He finished the last piece of bacon and pushed away his plate. “Amongst all that mass of paper there must surely be one from a lovely maiden, James, at whose disposal I can place my rusty sword. Incidentally, what has become of the damned thing?”
“It’s in the lumber-room, sir—tied up with the old humbrella and the niblick you don’t like.”
“Great heavens! Is it?” Drummond helped himself to marmalade. “And to think that I once pictured myself skewering Huns with it. Do you think anybody would be mug enough to buy it, James?”
But that worthy was engrossed in a letter he had just opened, and apparently failed to hear the question. A perplexed look was spreading over his face, and suddenly he sucked his teeth loudly. It was a sure sign that James was excited, and though Drummond had almost cured him of this distressing habit, he occasionally forgot himself in moments of stress.
His master glanced up quickly, and removed the letter from his hands. “I’m surprised at you, James,” he remarked severely. “A secretary should control itself. Don’t forget that the perfect secretary is an it: an automatic machine—a thing incapable of feeling. …”
He read the letter through rapidly, and then, turning back to the beginning, he read it slowly through again.
“My dear Box X10—I don’t know whether your advertisement was a joke: I suppose it must have been. But I read it this morning, and it’s just possible, X10, just possible, that you mean it. And if you do, you’re the man I want. I can offer you excitement and probably crime.
“I’m up against it, X10. For a girl I’ve bitten off rather more than I can chew. I want help—badly. Will you come to the Carlton for tea tomorrow afternoon? I want to have a look at you and see if I think you are genuine. Wear a white flower in your buttonhole.”
Drummond laid the letter down, and pulled out his cigarette-case. “Tomorrow, James,” he murmured. “That is today—this very afternoon. Verily I believe that we have impinged upon the goods.” He rose and stood looking out of the window thoughtfully. “Go out, my trusty fellow, and buy me a daisy or a cauliflower or something white.”
“You think it’s genuine, sir?” said James thoughtfully.
His master blew out a cloud of smoke. “I know it is,” he answered dreamily. “Look at that writing; the decision in it—the character. She’ll be medium height, and dark, with the sweetest little nose and mouth. Her colouring, James, will be—”
But James had discreetly left the room.
II
At four o’clock exactly Hugh Drummond stepped out of his two-seater at the Haymarket entrance to the Carlton. A white gardenia was in his buttonhole; his grey suit looked the last word in exclusive tailoring. For a few moments after entering the hotel he stood at the top of the stairs outside the dining-room, while his eyes travelled round the tables in the lounge below.
A brother-officer, evidently taking two country cousins round London, nodded resignedly; a woman at whose house he had danced several times smiled at him. But save for a courteous bow he took no notice; slowly and thoroughly he continued his search. It was early, of course, yet, and she might not have arrived, but he was taking no chances.
Suddenly his eyes ceased wandering, and remained fixed on a table at the far end of the lounge. Half hidden behind a plant a girl was seated alone, and for a moment she looked straight at him. Then with the faintest suspicion of a smile, she turned away, and commenced drumming on the table with her fingers.
The table next to her was unoccupied, and Drummond made his way towards it and sat down. It was characteristic of the man that he did not hesitate; having once made up his mind to go through with a thing, he was in the habit of going and looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. Which, incidentally, was how he got his D.S.O.; but that, as Kipling would say, is another story.
He felt not the slightest doubt in his mind that this was the girl who had written him, and, having given an order to the waiter, he started to study her face as unobtrusively as possible. He could only see the profile, but that was quite sufficient to make him bless the moment when more as a jest than anything else he had sent his advertisement to the paper.
Her eyes, he could see, were very blue; and great masses of golden brown hair coiled over her ears, from under a small black hat. He glanced at her feet—being an old stager; she was perfectly shod. He glanced at her hands, and noted, with approval, the absence of any ring. Then he looked once more at her face, and found her eyes were fixed on him.
This time she did not look away. She seemed to think that it was her turn to conduct the examination, and Drummond turned to his tea while the scrutiny continued. He poured himself out a cup, and then fumbled in his waistcoat pocket. After a moment he found what he wanted, and taking out a card he propped it against the teapot so that the girl could see what was on it. In large block capitals he had written Box X10. Then he added milk and sugar and waited.
She spoke almost at once. “You’ll do, X10,” she said, and he turned to her with a smile.
“It’s very
