He went back to his rooms in Jermyn Street and summoned his man.
“Take this cheque, Pavett, cash it first thing in the morning, and go round to Cook in Piccadilly. They will have some tickets there booked in your name, pay for them, and bring them back.”
“Very good, sir.”
Pavett withdrew.
Derek strolled over to a side-table and picked up a handful of letters. They were of a type only too familiar. Bills, small bills and large bills, one and all pressing for payment. The tone of the demands was still polite. Derek knew how soon that polite tone would change if—if certain news became public property.
He flung himself moodily into a large, leather-covered chair. A damned hole—that was what he was in. Yes, a damned hole! And ways of getting out of that damned hole were not too promising.
Pavett appeared with a discreet cough.
“A gentleman to see you—sir—Major Knighton.”
“Knighton, eh?”
Derek sat up, frowned, became suddenly alert. He said in a softer tone, almost to himself: “Knighton—I wonder what is in the wind now?”
“Shall I—er—show him in, sir?”
His master nodded. When Knighton entered the room he found a charming and genial host awaiting him.
“Very good of you to look me up,” said Derek.
Knighton was nervous.
The other’s keen eyes noticed that at once. The errand on which the secretary had come was clearly distasteful to him. He replied almost mechanically to Derek’s easy flow of conversation. He declined a drink, and, if anything, his manner became stiffer than before. Derek appeared at last to notice it.
“Well,” he said cheerfully, “what does my esteemed father-in-law want with me? You have come on his business, I take it?”
Knighton did not smile in reply.
“I have, yes,” he said carefully. “I—I wish Mr. Van Aldin had chosen someone else.”
Derek raised his eyebrows in mock dismay.
“Is it as bad as all that? I am not very thin skinned, I can assure you, Knighton.”
“No,” said Knighton; “but this—”
He paused.
Derek eyed him keenly.
“Go on, out with it,” he said kindly. “I can imagine my dear father-in-law’s errands might not always be pleasant ones.”
Knighton cleared his throat. He spoke formally in tones that he strove to render free of embarrassment.
“I am directed by Mr. Van Aldin to make you a definite offer.”
“An offer?” For a moment Derek showed his surprise. Knighton’s opening words were clearly not what he had expected. He offered a cigarette to Knighton, lit one himself, and sank back in his chair, murmuring in a slightly sardonic voice:
“An offer? That sounds rather interesting.”
“Shall I go on?”
“Please. You must forgive my surprise, but it seems to me that my dear father-in-law has rather climbed down since our chat this morning. And climbing down is not what one associates with strong men, Napoleons of finance, etc. It shows—I think it shows that he finds his position weaker than he thought it.”
Knighton listened politely to the easy, mocking voice, but no sign of any kind showed itself on his rather stolid countenance. He waited until Derek had finished, and then he said quietly:
“I will state the proposition in the fewest possible words.”
“Go on.”
Knighton did not look at the other. His voice was curt and matter-of-fact.
“The matter is simply this. Mrs. Kettering, as you know, is about to file a petition for divorce. If the case goes undefended you will receive one hundred thousand on the day that the decree is made absolute.”
Derek, in the act of lighting his cigarette, suddenly stopped dead. “A hundred thousand!” he said sharply. “Dollars?”
“Pounds.”
There was dead silence for at least two minutes. Kettering had his brows together thinking. A hundred thousand pounds. It meant Mirelle and a continuance of his pleasant, careless life. It meant that Van Aldin knew something. Van Aldin did not pay for nothing. He got up and stood by the chimneypiece.
“And in the event of my refusing his handsome offer?” he asked, with a cold, ironical politeness.
Knighton made a deprecating gesture.
“I can assure you, Mr. Kettering,” he said earnestly, “that it is with the utmost unwillingness that I came here with this message.”
“That’s all right,” said Kettering. “Don’t distress yourself; it’s not your fault. Now then—I asked you a question, will you answer it?”
Knighton also rose. He spoke more reluctantly than before.
“In the event of your refusing this proposition,” he said, “Mr. Van Aldin wished me to tell you in plain words that he proposes to break you. Just that.”
Kettering raised his eyebrows, but he retained his light, amused manner.
“Well, well!” he said, “I suppose he can do it. I certainly should not be able to put up much of a fight against America’s man of many millions. A hundred thousand! If you are going to bribe a man there is nothing like doing it thoroughly. Supposing I were to tell you that for two hundred thousand I’d do what he wanted, what then?”
“I would take your message back to Mr. Van Aldin,” said Knighton unemotionally. “Is that your answer?”
“No,” said Derek; “funnily enough it is not. You can go back to my father-in-law and tell him to take himself and his bribes to hell. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” said Knighton. He got up, hesitated, and then flushed. “I—you will allow me to say, Mr. Kettering, that I am glad you have answered as you have.”
Derek did not reply. When the other had left the room he remained for a minute or two lost in thought. A curious smile came to his lips.
“And that is that,” he said softly.
X
On the Blue Train
“Dad!”
Mrs. Kettering started violently. Her nerves were not completely under control this morning. Very perfectly dressed in a long mink coat and a little hat of Chinese lacquer
