The Little Nugget

me. Ever since our talk had begun I had been trying to hurt her, trying to take a petty revenge on her⁠—for what? All that had happened five years ago had been my fault. I could not let her go like this. I felt unutterably mean.

“Audrey!” I called.

She stopped. I went to her.

“Audrey!” I said, “you’re wrong. If there’s anybody I hate, it’s myself. I just want to tell you I understand.”

Her lips parted, but she did not speak.

“I understand just what made you do it,” I went on. “I can see now the sort of man I was in those days.”

“You’re saying that to⁠—to help me,” she said in a low voice.

“No. I have felt like that about it for years.”

“I treated you shamefully.”

“Nothing of the kind. There’s a certain sort of man who badly needs a⁠—jolt, and he has to get it sooner or later. It happened that you gave me mine, but that wasn’t your fault. I was bound to get it⁠—somehow.” I laughed. “Fate was waiting for me round the corner. Fate wanted something to hit me with. You happened to be the nearest thing handy.”

“I’m sorry, Peter.”

“Nonsense. You knocked some sense into me. That’s all you did. Every man needs education. Most men get theirs in small doses, so that they hardly know they are getting it at all. My money kept me from getting mine that way. By the time I met you there was a great heap of back education due to me, and I got it in a lump. That’s all.”

“You’re generous.”

“Nothing of the kind. It’s only that I see things clearer than I did. I was a pig in those days.”

“You weren’t!”

“I was. Well, we won’t quarrel about it.”

Inside the house the bell rang for breakfast. We turned. As I drew back to let her go in, she stopped.

“Peter,” she said.

She began to speak quickly.

“Peter, let’s be sensible. Why should we let this embarrass us, this being together here? Can’t we just pretend that we’re two old friends who parted through a misunderstanding, and have come together again, with all the misunderstanding cleared away⁠—friends again? Shall we?”

She held out her hand. She was smiling, but her eyes were grave.

“Old friends, Peter?”

I took her hand.

“Old friends,” I said.

And we went in to breakfast. On the table, beside my plate, was lying a letter from Cynthia.

VI

I

I give the letter in full. It was written from the S.Y. Mermaid, lying in Monaco Harbour.

My dear Peter,⁠—Where is Ogden? We have been expecting him every day. Mrs. Ford is worrying herself to death. She keeps asking me if I have any news, and it is very tiresome to have to keep telling her that I have not heard from you. Surely, with the opportunities you must get every day, you can manage to kidnap him. Do be quick. We are relying on you.⁠—In haste,

Cynthia

I read this brief and businesslike communication several times during the day; and after dinner that night, in order to meditate upon it in solitude, I left the house and wandered off in the direction of the village.

I was midway between house and village when I became aware that I was being followed. The night was dark, and the wind moving in the treetops emphasized the loneliness of the country road. Both time and place were such as made it peculiarly unpleasant to hear stealthy footsteps on the road behind me.

Uncertainty in such cases is the unnerving thing. I turned sharply, and began to walk back on tiptoe in the direction from which I had come.

I had not been mistaken. A moment later a dark figure loomed up out of the darkness, and the exclamation which greeted me, as I made my presence known, showed that I had taken him by surprise.

There was a momentary pause. I expected the man, whoever he might be, to run, but he held his ground. Indeed, he edged forward.

“Get back!” I said, and allowed my stick to rasp suggestively on the road before raising it in readiness for any sudden development. It was as well that he should know it was there.

The hint seemed to wound rather than frighten him.

“Aw, cut out the rough stuff, bo,” he said reproachfully in a cautious, husky undertone. “I ain’t goin’ to start anything.”

I had an impression that I had heard the voice before, but I could not place it.

“What are you following me for?” I demanded. “Who are you?”

“Say, I want a talk wit youse. I took a slant at youse under de lamppost back dere, an’ I seen it was you, so I tagged along. Say, I’m wise to your game, sport.”

I had identified him by this time. Unless there were two men in the neighbourhood of Sanstead who hailed from the Bowery, this must be the man I had seen at the Feathers who had incurred the disapproval of Miss Benjafield.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” I said. “What is my game?”

His voice became reproachful again.

“Ah chee!” he protested. “Quit yer kiddin’! What was youse rubberin’ around de house for last night if you wasn’t trailin’ de kid?”

“Was it you who ran into me last night?” I asked.

“Gee! I t’ought it was a tree. I came near takin’ de count.”

“I did take it. You seemed in a great hurry.”

“Hell!” said the man simply, and expectorated.

“Say,” he resumed, having delivered this criticism on that stirring episode, “dat’s a great kid, dat Nugget. I t’ought it was a Black Hand soup explosion when he cut loose. But, say, let’s don’t waste time. We gotta get together about dat kid.”

“Certainly, if you wish it. What do you happen to mean?”

“Aw, quit yer kiddin’!” He expectorated again. He seemed to be a man who could express the whole gamut of emotions by this simple means. “I know you!”

“Then you have the advantage of me, though I believe I remember seeing you before. Weren’t you at the