The girl from Scotland Yard
At that moment Greta Gurden’s bedroom reeked with the pungent scent
of frying sausages that wafted in from the little gas-ring in her
“dining hall.” When Greta was her own provider, she was economical to
the point of stinginess. She, who would hesitate languidly between
sole Mariner and sole à la bonne femme, who chose the most delicate
and expensive of ices, and who had a pretty knowledge of the virtues
of relative vintages, when she had an escort to foot the bill, could
find, in the intimacy of her flat, the ingredients of complete
satisfaction hanging from a hook at the local butcher’s.
She had been allowed to get up that afternoon and found that she could
drag herself from room to room without pain or inconvenience. Mrs.
Hobbs had gone home, having a husband of her own to serve, and Greta
was left alone, and was glad.
Face-saving is a practice which is not wholly Chinese. When she
prepared her mean little snacks she liked to be by herself, for she
was one of those who desire to be thought well of by the least
accountable of people. She was almost cheerful as she speared the
sausages from their sizzling bed and laid them on a hot plate, brewed
the tea from a kettle placed before the gas stove, and, spreading a
cloth across half the table, prepared to enjoy her evening repast.
She had not heard from Anita since the woman’s visit, and she had
spent the greater part of the day regretting the spirit of malice
which had induced her to send an eight-year-old sheet of paper to
Peter Dawlish. Fortunately, Anita would never know; that was the one
solace she had. What would Anita say if she discovered? Greta
shuddered to think.
Being malicious, she was a coward; and it was cowardice which brought
about a revulsion of feeling toward the employer she betrayed. In the
processes of reaction, she felt almost tenderly toward the victim of
her spite. Nevertheless, the finding of the letter had given Greta an
idea. There might be other documents equally valuable, remembering
that the day was near at hand when her sole legitimate source of
income would perish in the inevitable liquidation of _Mayfair Gossip_.
It was all very well for Anita to sneer and rail at the paper, but it
had been a very good friend of hers. There were two prominent
announcements printed week after week in the pages of this scurrilous
little organ; the first of these was called “Stories of Real Life,”
and it was announced that for the sender of the best material from
which such a story could be constructed there was a weekly reward of
twenty-five pounds. Stress was laid upon one point, that the material
must be authentic, that it must be spicy, and that it must be
remarkable. The second announcement was to the effect that
contributors who were in a position to secure social items of interest
would be well paid.
These two appeals produced a voluminous correspondence, the majority
of which was valueless for their purpose; but sometimes an aggrieved
servant would reveal matters that were even outside the cognizance of
her employer. The maid who found a bundle of old love letters in a
secret drawer of her master’s desk was very well rewarded indeed.
Those letters went on to Anita, who found an excellent use for them.
Officially, Greta knew nothing of these matters. Officially, she was
sending on these letters because they had a piquant interest for her
employer. She was never asked to do anything that a lady could not do,
or even that Greta could not do. She made a very good use of the
smaller and less important items that reached the office, for Greta
was an efficient, if one-sided, journalist. She had one formula which
she followed in every case.
Dear Anita: The inclosed letters are not, I am afraid, of much use
to the paper. We shall be prosecuted for libel if we dare use one
tenth of what is in them. They may, however, interest you.
The letter never varied; it had become almost a stereotype.
She contributed special articles to _Gossip_ and because of a sojourn
of fourteen days in the United States had become an authority upon the
Four Hundred, could talk glibly and inaccurately of the leaders of
society, and occasionally would introduce a Long Island colour to her
paragraphs. She could write fairly well, had a mordant wit of her own,
and in happier circumstances might have become a great journalist.
Instead of which she had developed insensibly into a cringing
sycophant, dependent upon a wage that was paid in all the
circumstances of charity.
As she ate her three large, indigestible sausages, she decided to
tackle that night the last bundle of letters which needed reading and
classifying. It was therefore not an inappropriate moment for Anita to
call. Mrs. Gurden stood up like a soldier when the woman swung into
the room and pulled the door close behind her.
“Your leg’s all right, is it? Good! I want you to come over to
Wimbledon to-night.”
“My dear Anita, I couldn’t possibly come to-night,” broke in Mrs.
Gurden, a picture of sweetness and delight at seeing this unwelcome
visitor. “The doctor says----”
“I don’t care what the doctor says,” replied Anita brusquely. “You’ve
got to come over to May Towers.”
Greta murmured something half-heartedly, and made a final fight.
“It may be fatal,” she said in a hushed voice. “The doctor----”
Princess Bellini said something very uncomplimentary about doctors in
general, and glanced at the remnants of the humble meal with a sneer
which she did not attempt to conceal.
“Pack all your things, everything you want for a long stay,” she said.
“I’ll send one of my people up to help you if you like, but it would
be better if your own woman--Snobbs or Hobbs or whatever you call
her--helped you.”
“How long do you want me to stay?” asked Greta in consternation. She
counted the most unhappy days and nights of her life those she had
spent as Anita’s guest.
“A month; six weeks possibly--I’m not sure,” said the woman brusquely.
“I’m going to pay you very well indeed. As for your leg, I’ve
telephoned to your doctor and he tells me that you’re fit to move, and
in fact the wound is healed.”
