“It was criminally careless of him. This will be a lesson to him. He will be more careful in future how he leaves Ogden at the mercy of anybody who cares to come along and snap him up.”
“Which, incidentally, does not make your chance of getting him away any lighter.”
“Oh, I’ve given up hope now,” said Mrs. Ford resignedly.
“I haven’t,” said Cynthia.
There was something in her voice which made her companion turn sharply and look at her. Mrs. Ford might affect to be resigned, but she was a woman of determination, and if the recent reverse had left her bruised, it had by no means crushed her.
“Cynthia! What do you mean? What are you hinting?”
“You despise amateurs, Nesta, but, for all that, it seems that your professionals who kidnap as a matter of course and all the rest of it have not been a bit more successful. It was not my want of experience that made me fail. It was my sex. This is man’s work. If I had been a man, I should at least have had brute force to fall back upon when Mr. Mennick arrived.”
Mrs. Ford nodded.
“Yes, but—”
“And,” continued Cynthia, “as all these Smooth Sam Fishers of yours have failed too, it is obvious that the only way to kidnap Ogden is from within. We must have some man working for us in the enemy’s camp.”
“Which is impossible,” said Mrs. Ford dejectedly.
“Not at all.”
“You know a man?”
“I know the man.”
“Cynthia! What do you mean? Who is he?”
“His name is Peter Burns.”
Mrs. Ford shook her head.
“I don’t know him.”
“I’ll introduce you. You’ll like him.”
“But, Cynthia, how do you know he would be willing to help us?”
“He would do it for me,” Cynthia paused. “You see,” she went on, “we are engaged to be married.”
“My dear Cynthia! Why did you not tell me? When did it happen?”
“Last night at the Fletchers’ dance.”
Mrs. Ford’s eyes opened.
“Last night! Were you at a dance last night? And two railway journeys today! You must be tired to death.”
“Oh, I’m all right, thanks. I suppose I shall be a wreck and not fit to be seen tomorrow, but just at present I feel as if nothing could tire me. It’s the effect of being engaged, perhaps.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Well, he’s rich, and good-looking, and amiable”—Cynthia ticked off these qualities on her fingers—“and I think he’s brave, and he’s certainly not so stupid as Mr. Broster.”
“And you’re very much in love with him?”
“I like him. There’s no harm in Peter.”
“You certainly aren’t wildly enthusiastic!”
“Oh, we shall hit it off quite well together. I needn’t pose to you, Nesta, thank goodness! That’s one reason why I’m fond of you. You know how I am situated. I’ve got to marry someone rich, and Peter’s quite the nicest rich man I’ve ever met. He’s really wonderfully unselfish. I can’t understand it. With his money, you would expect him to be a perfect horror.”
A thought seemed to strike Mrs. Ford.
“But, if he’s so rich—” she began. “I forget what I was going to say,” she broke off.
“Dear Nesta, I know what you were going to say. If he’s so rich, why should he be marrying me, when he could take his pick of half London? Well, I’ll tell you. He’s marrying me for one reason, because he’s sorry for me: for another, because I had the sense to make him. He didn’t think he was going to marry anyone. A few years ago he had a disappointment. A girl jilted him. She must have been a fool. He thought he was going to live the rest of his life alone with his broken heart. I didn’t mean to allow that. It’s taken a long time—over two years, from start to finish—but I’ve done it. He’s a sentimentalist. I worked on his sympathy, and last night I made him propose to me at the Fletchers’ dance.”
Mrs. Ford had not listened to these confidences unmoved. Several times she had tried to interrupt, but had been brushed aside. Now she spoke sharply.
“You know I was not going to say anything of the kind. And I don’t think you should speak in this horrible, cynical way of—of—”
She stopped, flushing. There were moments when she hated Cynthia. These occurred for the most part when the latter, as now, stirred her to an exhibition of honest feeling which she looked on as rather unbecoming. Mrs. Ford had spent twenty years trying to forget that her husband had married her from behind the counter of a general store in an Illinois village, and these lapses into the uncultivated genuineness of her girlhood made her uncomfortable.
“I wasn’t going to say anything of the kind,” she repeated.
Cynthia was all smiling good-humour.
“I know. I was only teasing you. ‘Stringing,’ they call it in your country, don’t they?”
Mrs. Ford was mollified.
“I’m sorry, Cynthia. I didn’t mean to snap at you. All the same …” She hesitated. What she wanted to ask smacked so dreadfully of Mechanicsville, Illinois. Yet she put the question bravely, for she was somehow feeling quite troubled about this unknown Mr. Burns. “Aren’t you really fond of him at all, Cynthia?”
Cynthia beamed.
“Of course I am! He’s a dear. Nothing would make me give him up. I’m devoted to old Peter. I only told you all that about him because it shows you how kindhearted he is. He’ll do anything for me. Well, shall I sound him about Ogden?”
The magic word took Mrs. Ford’s mind off the matrimonial future of Mr. Burns, and brought him into prominence in his capacity of knight-errant. She laughed happily. The contemplation of Mr. Burns as knight-errant healed the sting of defeat. The affair of Mr. Mennick began to appear in the light of a mere skirmish.
“You take my breath away!” she said. “How do you propose that Mr. Burns shall help us?”
“It’s perfectly simple. You heard Mr. Mennick read that telegram. Ogden is to be sent to a private school. Peter shall go there too.”
“But how? I don’t
