“I doubt if we shall have time to eat it all,” he said, “but fortunately the best things all come at the beginning.”
As he was peeling his second gull’s egg, Paul was called away to the telephone.
“Darling,” said Margot’s voice, “how are you? I’ve been so anxious all the time you were away. I had an awful feeling something was going to stop you coming back. Are you all right, dearest? Yes, I’m terribly well. I’m at home having luncheon in my bedroom and feeling, my dear, I can’t tell you how virginal, really and truly completely debutante. I hope you’ll like my frock. It’s Boulanger, darling; do you mind? Goodbye, my sweet. Don’t let Peter get too drunk, will you?”
Paul went back to the dining-room.
“I’ve eaten your eggs,” said Peter. “I just couldn’t help it.”
By two o’clock they had finished their luncheon. Mrs. Beste-Chetwynde’s second-best Hispano Suiza was waiting in Arlington Street.
“You must just have one more drink with me before you go,” said the best man; “there’s heaps of time.”
“I think perhaps it would be a mistake if I did,” said Peter.
Paul and his best man refilled their glasses with brandy.
“It is a funny thing,” said Alastair Digby-Vaine-Trumpington. “No one could have guessed that when I had the Boller blind in my rooms it was going to end like this.”
Paul turned the liqueur round in his glass, inhaled its rich bouquet for a second, and then held it before him.
“To Fortune,” he said, “a much-maligned lady!”
“Which of you gentlemen is Mr. Paul Pennyfeather?”
Paul put down his glass and turned to find an elderly man of military appearance standing beside him.
“I am,” he said. “But I’m afraid that, if you’re from the Press, I really haven’t time …”
“I’m Inspector Bruce, of Scotland Yard,” said the stranger. “Will you be so good as to speak to me for a minute outside?”
“Really, officer,” said Paul, “I’m in a great hurry. I suppose it’s about the men to guard the presents. You should have come to me earlier.”
“It’s not about presents, and I couldn’t have come earlier. The warrant for your arrest has only this minute been issued.”
“Look here,” said Alastair Digby-Vaine-Trumpington, “don’t be an ass. You’ve got the wrong man. They’ll laugh at you like blazes over this at Scotland Yard. This is the Mr. Pennyfeather who’s being married today.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Inspector Bruce. “All I know is, there’s a warrant out for his arrest, and that anything he says may be used as evidence against him. And as for you, young man, I shouldn’t attempt to obstruct an officer of the law, not if I was you.”
“It’s all some ghastly mistake,” said Paul. “I suppose I must go with this man. Try and get on to Margot and explain to her.”
Sir Alastair’s amiable pink face gaped blank astonishment. “Good God,” he said, “how damned funny! At least it would be at any other time.” But Peter, deadly white, had left the restaurant.
Part III
I
Stone Walls Do Not a Prison Make
Paul’s trial, which took place some weeks later at the Old Bailey, was a bitter disappointment to the public, the news editors and the jury and counsel concerned. The arrest at the Ritz, the announcement at St. Margaret’s that the wedding was postponed, Margot’s flight to Corfu, the refusal of bail, the meals sent in to Paul on covered dishes from Boulestin’s, had been “front-page stories” every day. After all this, Paul’s conviction and sentence were a lame conclusion. At first he pleaded guilty on all charges, despite the entreaties of his counsel, but eventually he was galvanized into some show of defence by the warning of the presiding judge that the law allowed punishment with the cat-o’-nine-tails for offences of this sort. Even then things were very flat. Potts as chief witness for the prosecution was unshakable, and was later warmly commended by the court; no evidence, except of previous good conduct, was offered by the defence; Margot Beste-Chetwynde’s name was not mentioned, though the judge in passing sentence remarked that “no one could be ignorant of the callous insolence with which, on the very eve of arrest for this most infamous of crimes, the accused had been preparing to join his name with one honoured in his country’s history, and to drag down to his own pitiable depths of depravity a lady of beauty, rank and stainless reputation. The just censure of society,” remarked the judge, “is accorded to those so inconstant and intemperate that they must take their pleasures in the unholy market of humanity that still sullies the fame of our civilization; but for the traders themselves, these human vampires who prey upon the degradation of their species, society had reserved the right of ruthless suppression.” So Paul was sent off to prison, and the papers headed the column they reserve for home events of minor importance with “Prison for Ex-society Bridegroom, Judge on Human Vampires,” and there, as far as the public were concerned, the matter ended.
Before this happened, however, a conversation took place which deserves the attention of all interested in the confused series of events of which Paul had become a part. One day, while he was waiting for trial, he was visited in his cell by Peter Beste-Chetwynde.
“Hullo!” he said.
“Hullo, Paul!” said Peter. “Mamma asked me to come in to see you. She wants to know if you are getting the food all right she’s ordered for you. I hope you like it, because I chose most of it myself. I thought you wouldn’t want anything very heavy.”
“It’s splendid,” said Paul. “How’s Margot?”
“Well, that’s rather what I’ve come to tell you, Paul. Margot’s gone away.”
“Where to?”
“She’s gone off alone to Corfu. I made her, though she wanted to stay and see your