“But the paper----”
“The paper is dead. I’ve written to the printers telling them so. My
lawyer will liquidate the business, so that’s off your mind. You’ve
got to do something, Greta. Your source of income from that direction
has dried up.”
Greta listened in dismay, and offered the weak comment that it “seemed
a pity.” And then, with a resolution which was born of her very
feebleness, she said:
“I can’t go. I simply won’t go, Anita, until I’ve seen the doctor.
You’re most inconsiderate! I haven’t recovered. It isn’t only the
wound, it’s the shock of--Druze’s death. I simply won’t risk my life.
After all, I have to take care of myself. Gurden doesn’t care a darn
whether I’m alive or dead.”
Anita sat squarely before her, her big hands on her knees, her
eyeglass fixed in her impassive face.
“Gurden!” she rasped. “You almost make this ghost of yours real!
You’ve got to the end of your argument, Greta, when you call on the
precious name of Gurden. He belongs to the same order as Mrs. ’Arris.”
“It’s not true, it’s not true!” protested the haggard woman tearfully.
“We’re married but we’re separated.”
Nevertheless, she proceeded to give no further details that would
elucidate that mystery of her life.
“Whether you are or whether you’re not, you’re to come over to May
Towers,” said the princess definitely. “If you want to see a doctor,
you can send for any one you like.”
Greta elected for her own doctor, but he was out and not expected back
until late that night. She ran her fingers down the directory of the
profession, seeking a familiar name, and presently she found one and
rang him up. Anita, renovating her toilet before the looking glass in
the bedroom, heard Greta speaking in her sugary society voice, and
smiled grimly.
“If you please, Doctor. I wondered if you would remember me. It’s most
awfully kind of you--no, only a little scratch. The wound has quite
healed, I’m sure, but I should like to see you ever so much.”
There was a click as the receiver was hung up. Anita smoothed the
powder on her face, gave her large, shapeless lips a touch of a red,
creamy stick, and strolled back to the dining room.
“Well, have you found your doctor?”
“Yes, Anita, I have,” said the other. “He’s a very nice man and he
won’t let me go out if he thinks that it’s dangerous to my health. And
really, I must consider myself, Anita, sometimes. I’m not at all well,
and I’ve been thinking for a long time of placing myself in a doctor’s
hands----”
“Whom have you sent for?”
“Doctor Elford Wesley. He used to be old Mr. Dawlish’s doctor----”
She heard a growl like the sound of a beast and stared aghast at
Anita. Her eyes were wide open; she showed her teeth in an ugly grin.
“You brainless fool!” she exclaimed. “Why did you send for him?”
CHAPTER XIX.
CAPTURED
Demoniacal, terrifying, she towered above the frightened woman, and
Greta cowered and held up her hand as though to ward off a blow.
“Get on the telephone, quick, and tell him he needn’t come. Invent any
excuse you like! Hurry!”
In a trembling voice Greta called the number.
“He’s gone,” she said, and looked up at her mistress.
“All right, hang up, you fool!” Anita was breathing quickly. New lines
showed in her face; she looked like an old woman.
“Send somebody down to the door and tell him he needn’t come.”
“But, Anita,” wailed the other, “I can’t do that! I must see him,
Nita. What a stupid thing you are! What difference does it make? If
you don’t like him you needn’t show yourself. And if I send down a
message like that he’ll be awfully suspicious! You remember how the
police came just because my wretched doctor told somebody I had a
gunshot wound in the leg?”
There was reason and intelligence in this, and though the woman was
quivering between fear and fury, she had no course but to assent, and
when, ten minutes later, the doctor’s foot sounded on the stairs
outside, Anita Bellini disappeared into the bedroom, but did not go
beyond earshot.
He was an elderly man, rather talkative and fussy, short and stout,
with a cherubic face and short white side whiskers.
“Bless my soul, I remember you now!” he said. He was one of the loud
and jovial race of doctors that is fast dying out. “I remember you
very well. You used to be a friend of the Dawlishes, didn’t you? Poor
old Donald! What a good sort! Now let me look at this leg of yours.”
He examined the wound, which was little more than a scar, and, to
Greta’s dismay, pronounced her fit to travel.
“You’ll have to take care of yourself for a week or two,” he said
conventionally, and returned to the topic his examination had
interrupted. “Yes. I was with old Donald two days before he died, from
morning till night, hoping against hope that I could do something for
him. For twenty-four hours I never stirred from his side. Poor old
Donald! He died six hours after I left him, with my dear friend, Sir
Paul Grayley, one of the best doctors that ever lived.”
Old Dr. Wesley was blessed with this disposition, that all the people
he knew were the best people that ever lived, and all who were bereft
of his acquaintance came under the generic heading of “poor souls.”
“Very bad business about his boy, poor soul!” He shook his hoary head.
“Terribly bad business. I didn’t know Peter personally--never met him.
But when I heard of this fearful thing he’d done, I said to myself,
‘My boy, if the news has to be broken to Donald you’re the man to do
it.’”
He was very talkative, very delightful, very human, but Greta was
annoyed with him and gave him little encouragement to stay. As for the
woman standing in the darkness of the bedroom, had her wishes