“Almost am I in a mind now to qualify my last remark.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette. “Who’s the lady?” His eyes eagerly awaited Carruthers’ reply.
“I perceive,” said the Major, “that amongst your other gifts you include an eye for beauty. That’s Sheila Delaney—and by way of being a very great favourite of mine, I may say! You see I have a taste in that respect too.”
“Tell me about her—I’m interested.”
“There’s not a great deal to tell,” rejoined Carruthers, “She’s the only child of the late Colonel Delaney of the Westhampton regiment. Her father died in 1917—he was drowned—poor chap, whilst home on leave from Gallipoli. When her mother died three years later she was left entirely alone in the world—except for an old nurse-companion who had lived with the Delaneys since Sheila’s birth. She lives a few miles out of Westhampton—at a charming little old-world place called Tranfield. Colonel Delaney left them pretty comfortably off in more ways than one. She’s always been rare ‘pals’ with me—I’m very flattered to think so—I regard it as a very fine type of compliment.” He puffed at his cigar.
“She’s certainly a very beautiful girl, Major! I’m glad now that I came, without any reservations—the beauty of the world always helps me to forget so much of the ugliness.”
Carruthers looked over his companion’s shoulder. “You don’t ask me about her dancing partner,” he ventured. The other man raised his eyes, turned deliberately and looked across to the other table—his eyes seeking the man who was in Sheila Delaney’s company. Apparently he saw little that he found of interest. “Seems to be quite an ordinary young fellow,” he murmured, “what am I expected to find about him that is extraordinary?”
Carruthers shifted in his chair, leaned across the table and spoke in an undertone. “I fancied his name might interest you—that was all.” He paused.
‘“His name?”
“Yes—that young fellow is Alan Warburton—nephew of Sir Felix Warburton.”
The tall man whistled softly. “Really now—and he’s here to-night, so soon after the scandal—I take it he must have a special interest in Miss Delaney!”
“I haven’t noticed it before,” replied Carruthers—“But of course, it wouldn’t surprise me—Sheila, as you may well imagine has hosts of admirers—so that one more won’t make a lot of difference. I fancy she relies on the safety that comes with numbers. As to his being here to-night—well—the young soon forget—you know.” He smiled across at the tall man.
“And forgive?” questioned the latter.
Before Carruthers could find time to frame a reply, a warning movement from his companion served to check him. The two young people that had been forming the subject of the discussion were on their way already almost abreast of the Major’s table. Carruthers smiled a greeting which Sheila Delaney was quick to return. As she did so, her eyes caught the frankly admiring glance of the Major’s companion. For a brief space their glances held each other and for the man concerned the world seemed suddenly to stand still. Then the girl’s eyes dropped demurely to her fan and she passed on—her hand on Alan Warburton’s arm and her cheeks aflame with an exquisitely entrancing blush. The tall man turned to the Chief Constable of Westhamptonshire.
“Do me a favour, Major,” he exclaimed with sudden impulse. “Please! As I said I withdraw those early remarks of mine, absolutely and unreservedly. Introduce me to Miss Delaney!”
Major Carruthers appeared to hesitate for a moment—then he looked up at the man that had made the request. “As—” he waited interrogatively for his companion to intervene.
“As Mr. X,” came the reply—immediately. “I prefer to retain my incognito—you know that.”
Carruthers caressed his cheek with his fingers. “I didn’t bargain for this when I brought you along—you know. And Sheila’s a thoroughbred—I shouldn’t like anything—”
His companion squared his shoulders with an unmistakable dignity. “There is more than one attribute of aristocracy, Major,” he murmured quietly. “I—of all people—”
Carruthers rose from his chair. “I know the truth of that,” he declared. “I’ve knocked about too much not to realise that. Come along—let’s find Sheila—time’s getting on.”
The other rose after him—debonair and distinguished—and followed him through the thronging press of dancers congregated in the vestibule of the ballroom. He looked at his watch. It showed a few minutes past ten.
“She’s dancing,” said the Major.
“Superbly too,” said the other.
The two men waited for the dance to finish. “Come,” said Carruthers, touching the other’s sleeve, “it’s now or never.”
Sheila Delaney saw them coming and did not wait for them to complete the distance of their approach. Instead she made her apologies to her young partner and came forward herself to meet them. Thus it was that the encounter materialised in the middle of the room.
“Sheila,” exclaimed Carruthers, “my friend here is something more than anxious to make your acquaintance. But for important reasons of his own, which must be nameless—he desires you to know him as Mr. X. Strictly speaking you see, he is not supposed to be here at all—therefore I submit to this whim of his.” He effected the introduction. “Talk to him for a few moments, Sheila,” he added, “you will find him as intriguing and as mysterious as the name under which he is temporarily cloaking his identity. I’ll return when I think you’ve been sufficiently entertained.” He waved his hand and slithered away across the dance-floor. Sheila Delaney looked at the man who had sought her out. He indicated two of the lounge seats that were arranged at the
