“Why, she’s a goddess!” Reggie said.
“Oh, dear, no,” said Miss Lomas. “That’s Hilda Crowland. Alice is the little one.”
“Let’s go and look at the basket ball,” Reggie suggested, and to do that walked across the field on a line which brought them for a moment face to face with little Alice Warenne. She was a tiny creature, and had appropriately a round baby face. She was dark and plump and dimpled. But although her hair was not yet up, she need not have been younger than her magnificent companion.
Reggie Fortune’s interest in basket ball was soon exhausted. They went back across the field at an angle which brought them again face to face with Alice Warenne and her imposing friend, and while they passed, Reggie (rather loudly) was asking Miss Lomas questions about the school games and the school timetable. As soon as they were out of hearing of the two girls he broke this off with a sharp, “Great friends arc they, those two?”
“They are always together,” Miss Lomas admitted.
“And who is the magnificent creature?”
“Hilda Crowland? Why, she’s been with me for years.”
“And she’s the bosom friend of this girl, who’s only been here a couple of months!”
“Now you mention it, that is odd, Mr. Fortune.”
“Oh, Lord, everything’s odd!” Reggie said irritably. “Who is Hilda Crowland?”
“Well, her mother is a widow and very well off, I believe. She lives in Cornwall. Hilda came to me through Lady de Burgh. Of course you understand, Mr. Fortune, that that implies irreproachable family connections.”
“I dare say. I dare say. Well, Miss Lomas, it’s a queer case. I will take it up and go into it further. Something is being planned rather elaborately in which your school, probably a girl in your school, is concerned. It may be a matter outside your responsibilities. It may be something unpleasant.”
“Good gracious, Mr. Fortune, what do you suggest?” Miss Lomas was rather excited than alarmed.
“I don’t suggest anything. I have no information. The trouble is, Miss Lomas, you know nothing about your girls.”
“Really, Mr. Fortune! As I have told you, I insist upon—”
“Good references. Anybody can find good references. Did your brother never tell you about the Prime Minister’s butler? He came from an Archbishop.”
“Is there anything you advise me to do?”
“Be ordinary. Absolutely ordinary. I shall stay in Tormouth at present. I’m at the Bristol.”
So he left Miss Lomas rather ruffled, but under that deeply gratified, because her case really was a serious case, her acumen was vindicated, her brother put to shame. Her school found her more masterful than ever.
Reggie’s room at the Bristol had a balcony which looked on the sea. There he sat before an empty plate which had held muffins, and lit one of his largest cigars. “Now where the devil have I seen that little minx before?” said he.
Upon that question he concentrated his mind, and (omitting the adventures into blind alleys) his thoughts were like this: “Typewriting … why does sweet Alice suggest typewriting? … mes petites manches de satinette … my little satinette sleeves … now what in wonder is that? … Oh, my aunt! She was the demure little typist in that play at the Variétés last year. What was her name? Alice Ducher! … Oh, Peter! A soubrette from the Variétés in a blameless English girls’ school! Ye stately homes of England! Give me air!”
He took from his pocket the Hottentot Venus and contemplated her severely. “I don’t know which of you is worse, darling,” he said. “You or Mlle. Ducher. What are you at, anyway? Lord, I wouldn’t have thought she had anything to do with palaeolithic dolls! What’s the connection, darling?” The Hottentot Venus was naturally silent.
Reggie sighed and put her away, and began to contemplate the beauties of nature. Tormouth, you know, is placed upon an agreeable bay, its sands are white, and its headlands of a dark rock which in a flood of sunshine discover gleams of crystal amid a reddish glow. So Reggie saw them as the western sky grew crimson and the flood-tide sparkled in a thousand golden jewels. A delectable scene. It was laborious to go on thinking. Tormouth is an anchorage favoured by yachts, and though it was early summer two or three white craft lay out in the bay. Reggie went into his room and came out again to the balcony with a binocular. The influence of the evening was upon him and he felt a need of futile diversion. He focused the glasses upon the yachts. There was a big schooner and two steamboats—one a small packet with the white ensign of the R.Y.S., the other a big craft under the Italian flag. He could not make out the names.
A waiter came to take his tea away. “I want the local paper. And do you keep Shearn’s Yacht List?”
Both were brought. The yachts in Tormouth Bay were reported as Sheila, Lorna, and Giulia. He turned them up in the list and whistled. The owner of the Giulia was the Prince of Ragusa.
“This is getting relevant,” said he.
The Prince of Ragusa, hereditary ruler of some ten square miles and fabulously wealthy, was known to the learned as a zealous archaeologist. He was one of the half-dozen men in the world whose collection might contain a Hottentot Venus. But, unless his reputation belied him, he was very unlikely to know or care anything about a soubrette from Paris. And why should he send his Hottentot Venus to a girls’ school?
“Still several unknown quantities,” Reggie reflected. And yet there was the Hottentot Venus in the Tormouth school and there off Tormouth lay the Prince of Ragusa. “I think we’ll make Brer Lomas sit up and take notice,” said Reggie, and devoted himself to the composition of Latin prose. Thus:
“De academia
