralment. Billy had
lived, but he--"Phoo!" The exclamation escaped him unconsciously.

At the sound, Geraldine glanced up. "I'm afraid I did not quite catch..."

"Nothing at all," replied Jones, more airily than he felt, "I did not
speak."

At last it was over. "I do not wish to be interrupted this morning, as I
shall be busy," he said, as Geraldine picked up her baskets full of
papers and turned to leave the room.

At the door she hesitated and turned round. He looked at her
enquiringly.

"I would like to say..." Her face flushed divinely. "I mean, that
so far as I am concerned--there will be no need to--" then, with a
rush, "to say anything to Mr. Brewer about his foolishness this morning.
I am able to look after my own interests."

There was a quizzical smile on the face of Tydvil Jones as he answered,
"Yes, I noticed that, too. However, I shall do as you wish, Miss Brand."
She went out and closed the door softly behind her. For a long time
Jones sat staring at it in smiling thought. "Now, I wonder!" he said to
himself. "Now, I wonder!"



CHAPTER IX


Jones turned to his work with resolution, but again and again he found
his thoughts wandering. Finally, he pushed his papers aside impatiently
and, with his elbows on his table and his head in his hands, he
surrendered to the mood of the moment. As moods go, it was a very
unchristian frame of mind in which he found himself.

He knew Amy too well to flatter himself that the skirmish of the morning
could be magnified into a decisive battle. In his mind he pictured her
planning a counterattack in reply to his success. Through his mind ran a
plan of forcing her into a position in which she would be compelled to
accept a judicial separation. It was his one hope for a peaceful life.
But, as the plan took shape, he realised that her tactics would be to
throw the odium of the legal process on him.

His only means of defence would be to use the weapons that Amy would use
without compunction--the stiletto and poisonous gas. Why should he not
use them? Why not? Ethically, the suggestion might be untenable, but
makers of ethics were not married to Amy.

Then his mind drifted off to the scene he had witnessed an hour earlier.
It surprised him a little to think that, instead of being righteously
wrathful against Brewer, his feelings were akin to envy. He had accepted
Miss Brand's intercession as an easy way out of a situation in which he
felt unsure of himself. After all, he thought, was he justified in
judging Brewer, or any, man, by codes that were his mother's and Amy's?

He remembered his father's self-effacement. Would he follow his example
and remain subservient under the domination of--a tongue? Yes, that was
all it was a tongue! He, Tydvil Jones, head of C. B. & D., with an
income of fifty thousand pounds a year, whom all his peers envied for
his possessions! Yet, he realised that not all his wealth nor all his
power had given him as much of liberty as any one of the men who did him
service.

The thought that the two women who might have helped him were the ones
who had led him under false standards, was very bitter.

Billy Brewer would have been astounded had he known how much of his
private life was an open book to Tydvil Jones. More than once he had
been called on to "the carpet." He had come each time with such an airy
grace of gracelessness, that it disarmed justice. Jones knew that
whatever his peccadilloes, he had never let them interfere with his
work. While he did not feel inclined to copy Billy in manner or morals,
Jones recognised that Billy knew more of life and living than an army
corps of Tydvil Joneses.

"Was it," Tydvil asked himself, "such a sin to kiss a pretty girl?" He,
himself, had never kissed anyone but Amy; and kissing Amy was rather
less stimulating than drinking iced water in winter. Apparently, despite
her active indignation, Geraldine Brand did not consider it a capital
offence, or she would not have interceded on behalf of the culprit.
True, Geraldine had blushed, but he had no recollection of seeing Amy
blush even as a bride.

The memory of his courtship came back. His courtship! The farce of it!
He had to thank his mother for that. He remembered how, a few days
before his marriage, his mother had told him, that if ever there were a
saint, Amy was one. Saints! These saints had stolen his boyhood and his
youth. These saints had bound him hand and foot. "If these be saints,"
he muttered aloud, "may Satan himself come and free me from their
works." He bowed his head forward on his hands until it rested on his
blotting pad.



CHAPTER X


Minutes passed before he moved again. At last he leaned back with a
sigh. As he did so, he started erect with an exclamation of
astonishment. In the armchair reserved for visitors at the end of the
table, sat a stranger. For a moment anger got the better of his
surprise. How could Miss Brand have dared to admit him after the order
he had given? Never before had she so lapsed from duty. Then anger and
surprise gave way to curiosity. Although Tydvil stared in a manner in
which he would scarcely have permitted himself in ordinary
circumstances, the stranger seemed quite unabashed. He met the
questioning stare frankly, with just a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

The intruder was apparently tall, and slender without being thin. As he
leaned back in his chair, perfectly composed, Tydvil was struck with a
sense of latent power and authority in the man, although there was
nothing in the pose to suggest it. Tydvil seldom took particular notice
of another man's appearance, but the distinction of his visitor's person
forced itself to his attention. He might have been anything between
thirty and sixty years of age. There was youth in the smooth and nobly
formed forehead and in the clear, olive cheeks. There was youth, too,
and boundless vitality in the dark, flashing eyes, and in the straight,
shapely mouth.

But then, again, there was age in the powder of grey on either temple,
that seemed the finishing touch to his distinguished head. But there was
something more than age--something that spoke of tremendous experience.
His poise and self-assurance could be guessed at rather than seen. His
dark grey tweed coat was perfect without the blunder of being too
perfect. From the sleek, black head to the polished shoes, there was no
discordant note. One hand held his hat, and the other, brown, but well
cared for, rested on his knee.

As Tydvil took in these details, it dawned on him that, though the
stranger might be an uninvited intruder, his whole appearance and
bearing bore testimony that he was one to be treated with deference.

During the long minutes of Jones's survey, the stranger sat motionless,
almost as motionless as Jones did in his amazement. At last, the head of
Craddock, Burn, and Despard found his voice. "I really beg your pardon,"
he said, "I had no idea there was anyone in the room. I certainly did
not hear you enter."

The dancing lights flickered for a moment in the stranger's eyes. "And I,
too, must ask your pardon for coming unannounced, but, as it happened, I
had no option."

"Oh! I understand; my secretary was not at her post?" queried Tydvil.

"On the contrary, she was," came the answer, simply. "I did not consult
her because I felt sure she would refuse me admission. I was obliged to
take other steps."

There was a trace of annoyance in Tydvil Jones's face. He felt that the
reply was tinged with impertinence. His response was rather stiff. "Then
I have no doubt that since you took such unusual steps to obtain an
interview, your business is of some importance."

The dark, finely arched eyebrows lifted slightly. "I am really sorry if
my action has caused you any annoyance, Mr. Jones..."

"You have an advantage of me in knowing my name," interrupted the other
crisply.

His visitor waved a deprecating hand, but paused a moment before
answering. "I am afraid," he said, "that I shall have some trouble in
explaining myself. But as you so urgently and expressly sent for Me, I
trust, as I said before, that my coming has not inconvenienced you."

"I sent for you!" There was no mistaking the genuine astonishment in
Tydvil's voice. "Why, my dear sir, I am perfectly sure I have never seen
you before."

The other nodded. "Quite so," he said. "Until now you have only come
into contact with my agents."

Jones mentally ran over in his mind the names of any of his overseas
business connections who might, by any chance, be visiting Australia,
but none occurred to him. "I am afraid I must ask you to explain
yourself more clearly," he said finally.

His visitor looked at him thoughtfully a moment before replying. "As I
said before, I am afraid I will have some little trouble in making
myself clear. I can perhaps best explain my presence by asking you to
recall to your memory a wish you expressed aloud some five or ten
minutes ago."

Tydvil reddened to the roots of his hair. Had the man been in the room
all that time? he wondered. And being there, had he the audacity to
refer to what he might have heard? For the moment Jones had forgotten
exactly what he had said, but he felt sure the words were not such as he
would care to have overheard. "I have no distinct recollection of having
said anything that might interest you," he replied coldly. "As you
apparently overheard my words, there will be no need for me to repeat
them."

The stranger received the rebuke unmoved. He passed his hand to the
inner pocket of his coat and produced a flat leather wallet. He placed
his hat and glove carefully on the table, and drew from the wallet a
card about six by four inches in size. To Jones, it looked like a ledger
index card. This he consulted carefully for a moment, and then looked
up. "The exact words you used, Mr. Jones, were, 'If these be saints, may
Satan himself come and free me from them!' And, therefore," he
continued, "I feel myself justified in reiterating that I am here at
your express and urgent invitation."

Again Tydvil's face flushed from a mixture of shame and anger. It was
bad enough that his words had been overheard, but worse still that this
quiet and impressive stranger should see fit to make a jest of them.

"Sir!" he insisted angrily, "you have apparently listened to something
that was not intended for other ears than my own. You have seen fit to
use those words against me in a spirit of ill-timed levity and banter. I
find your behaviour intolerable, sir, and I must ask you to leave this
room, instantly!" He emphasised the last word so as to leave no room for
argument.

