The Man in the Brown Suit
By this time I have no doubt that you are no longer Anne Beddingfeld,
but Lady Eardsley, queening it in Park Lane. I should just like to
say that I bear you no malice whatever. It is hard, of course, to
have to begin all over again at my time of life, but, _entre nous,_
I had a little reserve fund carefully put aside for such a
contingency. It has come in very usefully and I am getting together
a nice little connection. By the way, if you ever come across that
funny friend of yours, Arthur Minks, just tell him that I haven’t
forgotten him, will you? That will give him a nasty jar.
On the whole I think I have displayed a most Christian and forgiving
spirit. Even to Pagett. I happened to hear that he—or rather Mrs.
Pagett—had brought a sixth child into the world the other day.
England will be entirely populated by Pagetts soon. I sent the
child a silver mug, and, on a post card, declared my willingness
to act as god-father. I can see Pagett taking both mug and post
card straight to Scotland Yard without a smile on his face!
Bless you, liquid eyes. Some day you will see what a mistake you
have made in not marrying me.
Yours ever,
Eustace Pedler.
Harry was furious. It is the one point on which he and I do not
see eye to eye. To him, Sir Eustace was the man who tried to murder
me and whom he regards as responsible for the death of his friend.
Sir Eustace’s attempts on my life have always puzzled me. They are
not in the picture, so to speak. For I am sure that he always had
a genuinely kindly feeling towards me.
Then why did he twice attempt to take my life? Harry says “because
he’s a damned scoundrel,” and seems to think that settles the
matter. Suzanne was more discriminating. I talked it over with her,
and she put it down to a “fear complex.” Suzanne goes in rather
for psycho-analysis. She pointed out to me that Sir Eustace’s whole
life was actuated by a desire to be safe and comfortable. He had
an acute sense of self-preservation. And the murder of Nadina
removed certain inhibitions. His actions did not represent the
state of his feeling towards me, but were the result of his acute
fears for his own safety. I think Suzanne is right. As for Nadina,
she was the kind of woman who deserved to die. Men do all sorts of
questionable things in order to get rich, but women shouldn’t
pretend to be in love when they aren’t for ulterior motives.
I can forgive Sir Eustace easily enough, but I shall never forgive
Nadina. Never, never, never!
The other day I was unpacking some tins that were wrapped in bits
of an old _Daily Budget,_ and I suddenly came upon the words, “The
Man in the Brown Suit.” How long ago it seemed! I had, of course,
severed my connection with the _Daily Budget_ long ago—I had done
with it sooner than it had done with me. _My Romantic Wedding_ was
given a halo of publicity.
My son is lying in the sun, kicking his legs. There’s a “man in a
brown suit” if you like. He’s wearing as little as possible, which
is the best costume for Africa, and is as brown as a berry. He’s
always burrowing in the earth. I think he takes after Papa. He’ll
have that same mania for Pleiocene clay.
Suzanne sent me a cable when he was born:
“Congratulations and love to the latest arrival on Lunatics’
Island. Is his head dolichocephalic or brachycephalic?”
I wasn’t going to stand that from Suzanne. I sent her a reply of
one word, economical and to the point:
“Platycephalic!”
THE END