“My granddaughter also plays,” said the old man. “We do not as a rule care for these great crowds, but it invariably means money”—he smiled—“and we are not in a position to reject any opportunity which offers.”
They were now drawing clear of the storm. They had passed through Sutton, and had reached a place where the roads were as yet dry, when Gilbert stopped the car and handed the wheel to the shamefaced chauffeur.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” the man began.
“Oh, don’t bother,” smiled his employer, “one is never to be blamed for funking a storm. I used to be as bad until I got over it … there are worse things,” he added, half to himself.
The man thanked him with a muttered word, and Gilbert opened the door of the car and entered. He nodded to the old man and gave a quick smile to the girl.
“I thought I recognised you,” he said. “This is Mr. Springs,” he said, turning to Leslie. “He’s quite an old friend of mine. I’m sure when you have dined at St. John’s Wood you must have heard Springs’ violin under the dining-room window. It used to be a standing order, didn’t it, Mr. Springs?” he said. “By the way,” he asked suddenly, “were you playing—”
He stopped, and the old man, misunderstanding the purport of the question, nodded.
“After all,” said Gilbert, with a sudden change of manner, “it wouldn’t be humane to leave my private band to drown on Epsom Downs, to say nothing of the chance of his being struck by lightning.”
“Was there any danger?” asked Leslie in surprise.
Gilbert nodded.
“I saw one poor chap struck as I cleared the Downs,” he said; “there were a lot of people near him, so I didn’t trouble to stop. It was a terrifying experience.”
He looked back out of the little oval window behind.
“We shall have it again in London tonight,” he said, “but storms do not feel so dangerous in town as they do in the country. They’re not so alarming. Housetops are very merciful to the nervous.”
They took farewell of the old man and his granddaughter at Balham, and then, as the car continued, Leslie turned with a puzzled look to his companion.
“You’re a wonderful man, Gilbert,” he said; “I can’t understand you. You described yourself only this morning as being a nervous wreck—”
“Did I say that?” asked the other dryly.
“Well, you didn’t admit it,” said Leslie, with an aggrieved air, “but it was a description which most obviously fitted you. And yet in the face of this storm, which I confess curled me up pretty considerably, you take the seat of your chauffeur and you push the car through it. Moreover, you are sufficiently collected to pick up an old man, when you had every excuse to leave him to his dismal fate.”
For a moment Gilbert made no reply; then he laughed a little bitterly.
“There are a dozen ways of being nervous,” he said, “and that doesn’t happen to be one of mine. The old man is an important factor in my life, though he does not know it—the very instrument of fate.”
He dropped his voice almost solemnly. Then he seemed to remember that the curious gaze of the other was upon him.
“I don’t know where you got the impression that I was a nervous wreck,” he said briefly. “It’s hardly the ideal condition for a man who is to be married this week.”
“That may be the cause, my dear chap,” said the other reflectively. “I know a lot of people who are monstrously upset at the prospect. There was Tuppy Jones who absolutely ran away—lost his memory, or some such newspaper trick.”
Gilbert smiled.
“I did the next worst thing to running away,” he said a little moodily. “I wanted the wedding postponed.”
“But why?” demanded the other. “I was going to ask you that this morning coming down, only it slipped my memory. Mrs. Cathcart told me she wouldn’t hear of it.”
Gilbert gave him no encouragement to continue the subject, but the voluble young man went on—
“Take what the gods give you, my son,” he said. “Here you are with a Foreign Office appointment, an Under-Secretaryship looming in the near future, a most charming and beautiful bride in prospect, rich—”
“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” said Gilbert sharply. “The idea is abroad all over London. Beyond my pay I have no money whatever. This car,” he said, as he saw the other’s questioning face, “is certainly mine—at least, it was a present from my uncle, and I don’t suppose he’ll want it returned before I sell it. Thank God it makes no difference to you,” he went on with that note of hardness still in his voice, “but I am half inclined to think that two-thirds of the friendships I have, and all the kindness which is from time to time shown to me, is based upon that delusion of riches. People think that I am my uncle’s heir.”
“But aren’t you?” gasped the other.
Gilbert shook his head.
“My uncle has recently expressed his intention of leaving the whole of his fortune to that admirable institution which is rendering such excellent service to the canine world—the Battersea Dogs’ Home.”
Leslie Frankfort’s jovial face bore an expression of tragic bewilderment.
“Have you told Mrs. Cathcart this?” he asked.
“Mrs. Cathcart!” replied the other in surprise. “No, I haven’t told her. I don’t think it’s necessary. After all,” he said with a smile, “Edith isn’t marrying me for money, she is pretty rich herself, isn’t she? Not that it matters,” he said hastily, “whether she’s rich or whether she’s poor.”
Neither of the two men spoke again for the rest of the journey, and at the corner of St. James’s Street Gilbert put his friend down.
He continued his way to the little house which he had taken furnished a year before, when marriage had only seemed the remotest of possibilities, when his worldly prospects had seemed much brighter than they were at present.
Gilbert Standerton was a member of one of those