Instead of being abashed or annoyed at the outbreak, the visitor settled
himself coolly back in his chair. With an elbow on either arm, he joined
the outspread tips of his fingers and thumbs and regarded Jones above
them with a smile twitching at his lips.

"My friend," he said with gentle suavity, "you will find, as many others
have done before you, that it is far easier to call me up than to
dispose of me. I did not think it likely that you would accept my claim
to the personality, which, for the present, we may define as 'Satan,'
without hesitation. Still, on reflection, you may not find it so
preposterous after all."

Tydvil stared at the speaker, with not only wide open eyes, but a
slightly opened mouth. His feelings were a blend of anger and curiosity.
Of course, one could never tell, but insanity takes such strange forms.
The man did not look mad. But it might be as well to humour him.

"Do you mean to affirm," he asked severely, "that you claim to be the
Prince of Evil in person?"

The other pursed his lips slightly and answered. "Well, I cannot say I
am altogether in love with the title, Mr. Jones, it is not flattering,
and of the two I almost prefer the word 'Satan,' but since you choose
it, it may do as well as another. I repeat that you see before you His
Highness in person."

Jones moved very uneasily in his seat, then his eyes and hands both
sought the button on the table beside him. Before he could press it, the
other intervened, "That line of communication is closed--temporarily."
He spoke a little incisively.

Then Tydvil began to lose his temper. "Sir!" he said angrily, "I am very
busy and this absurd interview has already lasted too long. I must again
ask you to leave--instantly!"

Had he expected his amazing visitor to obey him at all, he expected him
to do so in a conventional manner, and through the door. His method of
leaving, however, left Tydvil staring blankly at the empty armchair from
which the stranger had vanished as he spoke. He did not fade out; he
just went out like the flame of a candle, leaving no trace of his
presence. Stay, though! There was an expensive, new hat with a glove
lying beside it on the corner of the table to impress upon Jones the
fact that the amazing interview had not been the outcome of an
overwrought nervous system.

Tydvil half rose from his chair and stared around his room, and then at
the empty chair and very inexplicable hat and glove. Then he said,
slowly, and in an awed voice, "Well, I'll be..."

"Softly! Softly! All in good time, my dear Mr. Jones! All in good time!"
came a mocking voice from the chair, and with the words the stranger
re-appeared as suddenly as he had vanished. Apparently he had never
moved from his place.

"The Duce!" exclaimed Tydvil.

"Precisely!" smiled the claimant to the title.

"You were there all the time?" demanded Jones, sinking back in his
chair.

"Exactly," the other replied. "Mere gallery play, you know--but--
nothing else would convince you that I had at least some ground for my
claim."

Jones pressed his hand to his head. "Am I losing my reason?" he
muttered.

"Not at all, my friend, not at all!" came the quick answer, though the
muttered words were scarcely audible. "You are certainly undergoing a
most unusual experience for these days. None the less if you will listen
to me for a few moments I think I can convince you of my bona fides."

"You wish me to listen to you, assuming your claims to be genuine?"

The other nodded. "Why not? Does not what you have just seen convince
you that I am no ordinary human being?"

Tydvil waved his hands helplessly. "Go on then! Go on!" he said weakly.

"My dear sir," commenced the claimant to the throne of darkness. "I do
not blame you in the slightest for your scepticism. I must admit that I
have neglected your world very much for the last few centuries, and it
is but natural that you should doubt my existence. You see, I recognise
it is all my own fault. My work has been going on so well without my
personal attention. However, here is the position." He settled himself
down more comfortably as he spoke.

Jones felt there was no comment he could make.

"It has lately been borne on me," continued the visitor confidentially,
"that I have become too conservative in my business policies. My methods
of administration of home affairs are rather out of date. I feel I
should move with the times."

"Of late years there has been a distressing and disturbing intrusion of
terrestrial politics into my kingdom. The new element of Communism is
now almost more numerous than the old aristocracy of my kingdom. My
gentlemen are rather proud and they resent association with these
Communists."

Jones nodded. There seemed nothing else to do.

"I warned Judas Iscariot," said the visitor reflectively, "that he was
making a mistake in inventing the Marx doctrines. He thought he was
causing something smart in the way of trouble. He did not see the
probable reaction on our politics as I did. However, the fact remains
and the situation has to be met. You follow me so far?" he enquired.

Jones nodded again. He considered the man, or whatever his visitor was,
was doubtless in earnest. If he were insane, he was an interesting bird.
If, on the other hand, he were what he claimed to be, then he was worthy
of sympathy.

"Well," continued the stranger, "after turning the matter over, I
thought I could obtain a better grasp of the situation by visiting the
earth and looking into things for myself. There was one difficulty,
however."

"I should not have thought," put in Tydvil, "that you would find any
difficulty insuperable."

"Usually, no," he replied. "In this instance, however, I was under a
certain disability in that I am unable to make a visit unless especially
called upon by one of the inhabitants; and I have been waiting a
considerable time for the invitation. That alone ought to convince me
times have changed. A few centuries ago there was always some churchman
or scientist invoking my aid. So, my dear Mr. Jones. I am indeed in your
debt for your assistance."

"I'm afraid it was a quite unconscious service." In the circumstances
Tydvil was not anxious to assume the credit for his visitor's presence.
"Nevertheless, my obligation remains," said the stranger civilly.



CHAPTER XI


Tydvil's head was whirling with bewilderment. Perhaps, the thought
occurred to him, both he and his visitor were non compos mentis.
However, if the strange creature were a product of a prostrated nervous
system it might be better to play up to him. Especially as the next
question was, "By the way, my friend, will you tell me where on earth I
am?"

"You are, at present," he replied, "in the city of Melbourne, which is
the capital of the State of Victoria in the Commonwealth of Australia."

"Melbourne--Australia," murmured the other thoughtfully. "Er really,
Mr. Jones, you must forgive me, but I do not seem to remember the names.
Have you altered your European or Asiatic nomenclature by any means?"

It was Tydvil's turn to stare. Strange to say, he felt a little nettled
that, if his visitor were what he professed to be, he should be ignorant
of Australia and, more particularly, of Melbourne. Then he saw a light.
"Perhaps," he suggested, "your long absence from the world accounts for
your difficulty. You see, the continent has been known to Europeans for
only about two hundred years, and has been occupied for no more than one
hundred and fifty years. Still, it rather surprises me that you have not
heard of it."

"That would hardly account..." said His Highness thoughtfully. "But--
one moment! Is there a place called Sydney in it!"

"That's right!" exclaimed Tydvil. "A place with a wonderful harbour!"

"Now I recollect. They do talk about Sydney Harbour in Hell. It is one
of the minor punishments. Yes, we did have some people from Sydney, but
they caused so much trouble that the migration department deported them
and prohibited further imports. I confused Australia with Austria for
the moment. Ah, well! I am sure your country will provide an interesting
study."

He again consulted the card to which he had before referred. It excited
Tydvil's curiosity as a businessman. He summoned up his courage. "Would
I be in order," he asked, "if I enquired the nature of that card you
have twice consulted?'

"Most certainly, Mr. Jones, most certainly!" he responded politely.
"Indeed, as a businessman, I have no doubt you will find it interesting.
One of my recent innovations is a card system for keeping State
accounts. It is necessary for record purposes to keep an account of all
human actions. This is the master card. An improvement of my own. On it,
every record I desire to examine appears immediately. It fades when I
have finished with it."

Tydvil sat erect. "You mean to say you have a record of the lives of all
living people?" he asked in amazement.

"Well, not exactly. Our records apply only to deeds which should not
have been committed. And, of course, to words and thoughts also. They
are kept to establish our claims when the inevitable occasion arises."

"I suppose, then," said Tydvil hesitantly, "you have a card for me in
your system, then?"

"Undoubtedly, my friend." He had been holding the card in his hand. Then
he looked up, smiling pleasantly. "Just for the sake of curiosity, we
will see how our account stands."

He turned the master card over and ran his eyes down its columns. Then a
queer expression came over the lean intellectual face. It combined
astonishment with mystification. He stared at the card, then at Jones,
and again at the card. Then he shook it tentatively, as one shakes a
troublesome telephone. Finally he sat up and stared at Tydvil. There was
no mistaking the astonishment of his expression.

"I hope," he faltered anxiously, "it is not so bad as your looks
indicate?" His Highness paused before speaking. "Whether good or bad,
Mr. Jones, depends on the viewpoint. I am not often surprised at
anything, but I must admit your record is almost unique. I have seldom,
in a long experience, seen anything similar. My dear sir, what a very
dull time you must have had."

Tydvil's curiosity became insupportable. He looked at his visitor
appealingly. And then said anxiously, half holding out his hand, "Might
I?"

