“I will write you tomorrow,” he said conventionally.
“You will let me go?”
He smiled.
“You are certain to go, Miss Hacker. You need have no fear on the subject. I will send you on the contract—no, you had better come here and sign it.”
The girl ran down the stairs into Leicester Square, her heart singing. An engagement at three times bigger than the biggest salary she had ever received! She wanted to tell everybody about it, though she did not dream that in a few seconds she would babble her happiness to a man who at that moment was a perfect stranger.
He was a foreign-looking gentleman, well dressed and good-looking. He had the kind of face that appeals to children—an appeal that no psychologist has ever yet analysed.
She met him literally by accident. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs as she came down, and missing her footing she tell forward into his arms.
“I am ever so sorry,” she said with a smile.
“You don’t look very sorry,” smiled the man. “You look more like a person who had just got a very nice engagement to go abroad.”
She stared at him.
“However did you know that?”
“I know it because—well, I know,” he laughed, and apparently abandoning his intention of going upstairs, he turned and walked with her into the street.
“Yes, I am,” she nodded. “I’ve had a wonderful opportunity. Are you in the profession?”
“No, I’m not in the profession,” said Leon Gonsalez, “if you mean the theatrical profession, but I know the countries you’re going to rather well. Would you like to hear something about the Argentine?”
She looked at him dubiously.
“I should very much,” she hesitated, “but I—”
“I’m going to have a cup of tea, come along,” said Leon good-humouredly.
Though she had no desire either for tea or even for the interview (though she was dying to tell somebody) the magnetic personality of the man held her, and she fell in by his side. And at that very moment Mr. Lynne was saying to the dark-skinned man:
“Fonso! She’s a beaut!” and that staid man kissed the bunched tips of his fingers ecstatically.
This was the third time Leon Gonsalez had visited the elegant offices of Mr. Homer Lynne in Panton Street.
Once there was an organisation which was called the Four Just Men, and these had banded themselves together to execute justice upon those whom the law had missed, or passed by, and had earned for themselves a reputation which was worldwide. One had died, and of the three who were left, Poiccart (who had been called the brains of the four) was living quietly in Seville. To him had come a letter from a compatriot in Rio, a compatriot who did not identify him with the organisation of the Four Just Men, but had written vehemently of certain abominations. There had been an exchange of letters, and Poiccart had discovered that most of these fresh English girls who had appeared in the dance halls of obscure towns had been imported through the agency of the respectable Mr. Lynne, and Poiccart had written to his friends in London.
“Yes, it’s a beautiful country,” said Leon Gonsalez, stirring his tea thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re awfully pleased with yourself.”
“Oh, it’s wonderful,” said the girl. “Fancy, I’m going to receive £12 a week and my board and lodging. Why, I shall be able to save almost all of it.”
“Have you any idea where you will perform?”
The girl smiled.
“I don’t know the country,” she said, “and it’s dreadfully ignorant of me, but I don’t know one single town in the Argentine.”
“There aren’t many people who do,” smiled Leon, “but you’ve heard of Brazil, I suppose?”
“Yes, it’s a little country in South America,” she nodded, “I know that.”
“Where the nuts come from,” laughed Leon. “No, it’s not a little country in South America: it’s a country as wide as from here to the centre of Persia, and as long as from Brighton to the equator. Does that give you any idea?”
She stared at him.
And then he went on, but confined himself to the physical features of the subcontinent. Not once did he refer to her contract—that was not his object. That object was disclosed, though not to her, when he said:
“I must send you a book. Miss Hacker: it will interest you if you are going to the Argentine. It is full of very accurate information.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said gratefully. “Shall I give you my address?”
That was exactly what Leon had been fishing for. He put the scrap of paper she had written on into his pocketbook, and left her.
George Manfred, who had acquired a two-seater car, picked him up outside the National Gallery, and drove him to Kensington Gardens, the refreshment buffet of which, at this hour of the day, was idle. At one of the deserted tables Leon disclosed the result of his visit.
“It was singularly fortunate that I should have met one of the lambs.”
“Did you see Lynne himself?”
Leon nodded.
“After I left the girl I went up and made a call. It was rather difficult to get past the Mexican gentleman—Mandez I think his name is—into the sanctum but eventually Lynne saw me.”
He chuckled softly:
“I do not play on the banjo; I declare this to you, my dear George, in all earnestness. The banjo to me is a terrible instrument—”
“Which, means,” said Manfred with a smile, “that you described yourself as a banjo soloist who wanted a job in South America.”
“Exactly,” said Leon, “and I need hardly tell you that I was not engaged. The man is interesting, George.”
“All men are interesting to you, Leon,” laughed Manfred, putting aside the coffee he had ordered, and lighting a long, thin cigar.
“I should have loved to tell him that his true vocation was arson. He has the face of the true incendiary, and I tell you George, that Lombroso was never more accurate than when he described that type. A fair, dear, delicate skin, a plump, babylike face, hair extraordinarily fine: you can pick them out anywhere.”
He
