The chair creaked. Gooch stared. McMurdo groaned.
“Are you ill?” said John Gooch.
“Ha!” said Sidney McMurdo.
He had been sitting with his face buried in his hands, but now he looked up; and there was a red glare in his eyes which sent a thrill of horror through John Gooch. The visitor reminded him of the Human Gorilla in his novel, The Mystery of the Severed Ear.
“For two pins,” said Sidney McMurdo, displaying a more mercenary spirit than the Human Gorilla, who had required no cash compensation for his crimes, “I would tear you into shreds.”
“Me?” said John Gooch, blankly.
“Yes, you. And that fellow Pilcher, too.” He rose; and, striding to the mantelpiece, broke off a corner of it and crumbled it in his fingers. “You have stolen her from me.”
“Stolen? Whom?”
“My Agnes.”
John Gooch stared at him, thoroughly bewildered. The idea of stealing Agnes Flack was rather like the notion of sneaking off with the Albert Hall. He could make nothing of it.
“She is going to marry you.”
“What!” cried John Gooch, aghast.
“Either you or Pilcher.” McMurdo paused. “Shall I tear you into little strips and tread you into the carpet?” he murmured, meditatively.
“No,” said John Gooch. His mind was blurred, but he was clear on that point.
“Why did you come butting in?” groaned Sidney McMurdo, absently taking up the poker and tying it into a lover’s knot. “I was getting along splendidly until you two pimples broke out. Slowly but surely I was teaching her to love me, and now it can never be. I have a message for you. From her. I proposed to her for the eleventh time tonight; and when she had finished laughing she told me that she could never marry a mere mass of brawn. She said she wanted brain. And she told me to tell you and the pest Pilcher that she had watched you closely and realized that you both loved her, but were too shy to speak, and that she understood and would marry one of you.”
There was a long silence.
“Pilcher is a splendid fellow,” said John Gooch. “She must marry Pilcher.”
“She will, if he wins the match.”
“What match?”
“The golf match. She read a story in a magazine the other day where two men played a match at golf to decide which was to win the heroine; and about a week later she read another story in another magazine where two men played a match at golf to decide which was to win the heroine. And a couple of days ago she read three more stories in three more magazines where exactly the same thing happened; and she has decided to accept it as an omen. So you and the hound Pilcher are to play eighteen holes, and the winner marries Agnes.”
“The winner?”
“Certainly.”
“I should have thought—I forget what I was going to say.”
McMurdo eyed him keenly.
“You have not been trifling with this girl’s affections, Gooch, I hope?”
“No, no. Oh, no.”
“Because, if I thought that, I should know what steps to take. Even now—” He paused, and looked at the poker in his hand in a rather yearning sort of way. “No, no,” he said, “better not, better not.” With a gesture of resignation he flung the thing down. “Good night, weed. The match will be played on Friday morning. And may the better—or, rather, the less impossibly foul—man win.”
He banged the door, and John Gooch was alone.
But not for long. Scarcely half an hour had passed when the door opened once more, to admit Frederick Pilcher. The artist’s face was pale, and he was breathing heavily. He sat down, and after a brief interval contrived to summon up a smile. He rose and patted John Gooch on the shoulder.
“John,” he said, “I am a man who as a general rule hides his feelings. I mask my affections. But I want to say, straight out, here and now, that I like you, John.”
“Yes?” said John Gooch.
Frederick Pilcher patted his other shoulder.
“I like you so much, John, old man, that I can read your thoughts, strive to conceal them though you may. I have been watching you closely of late, John, and I know your secret. You love Agnes Flack.”
“I don’t!”
“Yes, you do. Ah, John, John,” said Frederick Pilcher, with a gentle smile, “why try to deceive an old friend? You love her, John. You love that girl. And I have good news for you, John—tidings of great joy. I happen to know that she will look favourably on your suit. Go in and win, my boy, go in and win. Take my advice and dash round and propose without a moment’s delay.”
John Gooch shook his head. He, too, smiled a gentle smile.
“Frederick,” he said, “this is like you. Noble. That’s what I call it. Noble. It’s the sort of thing the hero does in act two. But it must not be, Frederick. It must not, shall not be. I also can read a friend’s heart, and I know that you, too, love Agnes Flack. And I yield my claim. I am excessively fond of you, Frederick, and I give her up to you. God bless you, old fellow. God, in fact, bless both of you.”
“Look here,” said Frederick Pilcher, “have you been having a visit from Sidney McMurdo?”
“He did drop in for a minute.”
There was a tense pause.
“What I can’t understand,” said Frederick Pilcher, at length, peevishly, “is why, if you don’t love this infernal girl, you kept calling at her house practically every night and sitting goggling at her with obvious devotion.”
“It wasn’t devotion.”
“It looked like it.”
“Well, it wasn’t. And, if it comes to that, why did you call on her practically every night and goggle just as much as I did?”
“I had a very good reason,” said Frederick Pilcher. “I was studying her face. I am planning a series of humorous drawings on the lines of Felix the Cat, and I wanted