"Well, Mr. Jones, it is most unusual, and I scarcely care to create a
precedent. But the present circumstances are exceptional. So we will
stretch a point in this instance." And he passed the card into the eager
hand.

Tydvil's hand shook as he glanced at it. "Why!" he exclaimed, looking
up, "there is scarcely any thing on it."

"That, my dear sir, is the remarkable point. Most remarkable! I assure
you! Why, do you know that for a man of your age the average number of
entries would be from twenty to thirty thousand? And of those, at least
fifteen per cent would be red. We put the more heinous entries in red so
that they can be more easily noted. You, as you will notice, have not a
single red debit against you but the last--the one that is responsible
for my being here."

Tydvil was reading his card with concentrated interest. Suddenly he half
stood up and ejaculated, "Oh! I say, this is not fair! I didn't, I'll
swear I didn't!" His face reddened perceptibly.

"Surely you are mistaken. I assure you, Mr. Jones, our book-keeping
system is infallible."

Jones handed back the card, and pointed to it with a finger that shook.
"That entry, dated August 7. The one in the pale blue ink."

His Highness took the card and glanced at the entry. Then he shook a
playful finger at Tydvil. "Come, come, my friend! The girl in pink with
the dark eyes, on the Sydney railway platform! That is correct!"

"But I can't admit it," retorted Jones, a good deal nettled.

"My dear fellow," came the suave reply. "Your memory must be betraying
you. You did not take delivery, certainly, but that does not cancel your
obligation."

"Still," protested the delinquent, "there should be some allowance for a
mere passing thought."

His Highness shook his head. "Impossible, my friend! Quite impossible!
Still, it is only a trifle. These blue ink records are merely formal."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Tydvil, struck by a bright idea. "Would it be
possible to see my wife's account?"

Mirth and gravity fought in the dark eyes, and mirth won. He laughed
heartily and replied, "Oh, my friend! Consider a moment! What is your
colloquial expression? Be a sport, eh? That would be hardly playing the
game. As a matter of business, I ought to let you see it, but still..."
He waved the thought away with his hand.

"Well, I don't know," replied Tydvil. "I am sure Amy would have no nice
feelings about inspecting mine."

"Doubtless! What woman would hesitate if she had a chance of examining
an accurate and impartial statement of her husband's little lapses?"

Jones chuckled at the idea. Much to his own surprise, he found himself
accepting his visitor at his face value, and was also actually enjoying
the unconventional interview. "If such a thing were possible, ennui
would vanish from the world."

"And so would the human race," laughed His Highness. "No, it would not
do at all."

Then he sat up and spoke seriously. "However, this is not business, is
it? And I am afraid I am taking up a good deal of your valuable time.
Now, what can I do for you?"

The abrupt question sobered Jones immediately. The idea that his visitor
could be of any assistance to him had never entered his mind. Now the
idea was implanted there, the thought of accepting anything from such a
quarter shocked him. Doubtless his look betrayed the thought.

"Of course, Mr. Jones," said His Highness earnestly, "there is no
compulsion on you to accept the specific service you mentioned when you
asked for this interview. I would he very sorry to hold you to the
letter of your word. Any man in your position may easily be excused for
what he might say in a moment of irritation. Still, my obligation is
very great, and I would like to show my gratitude."

There was no mistaking the sincerity of the words. The saying that his
visitor was not so black as he was painted, flashed across Tydvil's
mind. The other, watching, answered the unspoken thought. "There is a
good deal of truth in that old saying," he said. "I suppose no one has
been more maligned than I with less chance of defending himself. I am
grateful even for that small concession."

As he spoke he drew a handsome cigarette case from his pocket. "Do you
mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all," answered Jones politely.

His Highness held out the open case. "You will join me?" he said
pleasantly.

Jones shook his head. "Thank you, but I never smoke."

The other smiled quizzically. "Ah, my friend! You would be far better
able to bear your troubles if you did. Self-denial comes to a point
where it becomes self-righteousness--an unpleasant characteristic. Let
me press you!" He again held out the case.

Jones looked at it indecisively. "I have often thought of beginning, but
my wife detests the habit." His Highness raised his eyebrows in gentle
mockery. "And," went on Jones, "it might make me sick."

The other laughed lightly. "Not one of these. Among other virtues, they
have the quality of converting anyone who uses them into an habitual
smoker, whom no tobacco, however strong, can upset."

Tydvil hesitated no longer, and placed one of the white cylinders
between his lips. His Highness followed suit and, to Tydvil's
astonishment, the moment it touched his lips it became alight. Then he
bent forward, offering the glowing tip to his host.

Jones had no objection to tobacco, indeed, he really liked the aroma.
Only the fear of Amy had kept him from indulging earlier. Now, as he
drew the first fumes into his mouth, a delicious sense of contentment
came over him.

"Well?" queried his guest through the blue smoke.

"Splendid!" quoth Tydvil.

"Good!" smiled His Highness. "And now we can resume our talk. I really
hope that you are not going to refuse my offer," he went on
persuasively.

"Well," said Tydvil reflectively; the first hesitation had vanished with
the first cloud of smoke. "I really don't see what there is that you can
do for me."

"There is very little I cannot do for you," came the suave answer. "One
hesitates to say such a thing, but really, Mr. Jones, you have made
singularly little use of your great opportunities. You have lived and so
has a jellyfish. I'm afraid the analogy sounds rude, and I can readily
excuse you for taking exception to it, but you must admit its justice."

"I admit I find life rather dull," conceded Tydvil a little ruefully.
"Perhaps I would be more content with a little enjoyment." He stared at
the smoke spirals from his cigarette without looking up.

"Well, it is all at your command. What would you have. Wealth?"

"I already have that."

"Health?"

"I am as sound as a bell and tough as hickory."

"Power?"

"I have sufficient."

"Ambition?"

"I have none that I have not already satisfied."

"Love of women?"

Jones looked up sharply. "I have had one experience in that direction,"
he said dryly, "and I am not hankering for any more, thank you."

"Oh! I mean the genuine kind," laughed His Highness. "Once bitten..."
quoted Jones sourly. "I wouldn't take the risk."

"Pessimist!" chuckled the other.

"Maybe," came the short answer. "But if you had lived with Amy for ten
years I know which of our residences you would prefer."

"What about the lighter side of life?" asked His Highness. "The joy of
living."

Tydvil knitted his brows. "Yes," he said slowly. "I admit that appeals
to me. But look how I am tied up. I am an example. A pious pattern. A
guiding light. How could I break away from the family tradition? Sheer
hypocrisy, I suppose! I am so used to being looked up to that it takes
an effort to come down from my pedestal. I cannot have the fun in
someone else's name.' He sighed a little in self pity.

"Quite possible, my friend," came the prompt answer. "Eh!" Jones looked
up, startled.

"It would be easily possible for you to assume another identity for your
enterprise," said His Highness, smiling.

"You don't mean to say..." The question stuck in Tydvil's throat.

"Exactly! But it rather complicates matters. You see, so long as the
service you ask is an every day matter, I would give it gladly and
without condition. The other would be subject to some restrictions
which, I regret, are unavoidable."

"If you could guarantee individuality for my amusements, I don't think
you would find me haggling over the terms," said Tydvil decisively.

"Of course," said His Highness, "it would be a mere formality. Allow me
to give you another cigarette. A mere formality! I should have to ask
you to give me a promissory note--for any term. The consideration
being," he fixed his luminous eyes on Jones, "that you assume any
individuality you desire, and call upon me for any service you desire,
during the currency of the note. The note to be void if I fail in my
service. I think that is generous enough."

"Undoubtedly," conceded Tydvil. "But," he went on hesitating, "what
amount will be involved? I am willing to pay anything in reason."

"Oh, don't let us talk of money between friends!" said the other
hastily. "We must put something in, of course. Say, for example--no!
Let us go back to the old tradition--your soul it means nothing and
makes the thing legal."

Tydvil looked at his visitor intently, and his gaze was met by another
of disarming frankness. "Signed in blood and all that sort of thing?" he
asked.

"Bosh! Ink is quite good enough," came the answer. "But," temporarised
Jones, "would such an instrument be binding?"

"As doyen of the legal profession, my dear Mr. Jones, you may accept my
assurance that it would be," answered His Highness easily.

"I didn't think the law would admit there would be property in a soul,"
said Tydvil thoughtfully.

The other blew a long, fine stream of smoke from his pursed lips. "I
think," he said significantly, "that I could very easily convert anyone
who adopted that view. However," he laughed slightly, and went on
airily, "it is a mere formality and means nothing."

Jones sat thinking deeply. The idea was alluring. It gave him a chance
to break from his rigid environment. Still he hesitated. Could this
being be what he professed to be? There was still doubt in his mind. He
looked up at his visitor, who was watching him intently.

