“A sad case, brother,” said Grimes, “truly a sad case. Prendy, do you realize that in two minutes the bell will go for Prep. and you’re on duty?”
“Ding, dong, dell! Pussy’s in the well.”
“Prendy, that’s irrelevant.”
“I know several songs about bells. Funeral bells, wedding bells, sacring bells, sheep-bells, fire-bells, doorbells, dumbbells and just plain bells.”
Paul and Grimes looked at each other sadly.
“It seems to me,” said Paul, “that one of us will have to take Prep. for him tonight.”
“No, no, old boy; that’ll be all right,” said Grimes. “You and I are off to Mrs. Roberts’. Prendy gives me a thirst.”
“But we can’t leave him like this.”
“He’ll be all right. The little beasts can’t make any more noise than they do usually.”
“You don’t think the old man will find him?”
“Not a chance.”
The bell rang. Mr. Prendergast jumped to his feet, straightened his wig and steadied himself gravely against the chimneypiece.
“There’s a good chap,” said Grimes gently. “Just you trot down the passage to the little boys and have a good nap.”
Singing quietly to himself, Mr. Prendergast sauntered down the passage.
“I hope he’s none the worse for this,” said Grimes. “You know, I feel quite fatherly towards old Prendy. He did give it to that blackamoor about Church architecture, bless him.”
Arm in arm they went down the main avenue towards the inn.
“Mrs. Beste-Chetwynde asked me to call on her in London,” said Paul.
“Did she? Well, just you go. I’ve never been much of a one for society and the smart set myself, but if you like that sort of thing, Mrs. Beste-Chetwynde is the goods all right. Never open a paper but there’s a photograph of her at some place or other.”
“Does she photograph well?” asked Paul. “I should rather think that she would.”
Grimes looked at him narrowly. “Fair to middling. Why the sudden interest?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I was just wondering.”
At Mrs. Roberts’ they found the Llanabba Silver Band chattering acrimoniously over the division of the spoils.
“All the afternoon the band I have led in ‘Men of Harlech’ and sacred music too look you and they will not give me a penny more than themselves whatever. The college gentleman whatever if it is right I ask,” said the stationmaster, “me with a sister-in-law to support too look you.”
“Now don’t bother, old boy,” said Grimes, “because, if you do, I’ll tell your pals about the extra pound you got out of the Doctor.”
The discussion was resumed in Welsh, but it was clear that the stationmaster was slowly giving way.
“That’s settled him all right. Take my tip, old boy: never get mixed up in a Welsh wrangle. It doesn’t end in blows, like an Irish one, but goes on forever. They’ll still be discussing that three pounds at the end of term; just you see.”
“Has Mr. Beste-Chetwynde been dead long?” asked Paul.
“I shouldn’t say so; why?”
“I was just wondering.”
They sat for some time smoking in silence.
“If Beste-Chetwynde is fifteen,” said Paul, “that doesn’t necessarily make her more than thirty-three, does it?”
“Old boy,” said Grimes, “you’re in love.”
“Nonsense!”
“Smitten?” said Grimes.
“No, no.”
“The tender passion?”
“No.”
“Cupid’s jolly little darts?”
“No.”
“Spring fancies, love’s young dream?”
“Nonsense!”
“Not even a quickening of the pulse?”
“No.”
“A sweet despair?”
“Certainly not.”
“A trembling hope?”
“No.”
“A frisson? a je ne sais quoi?”
“Nothing of the sort.”
“Liar!” said Grimes.
There was another long pause. “Grimes,” said Paul at length, “I wonder if you can be right?”
“Sure of it, old boy. Just you go in and win. Here’s to the happy pair! May all your troubles be little ones.”
In a state of mind totally new to him, Paul accompanied Grimes back to the Castle. Prep. was over. Mr. Prendergast was leaning against the fireplace with a contented smile on his face.
“Hullo, Prendy, old wineskin! How are things with you?”
“Admirable,” said Mr. Prendergast. “I have never known them better. I have just caned twenty-three boys.”
XI
Philbrick—Continued
Next day Mr. Prendergast’s self-confidence had evaporated.
“Head hurting?” asked Grimes.
“Well, as a matter of fact, it is rather.”
“Eyes tired? Thirsty?”
“Yes, a little.”
“Poor old Prendy! Don’t I know? Still, it was worth it, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t remember very clearly all that happened, but I walked back to the Castle with Philbrick, and he told me all about his life. It appears he is really a rich man and not a butler at all.”
“I know,” said Paul and Grimes simultaneously.
“You both knew? Well, it came as a great surprise to me, although I must admit I had noticed a certain superiority in his manner. But I find almost everyone like that. Did he tell you his whole story—about his shooting the Portuguese Count and everything?”
“No, he didn’t tell me that,” said Paul.
“Shooting a Portuguese count? Are you sure you’ve got hold of the right end of the stick, old boy?”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure of it. It impressed me very much. You see Philbrick is really Sir Solomon Philbrick, the shipowner.”
“The novelist, you mean,” said Grimes.
“The retired burglar,” said Paul.
The three masters looked at each other.
“Old boys, it seems to me someone’s been pulling our legs.”
“Well, this is the story that he told me,” continued Mr. Prendergast. “It all started from our argument about Church architecture with the black man. Apparently Philbrick has a large house in Carlton House Terrace.”
“Camberwell Green.”
“Cheyne Walk.”
“Well, I’m telling you what he told me. He has a house in Carlton House Terrace. I remember the address well because a sister of Mrs. Crump’s was once governess in a house in the same row, and he used to live there with an actress who, I regret to say, was not his wife. I forget her name, but I know it is a particularly famous one. He was sitting in the Athenaeum Club one day when the Archbishop of Canterbury approached him and said that the Government were anxious to make him a peer, but that it was impossible while he lived a life of such open irregularity. Philbrick turned down the offer. He is a Roman Catholic, I forgot to tell you. But all that doesn’t really explain why he is
