The Secret of Chimneys
“You’ve been speaking about so many things.”
“No, no, I mean this unfortunate _contretemps_”—— he lowered his
voice to a mysterious whisper—“the memoirs—Count Stylptitch’s
memoirs.”
“I think you’re wrong about that,” said Lord Caterham, suppressing
a yawn. “People _like_ scandal. Damn it all, I read Reminiscences
myself—and enjoy ’em too.”
“The point is not whether people will read them or not—they’ll read
them fast enough—but their publication at this juncture might ruin
everything—everything. The people of Herzoslovakia wish to restore the
Monarchy, and are prepared to offer the Crown to Prince Michael who has
the support and encouragement of His Majesty’s Government——”
“And who is prepared to grant concessions to Mr. Ikey Hermanstein & Co.
in return for the loan of a million or so to set him on the throne——”
“Caterham, Caterham,” implored Lomax in an agonized whisper.
“Discretion, I beg of you. Above all things, discretion.”
“And the point is,” continued Lord Caterham, with some relish, though
he lowered his voice in obedience to the other’s appeal, “that some
of Stylptitch’s Reminiscences may upset the apple cart. Tyranny and
misbehaviour of the Obolovitch family generally, eh? Questions asked in
the House. Why replace the present broad-minded and democratic form of
Government by an obsolete tyranny? Policy dictated by the blood-sucking
Capitalists. Down with the Government. That kind of thing—eh?”
Lomax nodded.
“And there might be worse still,” he breathed. “Suppose—only
suppose that some reference should be made to—to that unfortunate
disappearance—you know what I mean.”
Lord Caterham stared at him.
“No, I don’t. What disappearance?”
“You must have heard of it? Why, it happened while they were at
Chimneys. Henry was terribly upset about it. It almost ruined his
career.”
“You interest me enormously,” said Lord Caterham. “Who or what
disappeared?”
Lomax leant forward and put his mouth to Lord Caterham’s ear. The
latter withdrew it hastily.
“For God’s sake, don’t hiss at me.”
“You heard what I said?”
“Yes, I did,” said Lord Caterham reluctantly. “I remember now hearing
something about it at the time. Very curious affair. I wonder who did
it. It was never recovered?”
“Never. Of course we had to go about the matter with the utmost
discretion. No hint of the loss could be allowed to leak out. But
Stylptitch was there at the time. He knew something. Not all, but
something. We were at loggerheads with him once or twice over the
Turkish question. Suppose that in sheer malice he has set the whole
thing down for the world to read. Think of the scandal—of the
far-reaching results. Every one would say—why was it hushed up?”
“Of course they would,” said Lord Caterham, with evident enjoyment.
Lomax, whose voice had risen to a high pitch, took a grip on himself.
“I must keep calm,” he murmured. “I must keep calm. But I ask you
this, my dear fellow. If he didn’t mean mischief, why did he send the
manuscript to London in this roundabout way?”
“It’s odd, certainly. You are sure of your facts?”
“Absolutely. We—er—had our agents in Paris. The Memoirs were conveyed
away secretly some weeks before his death.”
“Yes, it looks as though there’s something in it,” said Lord Caterham,
with the same relish he had displayed before.
“We have found out that they were sent to a man called Jimmy, or James,
McGrath, a Canadian at present in Africa.”
“Quite an Imperial affair, isn’t it?” said Lord Caterham cheerily.
“James McGrath is due to arrive by the _Granarth Castle_
to-morrow—Thursday.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“We shall, of course, approach him at once, point out the possibly
serious consequences, and beg him to defer publication of the
Memoirs for at least a month, and in any case to permit them to be
judiciously—er—edited.”
“Supposing that he says ‘No, sir,’ or ‘I’ll goddarned well see you in
hell first,’ or something bright and breezy like that?” suggested Lord
Caterham.
“That’s just what I’m afraid of,” said Lomax simply. “That’s why it
suddenly occurred to me that it might be a good thing to ask him down
to Chimneys as well. He’d be flattered, naturally, at being asked to
meet Prince Michael, and it might be easier to handle him.”
“I’m not going to do it,” said Lord Caterham hastily. “I don’t get on
with Canadians, never did—especially those that have lived much in
Africa!”
“You’d probably find him a splendid fellow—a rough diamond, you know.”
“No, Lomax. I put my foot down there absolutely. Somebody else has got
to tackle him.”
“It has occurred to me,” said Lomax, “that a woman might be very useful
here. Told enough and not too much, you understand. A woman could
handle the whole thing delicately and with tact—put the position
before him, as it were, without getting his back up. Not that I approve
of women in politics—St. Stephen’s is ruined, absolutely ruined,
nowadays. But woman in her own sphere can do wonders. Look at Henry’s
wife and what she did for him. Marcia was magnificent, unique, a
perfect political hostess.”
“You don’t want me to ask Marcia down for this party, do you?” asked
Lord Caterham faintly, turning a little pale at the mention of his
redoubtable sister-in-law.
“No, no, you misunderstand me. I was speaking of the influence of women
in general. No, I suggest a young woman, a woman of charm, beauty,
intelligence?”
“Not Bundle? Bundle would be no use at all. She’s a red-hot socialist
if she’s anything at all, and she’d simply scream with laughter at the
suggestion.”
“I was not thinking of Lady Eileen. Your daughter, Caterham, is
charming, simply charming, but quite a child. We need some one with
_savoir faire_, poise, knowledge of the world—— Ah, of course, the
very person. My cousin Virginia.”
“Mrs. Revel?” Lord Caterham brightened up. He began to feel that he
might possibly enjoy the party after all. “A very good suggestion of
yours, Lomax. The most charming woman in London.”