"Mr. Jones," he said, "I can easily excuse your doubts in the
circumstances, and am willing to submit to a test, anything you choose,
before pressing you to take my offer."

Jones looked around the room. His eye lighted on the three-ton door of
the strong-room. He alone held its keys. He turned to his friend. "Would
it be possible for you to open that door without moving from your seat?"

His Highness nodded. "I will do more than you ask--watch!" As he spoke,
the great door swung slowly and noiselessly out on its hinges. As its
broad edge turned towards him, Jones gave a little cry of astonishment.
He saw that, though it had opened, its twelve wrist-thick bolts remained
shot. They must have been torn through the frame, but the frame remained
intact.

"Je-ru-salem!" whistled Tydvil.

"Wait--I promised you something more."

As Jones looked back, something fluttered through the air and landed on
the blotting pad before him. He gasped as he saw it was his private
cheque book. That book, he knew, was locked in a smaller safe in the
strong-room.

Jones looked an enquiry at His Highness, who nodded assent. Then he
walked over to the open door and examined the bolts. Entering the
strong-room, he unlocked the smaller safe. His cheque book was not
there. Convinced, he returned to his chair. At a wave of the thin brown
hand, the door closed as quietly as it had opened.

"You forgot to put away the cheque book," laughed Tydvil.

"Pardon," murmured His Highness. Leaning forward, he picked up the book
and tossed it towards the steel door. It disappeared in mid flight.
Jones stood up and opened the door with his keys and the combination. In
the strong-room he found his cheque book back in its place.

Returning to his chair once more, he sat with his hands on the edge of
his table, staring blankly at the blotting pad for a long minute. Then
he came to swift decision. "I'll do it!" he said abruptly.

His visitor nodded, smiling. "I am really delighted to hear it. I assure
you I take a great personal interest in you, Mr. Jones, and I feel
certain you will have no cause to regret your determination. Now, let us
arrange the formalities, and I will be in a position to take your
instructions. Have you a promissory note form?"

With the air of a man who has burned his boats and enjoyed the process,
Jones opened a small cash-box, from which he drew a small wad of stamped
forms. Bending to select one, he hesitated. "By the way," he asked,
"what stamps will be necessary?"

His Highness shook his head. "I scarcely follow you. Is a stamp
necessary?"

"Decidedly! Under the Act," explained Tydvil, "it is necessary to have a
duty stamp valued at sixpence on each note up to twenty-five pounds in
value, one shilling up to fifty pounds, and an additional shilling for
each further fifty pounds, or part of that amount. I would prefer to
have the note unassailably legal."

The other waved his hand largely. "Why go to unnecessary expense--make
it a sixpenny stamp, my dear fellow." Then, observing the flush on the
face of Tydvil, he continued, "However, decide for yourself. I am afraid
I was looking at it from my viewpoint rather than yours."

Jones still hesitated.

"You see, my friend, I am apt to regard a commodity as of low value when
I can obtain millions of it for nothing--the world market parity for
souls. Still, I see your point of view. Decide for yourself, my dear
sir."

Jones chuckled. "I see, a purely commercial proposition, at ruling
prices. It is not what I value it at, but what it would bring?"

"Precisely," answered his visitor cheerfully.

Tydvil drew a form with a sixpenny stamp on it from the wad, and
laughed. "Here goes!" Preparing to write, he said, "Now, this is the
first day of August--shall we say at three months?"

The other bowed. "I leave the details entirely in your hands, and with
complete confidence." A very handsome testimonial coming from such a
quarter.

Tydvil blushed with pride. "Very well! Three months, then. That will
make it due on November fourth, allowing for the formal three days'
grace." He wrote for a moment, and then looked up with a puzzled
expression. "To whom shall I make it payable, you see..." he paused
awkwardly.

His Highness smiled. "Of course, it would be hardly--well, a little
unusual to make it payable to the Devil."

Jones nodded. "My idea exactly. And since we are likely to see a good
deal of one another during the next three months, it might be as well to
arrange for some conventional form of address at the same time."

His visitor reflected a moment. "There are so many names--Satan, The
Devil, Lucifer, Ahrimanes, The Tempter, Prince of Darkness, of Evil--
all very uncomplimentary, and even more inaccurate, and quite unsuitable
for modern use, at any rate. Can you suggest anything yourself?"

Tydvil tried, but not hopefully. "The Dickens," he paused and, receiving
no answer, went on, "Old Scratch, Old Nick..."

"All most offensive and familiar," retorted His Highness, somewhat
nettled.

"Might I venture to suggest," Tydvil returned, "that we could use the
last name I mentioned by paraphrasing it. We could change 'Old Nick'
to Nicholas Senior. I think Mr. Nicholas Senior would be most suitable."

"Excellent, my friend, excellent!" agreed His Highness. "We will
certainly make it Nicholas Senior."

"How about a title," put in Jones, persuasively. "Say, Sir Nicholas
Senior, K.B.E."

"No," replied his friend. "On the whole I prefer to remain completely
incog. Put it down to a natural humility."

Jones apologised. He felt there was a rebuke behind the words. Presently
he paused again in his writing.

"Provided, when the note falls due, you have fulfilled your side of the
contract, do you take immediate possession of the security?" he asked a
little uneasily.

"Not at all! Not at all!" answered Mr. Senior hastily. "The usual terms
apply in full. You retain a life interest in your soul, which I inherit
on your death--that is, when you have no further use for it."

"Very generous," said Tydvil, looking relieved. Presently he looked up,
and read from the form before him. "Dated August 1st, 1904. Due,
November 4th, 1904. In place of the usual sum in figures I have written
'Soul.' Will that suffice?"

Mr. Senior nodded agreement.

"Three months after date," continued Jones, "I promise to pay Nicholas
Senior, or order, my Immortal Soul for services to be rendered during
the currency of this note. Payable at my offices in 3973 Flinders Lane,
Melbourne. Signed, Tydvil Jones."

He handed the note across the table to Mr. Senior, who read it
carefully. Then he turned the note face down, and, after writing on the
back of it, he returned it to Jones for inspection.

This is the endorsement Jones read. The handwriting was exquisitely neat
and clear. "If, during the currency of this note, I fail to perform any
task or service of any description which I may be called upon to perform
by the maker thereof, I agree that the note shall become automatically
null and void. Nicholas R., et I."

"Very handsome, indeed, Mr. Senior," said Jones, handing back the note,
"but I assure you, quite unnecessary."

Mr. Senior folded the document carefully, and placed it in his wallet.
"We are both businessmen, my friend, and it is only right that my
obligation should be set out in writing."

Jones stared at him a moment thoughtfully. "I suppose it is entirely
legal. Not that I would think of trying to upset it."

There was a grim smile at the corners of the clean-cut mouth. "Not all
the children of my very numerous family known as the Legal Profession,
together, could upset it."

"It would be interesting to hear it argued," smiled Tydvil.

"Perhaps," from the still smiling lips. "But, as from the County Courts
to the Privy Council I am represented on every bench...!" He flipped
his fingers carelessly.

Then his mood changed. "And now, my friend, I am entirely at your
service. Command me."

"I must think things over a little," replied Tydvil. "You see, this has
come so suddenly and unexpectedly..." He was interrupted by the
telephone bell.

"Excuse me one moment." He raised the receiver to his ear and listened a
moment. Then he snorted out a curt "Very well!" and slammed it down
again.

Then he turned abruptly to Mr. Senior. "My wife will be here in half an
hour. I have no desire to meet her just now. Could you arrange some
means of altering her intention?"

"Most certainly. A pleasure indeed," replied Mr. Senior lightly. "I will
be most interested to meet the lady, who, I feel sure, is responsible
for your own remarkable record--to a great extent. But after?"

Jones thought for a moment. "Can you meet me here about seven-thirty
this evening?"

In answer to a nod of acquiescence, he went on, "That will suit me
admirably, so, until then, I need not trouble you." He rose and looked
at the door. "If I let you out by the door, it may cause comment. Miss
Brand is not aware of your presence here."

"No matter," said Mr. Senior, "my goings and comings may be arranged
otherwise."

"There will be no trouble about my wife?"

"Not the slightest! I will arrange to have her fully occupied for the
remainder of the day." He held out his hand, which Tydvil shook warmly,
and as he released it, Mr. Senior was not. He vanished.

For a long time Tydvil sat thinking. Then he took his hat, and leaving
the warehouse, he turned into Elizabeth Street, there made certain
purchases, and returned to his office.



CHAPTER XII


While Tydvil Jones was undergoing the experiences of the most unsettling
morning of his life, Amy was as busy as a nest of hornets planning
reprisals. For the first time during their married life, Tydvil had
out-fought her. His revolt wounded her pride. She was too clever not to
recognise that a few more victories such as that of the morning--that
Battle of Breakfast would shake her domestic throne.

