“I wasn’t looking on it exactly as an offer,” said the Mayor, thoughtfully. “More as a command, if you get my meaning.”
“You imagine that you can bend a lens-artist to your will and make him false to his professional reputation?”
“I was thinking of having a try.”
“Do you realize that, if my incarceration here were known, ten thousand photographers would tear this house brick from brick and you limb from limb?”
“But it isn’t,” the Mayor pointed out. “And that, if you follow me, is the whole point. You came here by night in a closed car. You could stay here for the rest of your life, and no one would be any the wiser. I really think you had better reconsider, Mr. Mulliner.”
“You have had my answer.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to think it over. Dinner will be served at seven-thirty. Don’t bother to dress.” At half past seven precisely the door opened again and the Mayor reappeared, followed by a butler bearing on a silver salver a glass of water and a small slice of bread. Pride urged Clarence to reject the refreshment, but hunger overcame pride. He swallowed the bread which the butler offered him in small bits in a spoon, and drank the water.
“At what hour would the gentleman desire breakfast, sir?” asked the butler.
“Now,” said Clarence, for his appetite, always healthy, seemed to have been sharpened by the trials which he had undergone.
“Let us say nine o’clock,” suggested the Mayor. “Put aside another slice of that bread, Meadows. And no doubt Mr. Mulliner would enjoy a glass of this excellent water.”
For perhaps half an hour after his host had left him, Clarence’s mind was obsessed to the exclusion of all other thoughts by a vision of the dinner he would have liked to be enjoying. All we Mulliners have been good trenchermen, and to put a bit of bread into it after it had been unoccupied for a whole day was to offer to Clarence’s stomach an insult which it resented with an indescribable bitterness. Clarence’s only emotion for some considerable time, then, was that of hunger. His thoughts centred themselves on food. And it was to this fact, oddly enough, that he owed his release.
For, as he lay there in a sort of delirium, picturing himself getting outside a medium-cooked steak smothered in onions, with grilled tomatoes and floury potatoes on the side, it was suddenly borne in upon him that this steak did not taste quite so good as other steaks which he had eaten in the past. It was tough and lacked juiciness. It tasted just like rope.
And then, his mind clearing, he saw that it actually was rope. Carried away by the anguish of hunger, he had been chewing the cord which bound his hands; and he now discovered that he had bitten into it quite deeply.
A sudden flood of hope poured over Clarence Mulliner. Carrying on at this rate, he perceived, he would be able ere long to free himself. It only needed a little imagination. After a brief interval to rest his aching jaws, he put himself deliberately into that state of relaxation which is recommended by the apostles of Suggestion.
“I am entering the dining-room of my club,” murmured Clarence. “I am sitting down. The waiter is handing me the bill of fare. I have selected roast duck with green peas and new potatoes, lamb cutlets with brussels sprouts, fricassee of chicken, porterhouse steak, boiled beef and carrots, leg of mutton, haunch of mutton, mutton chops, curried mutton, veal, kidneys sauté, spaghetti Caruso, and eggs and bacon, fried on both sides. The waiter is now bringing my order. I have taken up my knife and fork. I am beginning to eat.”
And, murmuring a brief grace, Clarence flung himself on the rope and set to.
Twenty minutes later he was hobbling about the room, restoring the circulation to his cramped limbs.
Just as he had succeeded in getting himself nicely limbered up, he heard the key turning in the door.
Clarence crouched for the spring. The room was quite dark now, and he was glad of it, for darkness well fitted the work which lay before him. His plans, conceived on the spur of the moment, were necessarily sketchy, but they included jumping on the Mayor’s shoulders and pulling his head off. After that, no doubt, other modes of self-expression would suggest themselves.
The door opened. Clarence made his leap. And he was just about to start on the programme as arranged, when he discovered with a shock of horror that this was no O.B.E. that he was being rough with, but a woman. And no photographer worthy of the name will ever lay a hand upon a woman, save to raise her chin and tilt it a little more to the left.
“I beg your pardon!” he cried.
“Don’t mention it,” said his visitor, in a low voice. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
“Not at all,” said Clarence.
There was a pause.
“Rotten weather,” said Clarence, feeling that it was for him, as the male member of the sketch, to keep the conversation going.
“Yes, isn’t it?”
“A lot of rain we’ve had this summer.”
“Yes. It seems to get worse every year.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“So bad for tennis.”
“And cricket.”
“And polo.”
“And garden parties.”
“I hate rain.”
“So do I.”
“Of course, we may have a fine August.”
“Yes, there’s always that.”
The ice was broken, and the girl seemed to become more at her ease.
“I came to let you out,” she said. “I must apologize for my father. He loves me foolishly and has no scruples where my happiness is concerned. He has always yearned to have me photographed by you, but I cannot consent to allow a photographer to be coerced into abandoning his principles. If you will follow me, I will let you out by the front door.”
“It’s awfully good of you,” said Clarence, awkwardly. As any man of nice sentiment would have
