“And the child?”
“Oh, he got better—his father was dosing him with quaint proprietary medicines. I think he was suffering from enteric fever, and nursing is the only thing that cures that. He’s in China now—quite an important person.”
“I should like to have that other story,” said Tab. “Kipling gets my goat. That ‘other story’ of his is never told. I think he must have had them in his mind when he referred to them, but he got lazy on it.”
“My other story must keep,” she smiled. “Some day—perhaps—but not now. The father of the boy laid out my little Chinese garden, by-the-way.”
Tab had come by train and there was a long walk to the station. He stayed to the very last moment, and then had to hurry to catch the one fast express of the afternoon. He had gone a leisurely hundred yards from the front gate (you cannot walk fast if you turn around at intervals for a glimpse of a cool white figure) when he saw a dusty roadfarer coming toward him. The awkward gait of the walker, his baggy clothes, the huge Derby hat pulled down to his ears, attracted Tab’s attention long before he could distinguish the man’s features. When he did, it was with a spasm of surprise. The walker was a Chinaman and carried in his hand a flat packet.
The oriental deviated from the straight path to cross the road. Without a word he carefully unwrapped a thin paper cover and exposed a letter. It was addressed to “Miss Ursula Ardfern, Stone Cottage,” and on the wrapper Tab saw a number of Chinese characters which he guessed were directions to the messenger.
“Tell,” said the man laconically. He evidently knew little English.
“That house on the left,” said Tab pointing. “How far have you come, Chink?”
“Velly well,” said the man, and taking the letter folded it again in its covering and trotted off.
Tab looked after him, wondering. How curious a coincidence, he thought, that they should have been talking about the Chinese only half-an-hour before?
He had to run and then only caught the train as it was pulling out of the station.
The inexorable and constitutionally discontented news editor was not at all satisfied with the story as Tab wrote it.
“It loses half its value if we can’t give her name,” he complained, “and after we’ve started the interest going, the Herald, or some other paper, will find out who is the owner of the jewels and get all the fat of the story! Can’t you persuade her?”
Tab shook his head.
“What’s the great idea—is she going into a convent or something?”
“She didn’t mention it,” said Tab impatiently. “There it is—take it or leave it, Jacques. It is a good item, and if you don’t like it, I’ll take it to the chief.”
A threat which invariably ended all discussion, for Tab was an important personage on the staff of the Megaphone and his word carried weight.
XIII
Mr. Stott combined the implacable qualities of the feudal lord with an amiable leaning toward the society and approval of his fellow men. There was a café near his office which was extensively patronized by grave business men, directors, bank managers and superior cashiers. The price of luncheon had been scientifically fixed by the proprietor, so that whilst it was within the means of men of substance and standing, it was just beyond the reach of those whose limited incomes did not permit the luxury of lunching at Toby’s, though it was well worth the money to sit at meat with men who had offices labelled “private” and drove to their business in polished limousines.
Mr. Stott referred to the wistful folk who passed the door of Toby’s to be swallowed up in less exclusive establishments, as the hoi polloi, which he understood was an Italian expression. Toby’s had almost acquired the status of a club. Occasionally, ignorant strangers wandered in to test the gastronomical excellence of the kitchen, and these were usually accommodated in obscure corners away from the hearing of intimate gossip.
Mr. Stott had recently become a person to be listened to with respect, and the necessity for keeping the regular patrons of Toby’s aloof from the vulgar herd, was doubly urgent by reason of the very important matters that had to be discussed.
“What I can’t understand, Stott,” said one of his hearers, “is why the devil didn’t you send for the police?”
Mr. Stott smiled mysteriously.
“The police should have been there,” he said, “and by-the-way, I need not remind you fellows that what I say to you is in absolute confidence. I am scared out of my life lest that babbling servant of mine starts talking. You can never trust these gossiping girls. I confess, though, that I had half a mind, not to send for the police, but to tackle the Chinks myself. I should have done it, too, but the girl was so frightened of being left alone.”
“Have they come since?” asked another interested hearer.
“No; nor the woman—you remember that I told you of the woman who used to drive up to Mayfield every night in her car?”
“It seems to me that the police ought to know,” interrupted the first speaker. “One of your servants is bound to talk. As you say, you can’t trust ’em! And then the authorities will want to know why you haven’t reported the matter.”
“It is not my business,” said Mr. Stott pharisaically, “It is for the police to get busy. I’m not at all surprised that the coroner’s jury made the remark they did. Here is a man murdered—”
He exhibited the crime graphically.
“At any rate, I’m keeping out of it—these Chinese criminals are dangerous fellows to monkey with.”
He had paid his bill and was walking out of the café, when somebody touched him on the