How very tiresome men were, thought Amy. But Tydvil's tiresomeness had
to be stopped. After careful reflection on the situation, she decided
that a fight to a finish in his own office, where he could not afford to
make a scene, would be all to her advantage. It was this decision that
impelled her to ring Tydvil to notify him of her intended call. She
decided against descending on him unannounced. She had backed her
challenge with the warning, that if he were absent when she arrived, she
would wait for him in his office all day if necessary.

Her car was already waiting at the door when a mighty limousine Rolls
Royce swung from St. Kilda Road into the drive. With all the majesty of
a battleship, it came to anchor just astern of her own car as Amy was in
the act of stepping in to it.

Amy stepped back under the colonnaded verandah. The chauffeur of the
shining monster sprang from his seat and swung open its door almost
reverently, and from the door stepped a stranger.

The car had impressed Amy. A limousine of that make meant no ordinary
mortal, and Amy did not care much for ordinary mortals, except as
objects of patronage. But the stranger, as he approached her, impressed
her more than the car. There was a distinction in his bearing that was
worthy of the entwined red R's on the radiator.

He mounted the steps and stood bareheaded before her. "May I enquire,"
he asked deferentially, "if I am speaking to Mrs. Tydvil Jones?" and
there was a delicate flattery in the deference.

She bowed graciously.

He looked a little embarrassed. "I am afraid," he said, glancing at the
waiting car, "that I have chosen an awkward moment for my call. Perhaps
you will permit me to return at a more suitable time."

Amy wreathed her face in her best samples of "Dear Amy" smiles. Her
mission, she assured him, was of little or no importance. Would he
kindly come inside. As they entered the reception room she turned to
him. Her curiosity almost was visible as it oozed from her.

He drew a gold case from his vest pocket. "My name," he said, as he
handed her the card, "is Nicholas Senior, though it is probably quite
unfamiliar to you, if I may venture to say so, it is not altogether
unknown in England."

Amy felt she ought to know the name of one so distinguished in
appearance. She felt almost guilty that it conveyed nothing to her mind.
She shook her head. "I must confess that I have not heard it." She
smiled graciously to reassure him that her ignorance was no reflection
on him.

"I have come to Australia," explained Mr. Senior, "with the object of
studying your social problems. I desire to compare them with those of
Britain and the United States."

Amy brightened. "Are you representing any particular society or
interested in any special branch?" she enquired with rising interest.

Her visitor shook his head. "I am entirely a free-lance, but I was
informed both in England and America that Mrs. Tydvil Jones of Melbourne
was pre-eminently competent to act as my mentor and guide. It is to that
you owe, what I am afraid is, a somewhat untimely call."

Warm and glowing satisfaction pervaded Amy's entire system. "I did not
know," she replied with smiling modesty, "that my poor little efforts
were known outside the circle of my immediate associates--an
enthusiastic group, Mr. Senior."

"Ah! Dear lady," he responded gently, "you do yourself far less than
justice. Believe me, the name of Mrs. Tydvil Jones stands high, among
those who know, on the list of the world's philanthropists." The ring of
sincerity in his voice was faultless.

The words were as oil on the troubled spirit of Amy. What ammunition to
use on Tydvil! "Still," she protested, "I cannot think of anyone in
England who knew of my work."

He smiled. "When I decided to come to Australia, I had the honour and
privilege of lunching with the Archbishop of Canterbury. I discussed
with him the object of my visit, and it was from him I first learned
your name. It appears that a former Archbishop of Melbourne had given
him a most glowing account of your work; and"--here he felt in his pocket
--"His Grace was kind enough to procure this letter for me." He handed
her a dignified looking missive.

Amy took it and glanced at the address and the mitred flap. "I am
delighted you have called, Mr. Senior, and you can trust me to assist
you in every way I can."

"I felt sure of that." He bowed his gratitude. "Indeed, the Archbishop
informed me that in making your acquaintance, I would be opening every
avenue of social effort I wished to explore. It is for that reason I
have taken the earliest opportunity to call."

Never before in her life had Amy felt so important or so perfectly
satisfied with herself. She would let Master Tydvil know exactly where
she stood. It did not occur to her to doubt for a moment that the
Archbishop of Canterbury was alive to her good deeds. Although she did
not belong to the Anglican church, her acquaintance with the clergy was
like Sam Weller's knowledge of London, "Extensive and peculiar."

She assured Mr. Senior that she had nothing to do that might not be
deferred, and readily placed herself at his disposal.

It was then that her fascinating visitor suggested the plan of her
lunching with him, that they might devote the afternoon to the
inspection of her endeavours. He apologised nicely to her for inviting
her to Menzies, where he was staying. He expressed his own distaste at
patronising an hotel, but regretted that he could not elsewhere obtain
accommodation suitable for his needs.

Mr. Senior assured Amy that he was an ardent advocate for prohibition,
and hoped that before he left Melbourne, his voice would be raised on
that subject from some public platform.

Amy hesitated. Never in her life had she set foot in an hotel. Never did
she think it possible she would be guilty of such an action. Then she
remembered the Rolls Royce. It occurred to her that if a man who had
lunched with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and who was a prohibitionist,
did not think it wrong to stay at an hotel, surely it would not be wrong
for Amy Jones to lunch there with him.

So, in the end, she dismissed her own car and stepped into that of Mr.
Senior, as proud a woman as ever accompanied that gentleman anywhere--
and there had been very, very many before her.



CHAPTER XIII


Meanwhile, in his office, Tydvil Jones had fanned his own plans. A touch
on his bell called Miss Brand to the presence. "If Mr. Brewer is about
the office, will you kindly let him know I require to see him," was the
message he delivered to his secretary.

Geraldine looked at him uncertainly. He read her unspoken uneasiness.
"It is another matter, Miss Brand. I will respect your wishes about this
morning's affair."

Re-assured, Geraldine returned to her desk and sought Billy on the
warehouse extension lines. She delivered her message with a wicked
little smile, hanging up immediately to prevent the enquiry he would be
sure to make.

A few minutes later, the culprit answered the summons. She heard his
approach, but kept her eyes resolutely on her work. She knew he paused
for a moment beside her, and anathematised her heart for its rebellious
response to his nearness. She heard him enter the room behind her, and
her work suffered because she could not keep her thoughts from what was
going on behind the closed door.

All the morning Billy had been awaiting the summons. He anticipated, and
regretted, the prospect of a summary dismissal. His only regret for his
conduct lay in the thought that his folly had made the task of winning
Geraldine trebly difficult. Being sacked was a comparatively small price
to pay for the glory of holding her in his arms. He had paused for a
second to gratify his eyes with a glimpse of that golden helmet--or was
it copper? Then he marched grimly to what he believed was his official
scaffold.

Tydvil Jones waved him to a chair with a smileless face. The face was a
sign of ill-omen that was balanced by his offer of the chair. Execution,
he thought, would be carried out standing. Billy felt he cut a very poor
spectacle. Since the morning the rich colouring of his left eye had had
time to develop. Its swollen lid drooped until it almost shut out the
light. No man could feel dignified with such an eye, especially in the
presence of one who had seen how he attained to it.

He began to speak, but Tydvil, recognising his intention, cut him short.
"Do not wish to refer to that matter, Brewer, if you please! Miss Brand
has, very magnanimously, I think, interceded on your behalf." Billy's
heart gave a jump.

Then, with a very meaning look at the polychrome eye, he went on. "We
will regard the incident as also closed."

"That's a nasty one," thought Billy. But the fact that Geraldine had
interceded took the sting from Tyddie's irony. If she had turned aside
the wrath of justice she might...

Here Tydvil cut into his golden hopes. "I understand, Brewer, that you
are addicted to gambling in fact that you are in the habit of playing a
card game known as draw poker."

Billy gasped from the jolt. "Who," he wondered, "was the kind friend who
had handed that item of news to Tyddie?" Truly, it was his day of
atonement. It seemed as though the bill for the total of his
peccadilloes was being presented at once. "Let 'em all come," he
murmured to himself hopelessly.

He admitted the charge, and added, "At the same time, I have never
regarded it as a heinous offence."

His judge pursed his lips. "Perhaps not, Brewer--that is, compared with
some others I know of, but on which I will not dwell." The voice was as
dry as a summer's throat. "However, I did not send for you to censure
you, however much I disapprove of certain of your actions. I wished to
know if you would be good enough to teach, me that game?"

Billy thought his ears had been bewitched. Tyddie asking to be taught
how to play "draw!"

"He'll be taking me out for a snifter yet," reflected the senior city
representative of C. B. &.D. His expression revealed his amazement
to Tydvil more completely than words could.

"I can understand your astonishment," said Mr. Jones, "but the fact (Oh!
Tydvil!) is, I am making a study of the gambling evil. I find I am
handicapped in my investigations by a need of a practical knowledge of
the subject. I am, therefore, looking to you for enlightenment."

