“Well, well, my man,” he said impatiently, “why the devil do you keep me waiting on the doorstep of my friend Jesse’s house, eh?” He removed one of his hands from his pocket, possibly not the cleanest one, and tugged at his short grey beard.
“Mr.—er—Mr. Trasmere is out,” said Walters, “I will tell him you have called. What name, sir?”
“Wellington Brown is my name, good fellow,” said the stranger. “Wellington Brown from Chei-feu. I will come in and wait.”
But Walters barred the way.
“Mr. Trasmere has given me strict orders not to admit anybody unless he is in the house,” he said.
A wave of anger turned Wellington Brown’s face to a deeper red.
“He has given orders!” he spluttered. “That I am not to be admitted—I, Wellington Brown, who made his fortune, the swindling old thief! He knows I am coming!”
“Are you from China, sir?” blurted Walters.
“I have told you, menial and bootlicking yellow-plush, that I am from Chei-feu. If you are illiterate, as you appear to be, I will explain to you that Chei-feu is in China.”
“I don’t care whether Chei-feu is in China or in the moon,” said Walters obstinately. “You can’t come in, Mr. Brown! Mr. Trasmere is away—he’ll be away for a fortnight.”
“Oh, won’t I come in!”
The struggle was a brief one, for Walters was a man of powerful physique, and Wellington Brown was a man nearer to sixty than fifty. He was flung against the stone wall of the porch and might, in his bemused condition, have fallen had not Walters’ quick hand grabbed him back.
The stranger breathed noisily.
“I’ve killed men for that,” he said, jerkily, “shot ’em down like dogs! I’ll remember this, flunkey!”
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” said Walters, aggrieved that any onus for the unpleasantness should rest on him.
The stranger raised his hand haughtily.
“I will settle accounts with your master—remember that, lackey! He shall pay, by God!”
With drunken dignity, he walked unsteadily through the patch of garden that separated the house from the road, leaving Walters a puzzled man.
IV
At nine o’clock that night the bell of Tab Holland’s flat rang long and noisily.
“Who the dickens is that?” he growled.
He was in his shirtsleeves, writing for dear life and the table was strewn with proofs of his industry.
Rex Lander came out of his bedroom.
“Your boy, I expect,” he said. “I left the lower door open for him.”
Tab shook his head.
“The office is sending for the copy at eleven,” he said. “See who it is, Babe.”
Mr. Lander grumbled. He always grumbled when he was called upon for physical effort. He opened the door and Tab, hearing a loud and unfamiliar voice, joined him. On the landing without, was a bearded, swaying figure and he was talking noisily.
“What is wrong?” asked Tab.
“Everything, sir,” hiccuped the caller, “everything is wrong. A man, a gen’leman cannot be robbed with impunity or assaulted by me-menials with—with—” He considered a moment and added: “impunity.”
“Bring him in, the poor soused herring,” said Tab, and Mr. Wellington Brown swaggered and staggered into the sitting-room. He was abominably intoxicated.
“Wish of you young gen’lemen is Rex Lander?”
“That is my name,” said the puzzled Rex.
“I’m Wellin’ton Brown of Chei-Feu. A pensioner at the mercy of a dam’ ol’ scound’l! A pension’r! He pays me a pittance out of what he robbed me. I can tell you some’n about ol’ Trasmere.”
“Trasmere, my uncle?” asked the startled young man.
The other nodded gravely and sleepily.
“I can tell you some’n about him. I was his bookkeeper ’n sec’tary. I know! I’ll tell you some’n about him!”
“You can save your breath,” said Rex coldly. “Why have you come here?”
“Because you’re ’is nephew. Thas why! He robbed me—robbed me!” he sobbed. “Took bread out ’f the mouth of innocent child—that what! Took bread out ’f orphan’s mouth and robbed me, swin’led me out ’f my share Mancurian Trading Syn’cate, an’ then gave me remittance ’n said ‘Drink yourself to death’—thas what he said!”
“And did you?” asked Tab sardonically.
The stranger eyed him unfavourably.
“Who’s this?” he demanded.
“This is a friend of mine,” said Rex, “and you’re in his flat. And if the only business you have is to abuse my uncle, you can get out just as soon as you like.”
Mr. Wellington Brown tapped the young man’s chest with a grimy forefinger.
“Your uncle is a rascal! Get that! A low thief!”
“Better write and tell him so,” said Tab, briskly. “Just now I am engaged in churning out two yards of journalese, and you’re disturbing my thoughts.”
“Write to him!” roared Mr. Brown delightedly, “write to him! Thas good—best thing I’ve heard for years! Why—!”
“Get out!”
Babe Lander threw open the door with a crash and the visitor glared at him.
“Like uncle, like nephew,” he said, “like nephew, like lackey—I’m goin’. And let me tell you—”
The door slammed in his face.
“Phew!” said Babe, wiping his brow. “Let’s open the window and let in some fresh air!”
“Who is he?”
“Search me,” said Rex Lander. “I’ve no illusions about Uncle Jesse’s early friends. I gather that he’s been a pensioner of the old boy’s, and there is probably some truth in his charge that he was robbed. I cannot imagine uncle giving money away from charitable motives. Anyway, I’m seeing him tomorrow and I’ll ask.”
“You’ll see nothing,” said Tab. “Do you ever read the fashionable intelligence or society news? Uncle is leaving town tomorrow.”
Rex smiled.
“That is an old trick when he doesn’t want to be seen—by Joab! It is the Wellington who has put his name in the society column!”
Tab paused, pen in hand.
“Silence will now reign,” he commanded, “whilst a great journalist deals adequately with the Milligan Murder Appeal.”
Rex looked at him, admiringly.
“How you can stick your nose at the grindstone is a source of wonder to me,” he said. “I couldn’t—”
“Shut up!” snapped Tab, and the desirable silence was his. He finished the last page at eleven, sent off his copy by a punctual messenger, then filling his pipe,
