‘And I will wish you good-evening.’
One quick spring and he was inside, his foot on the clutch. The car started forward. Gerald stood paralysed, but the girl was quicker. As the car slid past she leapt for it, alighting on the running board.
The car swerved, shot blindly round the corner and pulled up. Noreen, still panting from her spring, laid her hand on Edward’s arm.
‘You must give it me—oh, you must give it me. I’ve got to return it to Agnes Larella. Be a sport—we’ve had a good evening together—we’ve danced—we’ve been—pals. Won’t you give it to me? To me?’
A woman who intoxicated you with her beauty. There were such women then . . .
Also, Edward was only too anxious to get rid of the necklace. It was a heaven-sent opportunity for a beau geste.
He took it from his pocket and dropped it into her outstretched hand.
‘We’ve been—pals,’ he said.
‘Ah!’ Her eyes smouldered—lit up.
Then surprisingly she bent her head to him. For a moment he held her, her lips against his . . .
Then she jumped off. The scarlet car sped forward with a great leap.
Romance!
Adventure!
At twelve o’clock on Christmas Day, Edward Robinson strode into the tiny drawing-room of a house in Clapham with the customary greeting of ‘Merry Christmas’.
Maud, who was rearranging a piece of holly, greeted him coldly.
‘Have a good day in the country with that friend of yours?’ she inquired.
‘Look here,’ said Edward. ‘That was a lie I told you. I won a competition—£500, and I bought a car with it. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d kick up a row about it. That’s the first thing. I’ve bought the car and there’s nothing more to be said about it. The second thing is this—I’m not going to hang about for years. My prospects are quite good enough and I mean to marry you next month. See?’
‘Oh!’ said Maud faintly.
Was this—could this be—Edward speaking in this masterful fashion?
‘Will you?’ said Edward. ‘Yes or no?’
She gazed at him, fascinated. There was awe and admiration in her eyes, and the sight of that look was intoxicating to Edward. Gone was that patient motherliness which had roused him to exasperation.
So had the Lady Noreen looked at him last night. But the Lady Noreen had receded far away, right into the region of Romance, side by side with the Marchesa Bianca. This was the Real Thing. This was his woman.
‘Yes or no?’ he repeated, and drew a step nearer.
‘Ye—ye-es,’ faltered Maud. ‘But, oh, Edward, what has happened to you? You’re quite different today.’
‘Yes,’ said Edward. ‘For twenty-four hours I’ve been a man instead of a worm—and, by God, it pays!’
He caught her in his arms almost as Bill the superman might have done.
‘Do you love me, Maud? Tell me, do you love me?’
‘Oh, Edward!’ breathed Maud. ‘I adore you . . .’
Christmas Adventure
The big logs crackled merrily in the wide, open fireplace, and above their crackling rose the babel of six tongues all wagging industriously together. The house-party of young people were enjoying their Christmas.
Old Miss Endicott, known to most of those present as Aunt Emily, smiled indulgently on the clatter.
‘Bet you you can’t eat six mince-pies, Jean.’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘You’ll get the pig out of the trifle if you do.’
‘Yes, and three helps of trifle, and two helps of plum-pudding.’
‘I hope the pudding will be good,’ said Miss Endicott apprehensively. ‘But they were only made three days ago. Christmas puddings ought to be made a long time before Christmas. Why, I remember when I was a child, I thought the last Collect before Advent—‘Stir up, O Lord, we beseech Thee . . .’—referred in some way to stirring up the Christmas puddings!’
There was a polite pause while Miss Endicott was speaking. Not because any of the young people were in the least interested in her reminiscences of bygone days, but because they felt that some show of attention was due by good manners to their hostess. As soon as she stopped, the babel burst out again. Miss Endicott sighed, and glanced towards the only member of the party whose years approached her own, as though in search of sympathy—a little man with a curious egg-shaped head and fierce upstanding moustaches. Young people were not what they were, reflected Miss Endicott. In olden days there would have been a mute, respectful circle, listening to the pearls of wisdom dropped by their elders. Instead of which there was all this nonsensical chatter, most of it utterly incomprehensible. All the same, they were dear children! Her eyes softened as she passed them in review—tall, freckled Jean; little Nancy Cardell, with her dark, gipsy beauty; the two younger boys home from school, Johnnie and Eric, and their friend, Charlie Pease; and fair, beautiful Evelyn Haworth . . . At thought of the last, her brow contracted a little, and her eyes wandered to where her eldest nephew, Roger, sat morosely silent, taking no part in the fun, with his eyes fixed on the exquisite Northern fairness of the young girl.
‘Isn’t the snow ripping?’ cried Johnnie, approaching the window. ‘Real Christmas weather. I say, let’s have a snowball fight. There’s lots of time before dinner, isn’t there, Aunt Emily?’
‘Yes, my dear. We have it at two o’clock. That reminds me, I had better see to the table.’
She hurried out of the room.
‘I tell you what. We’ll make a snowman!’ screamed Jean.
‘Yes, what fun! I know; we’ll do a snow statue of M. Poirot. Do you hear, M. Poirot? The great detective, Hercule Poirot, modelled in snow, by six celebrated artists!’
The little man in the chair bowed his acknowledgements with a twinkling eye.
‘Make him very handsome, my children,’ he urged. ‘I insist on that.’
‘Ra-ther!’
The troop disappeared like a whirlwind, colliding in the doorway with a stately butler who was entering with a note on a salver. The butler, his calm re-established, advanced towards Poirot.
Poirot took the note and tore it open. The butler departed. Twice