Billy breathed deeply. Two reprieves in ten minutes were rather too much
for him, but he pulled himself together. Billy never questioned for a
moment that Tydvil's statement was anything but the truth. It proved
again that a reputation for a blameless life is a perfect cloak for a
lapse therefrom. Billy hastened to assert his willingness to oblige, but
suggested the necessity for a pack of cards.

Tydvil nodded. "That has not escaped me," he replied. Opening a drawer
in his table, he handed his recent purchase across to Billy. "I presume
those will do."

Billy snapped the twine and, opening the box, slid the cards on to the
table and ran his fingers through them with an expert's touch. "Of
course, you understand that we must play for some form of stakes?" he
queried.

"I presumed that it would be so," Tydvil acquiesced sourly, "but I
suggest we play for something of no value--pins, for instance."

Billy smiled. "They will do for a start, anyhow," he replied cheerfully.

"My interest is, of course, purely academic," insisted Mr. Jones.

"Quite so," admitted Billy as with deft fingers he shuffled cards so
easily as to draw an admiring comment on his dexterity. "Merely a matter
of practice," Billy said as he dealt each five cards, cleanly and
swiftly.

Then, facing them up, he gave Tydvil his first lesson in the gentle and
unhallowed art of "draw." It is a game in which the elements are easily
grasped. In spite of its simplicity, however, there is no game demands a
more skilled technique. Nature had richly endowed Billy Brewer with that
brazen sang froid which is a poker player's best asset.

Billy dealt half a dozen hands face up, and explained the mysteries of
pairs, threes, straights, flushes and fulls, and the chances of
improving on the draw. Then, after dividing the contents of Tydvil's pin
tray between them, he began a practical demonstration. Tydvil quickly
grasped the essentials, and, before they realised it, the two were deep
in the simple pastime. Single handed "draw" for pins did not appeal to
Billy very strongly, but to Tydvil, it opened up a new and fascinating
avenue of amusement.

In less than half an hour, beginners' luck and the absence of risk
enabled Tydvil to completely relieve Billy of his stock of pins.

Noting the smile of satisfaction on Jones's face, Billy suggested that,
had the pins represented cash, his opponent would not have been quite so
venturesome.

The imputation touched Tydvil's pride in his new found knowledge. It
pricked him into replying. "Well, I would be prepared, for once, to
prove my competence to play for money--a small amount, say?"

It occurred to Billy, that since his employer was paying him for his
time, and would probably pay more for his daring, the arrangement would
be most satisfactory.

"Good," he challenged, "we'll make the pins worth threepence a dozen."
So, with pins to the value of half a crown each, they recommenced.

For an hour nothing disturbed the silence of the sanctum but the murmur
of the two voices. Outside, Miss Brand, denied admittance to caller
after caller, including two departmental heads. These, hearing that
Tyddie had been in conference with Brewer half the morning, earnestly
discussed what campaign the Chief could be organising. Lunch time came,
but there was no sound of movement behind the frosted-glass door.

Inside, Tydvil was backing amazing luck with improving technique. Again
and again he sent Billy to the pin tray for more ammunition.
Determination to come out victor led Brewer into taking risks that he
could not afford with the astute Tydvil. Finally, after throwing in his
hand rather than risk "seeing" the victorious Tydvil, he leaned back and
said, "I have no right to ask, but what did you hold then? I drew a
flush."

There was a little smile on Tydvil's face as he confessed to a pair of
threes.

Billy put the cards down. He looked at the pile of pins in front of
Tydvil, and said, "Your education is complete. A man who looks like a
full hand holding a pair of threes needs no further instruction. I'll
cut my loss." He dug his hand into his trouser pocket.

For the first time during the session, Tydvil looked at the clock. "Good
gracious, Brewer!" he exclaimed. "It is half past one o'clock! Dear me!
I'm sure I had no idea of the time." Then, glancing at the silver, he
said, "I couldn't think of letting you pay, Brewer. I am much obliged
for the trouble you have taken."

Billy shook his head. "Had I won I would have expected to be paid," he
said decisively. "I consider myself very lucky it was only three pence a
dozen."

"It is a most demoralising game. Most demoralising!" said Tydvil
gravely. "I admit that I became most fascinated with its possibilities.
Nothing could have brought home to me more clearly how the evil of
gambling could take hold of one. I would rather we considered the matter
settled."

Leaning across the table, Brewer drew the pad with its pile of pins
towards him. Swiftly his deft fingers separated the pile into dozens.
Presently, Billy looked up. "I make it thirty seven dozen and four.
Threepence a dozen lets me down lightly. I owe you nine and fourpence."
He sorted out four florins, a shilling and threepence. Adding a penny
from his vest pocket, he handed the loot to Tydvil, who accepted it
reluctantly.

"At any rate," he said, "in future I shall be able to speak of gambling
with some experience."

Billy stood up. "I think it lucky for the community that you will make
nothing but academic use of your knowledge. I should hate to sit in with
you in a game of half-crown rises. You have been too good a pupil." He
grinned.

"I'm afraid my friends would be terribly shocked if they knew how I have
spent the last two hours," Jones said.

"Well," said Billy from the door, "they are not likely to hear it from
me. Would one of them believe you had won nine shillings and fourpence
from me in your own office?"

As he passed Geraldine's table he looked towards her. His one eye met
her two fixed on him in real consternation at the havoc she had wrought.
In spite of herself, a dismayed "Oh!" broke from her lips.

Billy, the unregenerate, smiled cheerfully. "It was coming to me,
Geraldine--and it was well worth the getting. Isn't it a beauty?"

His utter impenitence froze her sympathy. "In future," she said with
crushing dignity, "I do not wish you to speak to me."

With his head on one side Billy surveyed her with a twinkle in the
undamaged eye. "I hear and obey, O Queen! But there's no law agin'
lookin' at ye, Geraldine, me darlint." He kissed the tips of his fingers
to her and went on his way.

As she watched him go the uncertain little smile on her lips grew to a
little laugh as he disappeared from sight.

In his room Tydvil gazed at the coins in his hand with a certain amount
of pride. Taking his hat he apologised politely to Geraldine for having
detained her. He passed the restaurant where he was in the habit of
spending a midday two shillings. Turning into Collins Street, he entered
one over the threshold of which he had never yet set foot. Here he
ordered a lunch that, when he had given the waiter two shillings, left
him with fourpence of his winnings. Tydvil Jones felt much better for
his lunch.




CHAPTER XIV


It would have astonished Tydvil Jones considerably had he known that his
wife, also, had departed from the rules of her rigorous upbringing. With
fluttering excitement at what she considered a far more heinous lapse
than that of the curate who finished a day out by returning home in a
smoking carriage, Amy had accompanied her new and distinguished
acquaintance to Menzies.

During the time they, waited in the lounge, and afterwards in the great
dining-room, with its gaily plumaged women and their squires, it gave
her a thrill of feline satisfaction to observe the admiring eyes that
followed her escort.

But there was one thorn in her bouquet of roses. For the first time in
her life, she was conscious that her Spartan simplicity of dress made
her feel there was no other word for it--dowdy. Yesterday she thought
it would have given her a sense of pride. Today, well! There was that
woman's hat, for instance, that somehow seemed to lend a vividness to a
not very attractive face. Amy felt that if she wore such a hat it would
take on an extra importance. "After all, why not make the best of one's
looks," she reflected. "Perhaps Tydvil was right, after all."

Apart from that she felt perfectly happy. Mr. Senior proved a
fascinating companion. He was both witty and understanding, and won her
confidence completely. Indeed, she found herself thinking how pleasant
it would be if Tydvil possessed such graceful self-assurance combined
with Mr. Senior's undoubted intellectual attainments.

Tydvil never listened to Amy with such courteous and genuine interest,
or deferred so respectfully to her opinions. A far less conceited woman
than Amy would have found Mr. Senior's attention very flattering.

They exchanged low voiced censure on two women at a neighbouring table
who drank hock with their luncheon. Mr. Senior gently deplored the state
of a society in which such a spectacle could be tolerated.

Amy assured him that not only she, but her husband, shared similar
views, and she hoped that she could arrange an early meeting between the
two men. "You have so much in common in your principles," asserted Amy,
that she was sure they would get on well together.

Mr. Senior, who was sipping mineral water, expressed a fervent hope that
a meeting with Mr. Jones would not be long delayed. He also looked
forward to the day when total prohibition would make the spectacle of
women consuming alcoholic beverages at any time, much less in public,
would be a thing of the past.

It was in their excursion round her societies afterwards that filled
Amy's cup of happiness to overflowing. They spent a rapturous half hour
at the League for the Suppression of Alcohol. Mr. Senior listened with
profound interest to the Secretary's statistics. His eyes took on the
expression of one listening to inspired harmonies. Then he capped all
by, without prompting, handing a cheque for twenty-five guineas to the
Secretary, becoming, thereby, a life member of the League.