“She is well up in Herzoslovakian affairs too. Her husband was at the
Embassy there, you remember. And, as you say, a woman of great personal
charm.”
“A delightful creature,” murmured Lord Caterham.
“That is settled, then.”
Mr. Lomax relaxed his hold on Lord Caterham’s lapel, and the latter was
quick to avail himself of the chance.
“Bye-bye, Lomax, you’ll make all the arrangements, won’t you.”
He dived into a taxi. As far as it is possible for one upright
Christian gentleman to dislike another upright Christian gentleman,
Lord Caterham disliked the Hon. George Lomax. He disliked his puffy red
face, his heavy breathing, and his prominent blue eyes. He thought of
the coming week and sighed. A nuisance, an abominable nuisance. Then he
thought of Virginia Revel and cheered up a little.
“A delightful creature,” he murmured to himself. “A most delightful
creature.”
4
Introducing a Very Charming Lady
George Lomax returned straightway to Whitehall. As he entered the
sumptuous apartment in which he transacted affairs of State, there was
a scuffling sound.
Mr. Bill Eversleigh was assiduously filing letters, but a large
arm-chair near the window was still warm from contact with a human form.
A very likeable young man, Bill Eversleigh. Age at a guess,
twenty-five, big and rather ungainly in his movements, a pleasurably
ugly face, a splendid set of white teeth and a pair of honest brown
eyes.
“Richardson sent up that report yet?”
“No, sir. Shall I get on to him about it?”
“It doesn’t matter. Any telephone messages?”
“Miss Oscar is dealing with most of them. Mr. Isaacstein wants to know
if you can dine with him at the Savoy to-morrow.”
“Tell Miss Oscar to look in my engagement-book. If I’m not engaged, she
can ring up and accept.”
“Yes, sir.”
“By the way, Eversleigh, you might ring up a number for me now. Look it
up in the book. Mrs. Revel, 487, Pont Street.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bill seized the telephone-book, ran an unseeing eye down a column of
M’s, shut the book with a bang and moved to the instrument on the desk.
With his hand upon it, he paused, as though in sudden recollection.
“Oh, I say, sir, I’ve just remembered. Her line’s out of order. Mrs.
Revel’s, I mean. I was trying to ring her up just now.”
George Lomax frowned.
“Annoying,” he said, “distinctly annoying.” He tapped the table
undecidedly.
“If it’s anything important, sir, perhaps I might go round there now in
a taxi. She’s sure to be in at this time in the morning.”
George Lomax hesitated, pondering the matter. Bill waited expectantly,
poised for instant flight, should the reply be favourable.
“Perhaps that would be the best plan,” said Lomax at last. “Very well,
then, take a taxi there, and ask Mrs. Revel if she will be at home this
afternoon at four o’clock as I am very anxious to see her about an
important matter.”
“Right, sir.”
Bill seized his hat and departed.
Ten minutes later, a taxi deposited him at 487, Pont Street. He rang
the bell and executed a loud rat-tat on the knocker. The door was
opened by a grave functionary to whom Bill nodded with the ease of long
acquaintance.
“Morning, Chilvers, Mrs. Revel in?”
“I believe, sir, that she is just going out.”
“Is that you, Bill?” called a voice over the banisters. “I thought I
recognized that muscular knock. Come up and talk to me.”
Bill looked up at the face that was laughing down on him, and which
was always inclined to reduce him—and not him alone—to a state of
babbling incoherency. He took the stairs two at a time and clasped
Virginia Revel’s out-stretched hands tightly in his.
“Hullo, Virginia!”
“Hullo, Bill!”
Charm is a very peculiar thing; hundreds of young women, some of them
more beautiful than Virginia Revel, might have said “Hullo, Bill,”
with exactly the same intonation, and yet have produced no effect
whatever. But those two simple words, uttered by Virginia, had the
most intoxicating effect upon Bill.
Virginia Revel was just twenty-seven. She was tall and of an exquisite
slimness—indeed, a poem might have been written to her slimness, it
was so exquisitely proportioned. Her hair was of real bronze, with the
greenish tint in its gold; she had a determined little chin, a lovely
nose, slanting blue eyes that showed a gleam of deepest cornflower
between the half-closed lids, and a delicious and quite indescribable
mouth that tilted ever so slightly at one corner in what is known as
“the signature of Venus.” It was a wonderfully expressive face, and
there was a sort of radiant vitality about her that always challenged
attention. It would have been quite impossible ever to ignore Virginia
Revel.
She drew Bill into the small drawing-room which was all pale and mauve
and green and yellow, like crocuses surprised in a meadow.
“Bill, darling,” said Virginia, “isn’t the Foreign Office missing you?
I thought they couldn’t get on without you.”
“I’ve brought a message for you from Codders.”
Thus irreverently did Bill allude to his chief.
“And by the way, Virginia, in case he asks, remember that your
telephone was out of order this morning.”
“But it hasn’t been.”
“I know that. But I said it was.”
“Why? Enlighten me as to this Foreign Office touch.”
Bill threw her a reproachful glance.
“So that I could get here and see you, of course.”
“Oh, darling Bill, how dense of me! And how perfectly sweet of you!”
“Chilvers said you were going out.”
“So I was—to Sloane Street. There’s a place there where they’ve got a
perfectly wonderful new hip band.”
“A hip band?”
“Yes, Bill, H.I.P. hip, B.A.N.D. band. A band to confine the hips. You
wear it next the skin.”
“I blush for you, Virginia. You shouldn’t describe your underwear to a
young man to whom you are not related. It isn’t delicate.”