“You liked him so much,” she challenged, “that when he asked you to come to England and marry one of his relations, you promised–-“
“Not immediately,” he pleaded. “I made no promise for an awful long time. To tell you the truth, I thought he was mad.”
“But you did promise,” she insisted. “And shall I tell you something else you promised?”
He was silent.
“You told poor Mr Bray you would say nothing that would make the girl reject you and spoil his plans!”
Only for a moment was the bearded man embarrassed.
“Clairvoyance was never a favourite science with me,” he said. “It’s too near witchcraft. I knew an old woman up in Kung-chang-fu who–-“
“Don’t try to turn the subject, Mr Lynne. You promised Mr Bray that when his relations produced a girl of the family for you to marry, you would say nothing which would make her change her mind, that you would in fact express no unwillingness to marry.”
He fondled his invisible chin.
“Well, maybe you’re right,” he confessed. “But I’ve said nothing,” he added quickly. “Have I told you that I’m not a marrying man, and loathe the idea of matrimony? Have I told you how poor old Joe has blighted my young life? Have I gone on my knees and begged you to refuse me? Own up, Joan Bray!”
She shook her head; the smile that was in her eyes was now twitching at her lips.
“You’ve said nothing, but you’ve made yourself look a scarecrow.”
“And fearfully repulsive?” he asked hopefully.
She shook her head.
“Not quite. I’m going to marry you; I suppose you know that?”
The gloom in his face was such that she could have smacked him.
“I don’t want to marry you, of course,” she said tartly, “but there are—there are reasons.”
“Old Narth has forced you into it,” he said accusingly.
“Just as old Mr Bray forced you into it,” she replied at once. “It is a queer position, and it would be tragic if it wasn’t laughable. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but there’s one thing I wish you to do.”
“What is that?” he asked.
“Go to a barber’s and have that ridiculous beard shaved,” she said. “I want to see what you look like.”
He sighed wearily.
“In that case I’m booked,” he said. “Once you see my face you will never, never give me up. I was the best- looking man in China.”
He held out his hand.
“Congratulations,” he said simply, and she dissolved into laughter, and was still laughing when she came up the drive and met Mr Narth’s suspicious frown.
CHAPTER NINE
“What is amusing you?” asked Stephen, who at the moment had good reason for being anything but amused.
“I’ve just been talking to my—fiance,” she said, and Stephen’s face cleared.
“Oh, the wild man!” he said.
He had a letter in his hand. The morning post came early at Sunningdale.
“Joan, I want you to come to the City today—to lunch.”
This was a surprising invitation. As a rule when she went to the City she lunched alone.
“A little bit of a lunch in the office,” he said awkwardly. “And I want you to meet a friend of mine—er—a rather brilliant fellow, an Oxford graduate and all that sort of thing.”
His manner rather than his words puzzled her. He was so obviously ill at ease that she could only wonder at the cause of his embarrassment.
“Is Letty coming?” she asked.
“No, no,” he said quickly. “Only you and I and my—um—friend. I suppose you’ve none of those stupid prejudices against—er—foreigners?”
“Foreigners? Why, no—you mean he isn’t European?”
“Yes,” said Mr Narth, and coughed. “He is Asiatic; in point of fact, he’s a Chinaman. But he’s an awfully important person in his own country, my dear, a mandarin or a governor or something, and a perfect gentleman. I wouldn’t ask you to meet anybody I shouldn’t care to meet myself.”
“Why, of course, Mr Narth, if you wish me to…”
“His name is Grahame St Clay. He has large commercial interests both in this country and abroad.”
Grahame St Clay?
Where she had heard that name before, she could not for the moment recall. She asked a question as to the hour and went into the house, wondering for what especial reason she had been chosen as Mr Narth’s luncheon guest and why he was so anxious for her to meet his new acquaintance. She had never heard the name before until–-
Try as she did, she could not remember when it had been mentioned.
Mr Narth, somewhat relieved, went back to the library and read the letter again. This was the first consequence of his loan, and already he was regretting a transaction which gave a Chinaman the right of addressing him as ‘My dear Narth.’ There were only a dozen lines of neat writing:
Since I met you today, I have heard that your niece, Miss Joan Bray has become engaged to Clifford Lynne, whom I know slightly. I should very much like to meet this young lady. Won’t you either bring her to lunch at the Albemarle, or, if it is more convenient to you, to the City? Perhaps you would fix your own time and place. Please arrange this and telephone me as soon as you get to your office.
The letter had been expressed and posted in London the night before, and the tone of assurance which St Clay had adopted was particularly irritating to a man of Narth’s susceptibilities. To do full justice to his character, it may be said in truth that he had no very strong objection to Joan meeting the man. Where Joan was concerned he took a broad view. Had it been Letty or Mabel, he might have felt differently—but it was Joan.
But, being strangely minded, he was by no means anxious to be seen in public lunching with an Oriental, and for that reason had decided that the meal should be in the boardroom, where he had given many little repasts to his business associates.
When he reached his office that morning he found Major Spedwell waiting for him, and that military gentleman was less saturnine than usual.
“I’ve just seen St Clay,” he said. “Have you fixed that luncheon for him? He’s rather keen on it.”
“Why?” asked Narth.
Spedwell shrugged his shoulders.
“God knows. He’s a queer bird, St Clay. He’s as generous as a prince—don’t forget that, Narth. You’ll find him a very useful man.”
“What is he in?” asked Narth.
“Business, you mean? He’s in all sorts of things. He’s got a big factory at Peckham, but he has other means as well. You’re in luck, Narth; he’s taken a liking to you.”
“Oh!” grunted the other; he was by no means enthusiastic.
Spedwell was looking at him with a queer, dry smile on his unprepossessing face.
“You’ve led a quiet sort of life, haven’t you, Narth? I mean the kind of life that the average City man has. You’ve never gone in for adventure or bloodshed, or things of that sort?”
“Good heavens, no!” said Stephen Narth, staring at him. “Why?”
“I only asked,” said the other indifferently. “Only—you can’t expect to be a gentle crook all the days of your life.”
“‘Crook’ isn’t a word I like, Spedwell,” said Stephen sharply.
“I didn’t suppose it was,” said the other with cool indifference. “I’m merely pointing out the impossibility of getting away with—everything by sitting down in an easy chair and thinking out new ramps. There’s no sense in getting up in the air about it, Narth. We’re men of the world, and we understand that Narth Brothers has been a