At each office at which they called, its funds were from five to ten
guineas better for the coming of Mr. Senior.

But he was at his best at the rooms of the Moral Uplift Society. He made
innumerable enquiries as to its aims and the methods employed by its
officers. When Amy was moved to tell him how Mr. Jones was rather like
warm in his interest in this work, Mr. Senior was almost incredulous. He
agreed with her that Mr. Jones must have failed to grasp the importance
of the work being done. And when he passed over a pink slip empowering
his bank to pay "Moral Uplift Society or Bearer" one hundred pounds, Amy
exclaimed with gushing sincerity, "Oh, you must be a saint, Mr. Senior!"

That gentleman gently, and very modestly, disclaimed any right to such a
distinction.

Afterwards, on her way home, Amy, by some earnest mental calculation,
estimated that their outing must have cost Mr. Senior something like two
hundred and sixty pounds.

Before stepping in to her own car, which she had ordered by telephone to
meet her, Amy had extracted a promise from her friend that he would dine
with her and meet her husband. "Tydvil is a tower of strength to me,"
she assured him.

Standing bare-headed at her car door, he thanked her for an educational
and inspiring afternoon, and told her how much he was looking forward to
meeting Mr. Jones, and any others of her co-workers as well.

Amy was late in arriving home that afternoon, although she had left Mr.
Senior with ample time at her disposal. The delay was caused by nearly
an hour spent in trying on hats at one of those retiring little shops
where the most becoming headgear could be purchased--at a price.

Even the message by telephone with which her maid met her, to the effect
that Mr. Jones was delayed at the office and would not be home to
dinner, did not upset her genial mood. A royal row with Tydvil after
dinner would be packing too much joy into one day.

She dined alone in solitary state. The maid who waited on her came to
the kitchen later with a tale passing all comprehension. She related to
her frankly dubious colleagues that Amy had kept dinner waiting while
she changed her frock and put on a dinner gown, just to feed by herself.

"Amy's going gay," chirped the cook, pirouetting about her domain. "What
a lark!"



CHAPTER XV


Tydvil Jones passed the afternoon in an intensive concentration on his
work. Only by so doing could he get through the long hours before the
evening. He gave Geraldine very little time to consider her own worries,
for which she was inwardly gratified.

Leaving instructions that he might be back to work during the evening,
Tydvil left his office at five o'clock. His unusual lunch and his
excitement combined to make dinner unthinkable. To fill in the
intervening time, he walked through the Alexandra Gardens--and, without
knowing it, was passed by Amy in her car as he crossed Princes Bridge.
Fortunately, Amy also, was too much occupied with her own thoughts to be
alive to anything mundane.

Then, after spending an hour in the library of the Y.M.C.A., he returned
to his office at the appointed time. In compliance with his orders, a
few lights had been left burning on the ground floor. When he gained his
office, he found Mr. Senior already awaiting him.

That gentleman received his warm thanks for averting the calamity of
Amy's descent on the office with a smile. "You have no idea what an
agreeable afternoon I have spent. Really, I find I have a great deal to
learn from your world today."

Tydvil looked a little surprised. "Can we teach you anything at all?" he
asked.

"Well, of course, the broad principles are always the same," answered
Mr. Senior, "but in technique and finish, some of your methods promise
an interesting study. Oh, by the way, I have had the pleasure of Mrs.
Jones's society all the afternoon. We lunched at Menzies..."

"What?" The question fairly exploded from Tydvil's lips. "Say that
again!"

Mr. Senior looked embarrassed. "I trust that in taking Mrs. Jones to
Menzies I have not committed an indiscretion."

"My wife had lunch with you at...?"

Mr. Senior nodded. "You see..." he began to explain.

But what he would have said was cut short by an outburst of mirth from
Tydvil, who lay back in his chair the better to absorb the idea. "My
dear sir," he said, only partially recovered, "please forgive my
rudeness, but you took me by surprise."

"So long as you are not annoyed," replied his friend.

"Annoyed!" and again Jones gave way to his mirth. "Why, your news
enchants me. If I had any reason to doubt your bona fides, that alone
would prove your case. Only Your Highness could have achieved such a
feat."

"To be frank," replied Mr. Senior, "I was rather flattering myself on
the performance. But actually the credit is due to the Archbishop of
Canterbury."

"He would be proud if he knew," Tydvil chuckled. "I will not enquire how
he came into the picture, but I am most grateful to him."

"Perhaps I should tell you," Mr. Senior said, "that since we parted this
morning I have been enquiring into your affairs, and have ascertained
the reason of your disinclination to meet your wife." Then he added
hastily, "Believe me, it was not impertinent curiosity that prompted me.
I felt that an understanding of the situation would be mutually
helpful."

Tydvil waved away the apology as unnecessary. "As a matter of fact, I am
glad you know all. It will save explanations." Then, after a pause,
"Since you know all, you understand?" There was enquiry in his voice.

"Everything!" the other said earnestly. "And I hope you will believe me
when I say you have my profound sympathy."

"Thank you," said Tydvil, more earnestly. "I heard a Russian proverb
once, that ran, 'Only their owner knows where his fleas bite him.'"

"There is an Oriental proverb also," responded Mr. Senior, "that says
'The husbands of talkative wives shall have great rewards hereafter,'
and that is as true as many other wise sayings. And now," he said,
standing up, "about your own affairs, Mr. Jones."

"Suppose you drop the 'Mr.'," said Tydvil tentatively. "It seems very
formal since we are to see so much of one another."

Mr. Senior smiled a big, friendly smile. "Gladly, provided you
reciprocate and call me Nicholas."

"Oh!" The idea seemed to Tydvil to border on impertinence.

"But I would like it, really," replied his friend reassuringly. "Do you
know, since I met you, and then Mrs. Jones, I feel it would be a
pleasure to help you to make up for lost time."

"Well, in that case, we'll make it so," and the two shook hands.

"Now tell me," asked Nicholas, "what form do you propose to adopt?"

Tydvil thought a moment. "Am I in any way limited in my choice?"

Nicholas shook his head. "The whole world is yours."

"Well, I have a young man in my service named William Brewer. Do you
know him?"

Senior drew his ledger card from his pocket and studied it carefully.
Then, regarding Jones with raised eyebrows, he emitted a long whistle.
"An ideal model for a night out," he said with a light laugh. "Your Mr.
Brewer has quite a record, although he seems to have been spoiling it
lately, apparently because of some sentimental attachment."

He waved his hands over Mr. Jones, and that gentleman vanished and
William Brewer stood in his place.

Tydvil started in astonishment. A moment earlier he had been wearing
blue serge. Now, his outstretched arm showed grey tweed. With a
bewildered look in one eye, he turned to the mirror and gasped. There,
looking back at him, was Brewer to the last hair. The multicoloured eye
that so distinguished his prototype was there to its ultimate shade of
blue--a contingency that he had overlooked.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I had forgotten that eye. Could you...?"

For answer, Nicholas pressed his fingers to the swollen face and all
trace of swelling and discolouration vanished. "How's that?", he asked.

The more Tydvil examined his new individuality, the more satisfied he
felt. With a grin on Billy's handsome face, he turned to Senior. "True,
0 friend, I am feeling a new man. Ethically, I'm afraid my action is
indefensible. I feel like a forgery."

"Pah!" Senior said. "Ethics, my dear Tydvil, are no more than a moral
loincloth. Get back to Eden and live your life unashamed."

Jones stared at him a moment. "I wonder...?" He paused, a little
embarrassed.

"Well?"

"It was your mention of Eden," went on Tydvil. "Was there any truth in
that story?"

"About my first appearance on the stage as a serpent?" queried the other
with a smile, "before ethics and loincloths were invented."

Tydvil nodded.

"Just consider the probabilities, my friend," replied Senior seating
himself on the corner of the table and lighting a cigarette. "Is it
likely that any being, human or otherwise, who wished to win a woman's
confidence, would attempt to do so in the form of a snake? A snake, mind
you! Why, it would scare her into hysterics for a start. The thing's
childish."

"It does seem hardly feasible," Tydvil admitted.

"Mind you," continued Nicholas, "there is ground for the story, but not
for the published details. It is just a sample of the injustice done me
for ages. The fact was, it was just female cussedness; There was Eve,
with no housekeeping; no dress to occupy her mind; with no man to flirt
with or woman to gossip with; and, of course, she discovered and
committed the only mischief there was to commit. Serpent be hanged!" he
finished with a gesture of disgust.

"'Satan finds some mischief still,'" Tydvil quoted absently, and then
broke off as he realised what he was saying.

