“Dear Anita,
“The enclosed letters are not, I am afraid, of much use to the paper. We shall be prosecuted for libel if we dare use one-tenth of what is in them. They may, however, interest you.”
The letter never varied; it had become almost a stereotype.
She contributed special articles to Gossip, and because of a fourteen days’ sojourn in the United States had become an authority upon the Four Hundred, could talk glibly and inaccurately of the leaders of society, and occasionally would introduce a Long Island colour to her paragraphs. She could write fairly well, had a mordant wit of her own, and in happier circumstances might have become a great journalist. Instead of which she had developed insensibly into a cringing sycophant, dependent upon a wage that was paid in all the circumstances of charity.
As she ate her three large, indigestible sausages, she decided to tackle that night the last bundle of letters which needed reading and classifying. It was therefore not an inappropriate moment for Anita to call. Mrs. Gurden stood up like a soldier when the woman swung into the room and pulled the door close behind her.
“Your leg’s all right, is it? Good! I want you to come over to Wimbledon tonight.”
“My dear Anita, I couldn’t possibly come tonight,” broke in Mrs. Gurden, a picture of sweetness and delight at seeing this unwelcome visitor. “The doctor says—”
“I don’t care what the doctor says,” replied Anita brusquely. “I’ll see that you get all the doctors you want. You’ve got to come over to May Towers.”
Greta murmured something half-heartedly, and made a final fight.
“It may be fatal,” she said in a hushed voice. “The doctor—”
Princess Bellini said something very uncomplimentary about doctors in general, and glanced at the remnants of the humble meal with a sneer which she did not attempt to conceal.
“Pack all your things, everything you want for a long stay,” she said. “I’ll send one of my people up to help you if you like, but it would be better if your own woman—Snobbs or Hobbs or whatever you call her—helped you.”
“How long do you want me to stay?” asked Greta in consternation. She counted the most unhappy days and nights of her life those she had spent as Anita’s guest.
“A month; six weeks possibly—I’m not sure,” said the woman brusquely. “I’m going to pay you very well indeed. As for your leg, I’ve telephoned to your doctor, and he tells me that you’re fit to move, and, in fact, the wound is healed.”
“But the paper—”
“The paper is dead. I’ve written to the printers telling them so. My lawyer will liquidate the business, so that’s off your mind. You’ve got to do something, Greta. Your source of income from that direction has dried up.”
Greta listened in dismay, and offered the weak comment that it “seemed a pity.” And then, with a resolution which was born of her very feebleness, she said:
“I can’t go. I simply won’t go, Anita, until I’ve seen the doctor. You’re most inconsiderate. I haven’t recovered. It isn’t only the wound, it’s the shock of—Druze’s death. I simply won’t risk my life. After all, I have to take care of myself. Gurden doesn’t care a damn whether I’m alive or dead.”
Anita sat squarely before her, her big hands on her knees, her eyeglass fixed in her impassive face.
“Gurden?” she rasped. “You almost make this ghost of yours real! You’ve got to the end of your argument, Greta, when you call on the precious name of Gurden. He belongs to the same order as Mrs. ’Arris.”
“It’s not true, it’s not true!” protested the haggard woman tearfully. “We’re married, but we’re separated.”
Nevertheless, she proceeded to give no further details that would elucidate that mystery of her life.
“Whether you are or whether you’re not, you’re to come over to May Towers,” said the Princess definitely. “If you want to see a doctor, you can send for anyone you like.”
Greta elected for her own doctor, but he was out and not expected back until late that night. She ran her fingers down the directory of the profession, seeking a familiar name, and presently she found one and rang him up. Anita, renovating her toilet before the looking-glass in the bedroom, heard Greta speaking in her sugary society voice, and smiled grimly.
“… if you please, doctor. I wondered if you would remember me. It’s most awfully kind of you … no, only a little scratch. The wound has quite healed, I’m sure, but I should like to see you ever so much.”
A click as the receiver was hung up. Anita smoothed the powder on her face, gave her large, shapeless lips a touch of a red creamy stick, and strolled back to the dining-room.
“Well, have you found your doctor?”
“Yes, Anita, I have,” said the other. “He’s a very nice man, and he won’t let me go out if he thinks that it’s dangerous to my health. And, really, I must consider myself, Anita, sometimes. I’m not at all well, and I’ve been thinking for a long time of placing myself in a doctor’s hands—”
“Whom have you sent for?”
“Dr. Elford Wesley. He used to be old Mr. Dawlish’s doctor—”
She heard a growl like the sound of a beast, and stared aghast at Anita. Her eyes were wide open; she showed her teeth in an ugly grin.
“You brainless fool!” she hissed. “Why did you send for him?”
XVII
Demoniacal, terrifying, she towered above the frightened woman, and Greta cowered and held up her hand as though to ward off a blow.
“Get on the telephone, quick, and tell him he needn’t come. Invent any excuse you like—hurry!”
In a trembling voice Greta called the number.
“He’s gone,” she said, and looked up at her mistress.
“All right, hang up, you fool!” Anita
