Prelude For War

She seemed to be begging him to reassure her that Kennet had not committed suicide; there were actually tears in her eyes. Simon was puzzled.

'No, he didn't commit suicide,' he answered. 'I'll bet anything on that. But why should you think of it?'

'Well, we did have the most awful row,' and—and I swore I'd never speak to him again, and he seemed to take it rather to heart. Of course I didn't really mean it, but I was getting awfully fed up with the whole silly business, and he was being terribly stupid and awkward and unreason­able.'

'Were you engaged to him, or something like that?'

'Oh no. Of course he may have thought . . . But then, nobody takes those things seriously. Oh, damn! It's all so hopelessly foul and horrible, and all just because of a silly bet.'

'So he may have thought you were in love with him. You'd let him think so. Is that it?' Simon persisted.

'Yes, I suppose so, if you put it that way. But what else could I do?'

She stared at him indignantly, as if she were denying a thoroughly unjust accusation.

'I bet you wouldn't see a thousand-guinea fur coat that you were simply aching to have go slipping away just because you couldn't make a bit of an effort with a man,' she said vehemently. 'And it was in a good cause, too.'

The Saint smiled sympathetically. He still hadn't much idea what she was talking about, but he knew with a tumul­tuous certainty that he was getting somewhere. Out of all that confusion something clear and revealing must emerge within another minute or two—if only luck gave him that other minute. He was aware that his pulses were beating a shade faster.

'Was John going to give you a fur coat?' he inquired.

'John? My dear, don't be ridiculous. John would never have given me a fur coat. Why, he never even took me anywhere in a taxi.'

She paused.

'He wasn't mean,' she added quickly. 'You mustn't think that. He was terribly generous, really, even though he didn't have much money. But he used to spend it all on frightfully earnest things, like books and lectures and Brotherhood of Man leagues and all that sort of thing.' She shook her head dejectedly. 'He used to work so hard and study such a lot and have such impossible ideals, and now ... If only he'd had a good time first, it wouldn't seem quite so bad somehow,' she said chokingly. 'But he just wouldn't have a good time. He was much too earnest.'

'He probably enjoyed himself in his own way,' said the Saint consolingly. 'But about this fur coat. Where was that coming from?'

'Oh, that was Mr Fairweather,' she answered. 'Of course he's got simply lashings of money; a thousand guineas is simply nothing to him. You see, he thought it would be quite a good thing if John became reconciled with his father and stopped being stupid, and then he thought that if John was engaged to me—only in a sort of unofficial way, of course—I could make him stop being stupid. So he bet me a thousand-guinea fur coat to see if I could do it. So of course I had to try.'

'Did you have any luck?'

She shook her head.

'No. He was terribly obstinate and silly. I wanted him to have a good time and forget all his stupid ideas, but he just wouldn't. Instead of enjoying himself like an ordinary person he'd just sit and talk to me for hours, and some­times he'd bring along a fellow called Windlay that he lived with, and then they'd both talk to me.'