"That's another!" said Nicholas bitterly. "I find mischief! Umph!
There's no need; they find it themselves and then blame it on to me.
Confounded injustice! However, let's forget it. You'll need some money
if you're going to have a night out."

"Almost forgot!" said Tydvil, going to his private cash box. From this
he took three five-pound notes, and five ones, and placed them in a
wallet he found in his pocket. Then he turned suddenly. "Oh, look here!
Suppose I wish to return to my own shape, what do I do?" he asked
anxiously.

"I'll be at your instant call," replied Senior. "No need to worry. If
you get into difficulties of any kind, just call. Remember our bond."

"Excellent!" said Tydvil glancing at the clock, which showed it wanted
but ten minutes to eight. "And now, I'll move off."

"Have you any plans?" asked Nicholas.

Jones shook his head. "Not a plan. I intend to let events shape
themselves. I've no doubt that a man who looks for amusement in the city
will find it."

Senior laughed shortly. "From the little I have seen of it, I have no
doubts whatever."

Tydvil paused a moment and then said a little doubtfully, "Do you know,
Nicholas, it has just occurred to me that I wouldn't know how to get
into mischief."

Rubbing a shapely chin with his forefinger, Nicholas reassured him. "My
dear fellow, you will be astonished at the ease with which you will
succeed, even without trying. That should be the least of your worries.
Well, I'll leave you now. But remember, you've only to call." The next
moment Tydvil was alone in his office.




CHAPTER XVI


Tydvil took one last look at Billy's face in the mirror, then, taking
his hat, he let himself out of the warehouse into Flinders Lane. Slowly
he strolled towards the corner of Swanston Street, where he stood for a
while. The inward human night traffic was at its flood. The footpaths
were thronged with the theatre crowds and the swift procession of motor
cars and trams sped past him going north. As they passed him, Tydvil
caught glimpses of dainty and beautiful women, part of a life of which
he knew nothing.

A flaming sky sign caught his eye, lettering in white against a black
cloud background the words, "The Red Haired Girl. His Majesty's
Theatre." The words winked and disappeared, and returned in a moment,
leering invitation.

Then Tydvil really began to think. He had remembered reading letters in
his morning paper signed, "Shocked" and "Not a Puritan." They suggested
to him that "The Red Haired Girl" ran true to the tradition of red hair.
Tydvil squared his shoulders and decided that he, too, Tydvil Jones,
would see "The Red Haired Girl" and be shocked also. He had never been
properly shocked in his life, and imagined the experience might prove
interesting.

He turned, and as he did so, another idea struck him. He had never
tasted alcohol. "Why not?" Oh, there were so many things he had never
done! There was a brass plate on a nearby door labelled "Saloon Bar."
Tydvil had no idea what a bar, either saloon or public, looked like. Now
was the time to learn.

He took one step towards the door when a mighty hand fell on his
shoulder and a mighty voice, undoubtedly breathing goodfellowship,
thundered, "Billy! Billy, you old kerfoosalem! How are you?"

"The old kerfoosalem" turned round to face a large stranger, by no means
sharing the delight of his greeting, though he tried hard to give the
impression that he did.

"Halo, old chap!' he said with enforced heartiness. This, he thought,
was non-committal.

"Billy, you dear old blighter," exclaimed the other warmly, "I knew I
would butt into you somewhere among the bright lights. Biggest joke in
the world. Thought I saw you crossing Flinders Street just now carrying
a dandy black eye. Dashed traffic blocked me, and I missed whoever it
was. Dead spit of you. Funny, wasn't it?"

Tydvil succeeding in making himself grin to register amusement. "Very
funny!" he said dryly. His mind was whirling with plans to shake off
this exuberant friend, who, he discovered was, if not quite intoxicated,
well on the way, and sufficiently so to have reached the stage at which
appearance and conventions were of no account.

"Wouldn't have missed you tonight for the world," announced the unsober
one in loud-speaker tones. He let go Tydvil's arm and felt in his
pocket, "King Rufus led all the way. Here you are." He drew out a roll
of notes and peeling off five fivers, he pressed them into Tydvil's
unwilling hand.

"Said I'd pay you back tonight, now, didn' I? Didn' I say, alive or
dead, Jerry McCann would pay you back that twenny-five quid? Eh?" he
insisted.

"Of course you did, Jerry," Jones admitted, thankful to have discovered
a name if not an identity. "But, look here," he protested, "don't give
it to me now. Keep it till we meet again."

The other blinked at him. "Don' be a bloomin' fool, Billy," he urged.
"Don' act the goat. Take it. If you don' I'll only get blithered and it
will go." He raised his voice so that a passing policeman turned a
searching eye on the two. "Good ole Billy. Allers did help a pal."

To Tydvil, the situation was impossible. He felt hot flushes crawling
all over him. He felt he had narrowly escaped meeting the genuine Billy
Brewer. Now, at all costs, he must shake off Billy's beery friend. "Look
here, Jerry," he said firmly, "I've got an appointment I must keep.
Thanks for the money, but I'll just have to go." He jerked his sleeve
from the hand that held it with a curt "Good night!" and walked swiftly
towards Collins Street.

The other stood watching the retreating hat bobbing above the crowd. His
world had crashed on him. He had just paid Billy Brewer a debt that was
six months overdue and Billy, who in normal circumstances would have
helped him make a night of it, had walked off and never even asked him
to have a drink--and a bar door within twenty feet of them.

Jerry watched Billy till he disappeared, then, still wondering, he
stepped back off the kerb into the roadway where his fate was
accomplished by a heavy limousine. Tydvil Jones was too far off to hear
the cry, or to see the crowd that gathered as the limp figure was lifted
from the blocks.

Little dreaming that Jerry had been gathered to the Mercy of Allah,
Tydvil turned into Collins Street in order to avoid pursuit. It had come
home to him with some force that in adopting Billy's person, he was
adopting with it some no slight risks. However, the risk, whatever it
might be, added spice to the adventure--after all, was he not seeking
adventure?

Tydvil had reached Elizabeth Street and turned towards Bourke Street,
when again the words "Saloon Bar" arrested his attention. Then, since
there was no Jerry McCann to intervene, without hesitation he passed
through the multicoloured glass door and along a heavily carpeted
corridor into a small but brilliantly lighted room at the end.

To Tydvil's relief there were no customers at the counter that ran along
the whole of one side. At the further end from where he stood, behind
the counter, were two girls in deep converse. One, with a sleek, black
head, was seated, the other, a blonde of surpassing blondeness, was
standing before her. They were quite oblivious of Tydvil's presence, so
he had ample time to take in the details at his leisure.

The mirrored walls and the close array of bottles and cut glass flashed
under the electric light. So this was the abode of sin against which he
had raised his voice so earnestly on numberless occasions. As he gazed,
the blonde moved slightly and gave him a better view of her companion.
Jones wondered how one so petite could possess such amazing eyes and
such a pink bud for a mouth. Had he but known it, his admiration of the
two presiding angels at the Carillion bar was heartily endorsed by the
leading authorities of the city.

Tydvil inwardly raged at the shyness that kept him glued as he stood
staring at the two damsels. It needed all his strength to save him from
taking flight. Then, suddenly the two dazzling eyes of the brunette
turned full on him. As they did so their expression of indifference
turned into evident surprise and pleasure that had a magical effect on
Tydvil's nerves. His heart gave two big, bumps, and his bashfulness
vanished.

The brunette had risen to her feet. "Connie, look!" she exclaimed. "Look
at the villain of the piece."

Then she of the massed blonde hair turned on Tydvil two of the softest
blue smiling eyes he had ever seen, or, at any rate, had ever noticed.

"Billy," she said gently as he stood before them (he never knew how he
crossed the room), "Billy, you're the quintessence of a disagreeable
piggy. Where have you been all these centuries?" The unflattering
epithet, falling from a perfect cupid's bow mouth, seemed almost a
caress.

"Dooce of a lot of work," said Tydvil, off-handedly. "Positively could
not get round."

The two exchanged glances, and the smaller shook a white, pink-nailed
finger at him. "Dooce of a lot of work!" she mimicked derisively. "Do
you think we never hear anything? Dooce of a lot of red-headed typist!
That's your work, Mr. Billy Brewer."

The charge, unexpected as it was, made Jones forget for the moment his
borrowed individuality. He disgraced Billy Brewer by a rich,
all-embracing blush. The two stared at the mounting colour with
amazement, and peals of merry laughter filled the bar. "Billy, you've
blushed! Connie and I will get in our breach of promise writs before the
rush sets in. Oh, Billy! You swore you would never love anyone but us."

"Look here!" he objected indignantly, "it's not true..."

"The Lord don't love liars, Billy," said Connie shaking her head. Then,
turning, she placed a bottle of whisky and a glass before him. Those
were the days when the customer said "When."

Tydvil had scarcely bargained for that. He