When the unknown bidder sought out the clerk after the sale, to pay his money and claim his books, he found Hector and Freddy waiting for him.
“Do you mind telling me why you wanted that box?” said Hector, more angrily than was wise.
“Surely you know why,” said the stranger, coolly.
“No, I don’t.”
“Then why did you bid on it yourself?”
“I wanted those books for a special purpose.”
“And so do I,” said the stranger. It was at this moment that Valentine joined them. She too wanted to know why so much had been bid for a box to which she had given no thought.
“Oh, surely you know,” said the stranger. It took the three of them a few minutes to convince him that they knew nothing at all about it, and had not given the box more than a cursory examination. His eyelids drooped a little, and he smiled.
“You really ought to be more careful,” he said to Valentine. “Let me show you what I mean.”
He reached into the box and pulled out a package, which he unwrapped.
“You see,” said he; “Under Two Flags, in three volumes, published by Chapman and Hall in 1867; in very good condition. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing,” said Valentine. “It’s by Ouida, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It is quite a valuable book. Now look at this: East Lynne, by Mrs Henry Wood; published by Tinsley in 1861. Very nice.”
“Valuable?” asked Freddy.
“Not so valuable as the other, by a long shot. But worth about a hundred and fifty dollars.”
There was a heavy silence. Young Mr Maybee had joined the group, and his nice blue eyes opened very wide at the mention of this sum.
“But you really should have been careful of this,” said the stranger, unwrapping three more volumes. “You see: Lady Audley’s Secret; the author’s name is not given, but it was M. E. Braddon; published by Skeet in 1862. This really is a treasure.”
“How much?” It was Valentine who spoke this time.
“Hard to say. At a rough guess I would put it at about twenty-five hundred dollars. I spotted them at once when I was looking around yesterday. Pure luck, or perhaps flair; I’m here for a brief holiday, but I never take complete holidays. I am sorry about this, but if you had wanted to keep it you should not have put it up at auction, should you?”
Neither Valentine nor Mr Maybee had anything to say. The stranger transferred the books to a briefcase which he carried, and in doing so revealed an envelope which lay at the bottom of the box. It was addressed to Valentine in her grandfather’s hand. She read it at once.
My dear—
As I fear that you will find little among my things that you may wish to keep, I leave you these books, which I have had by me for some time. You can easily take them back to the States with you, and if you take them to a good bookseller—a really good one—he will give you a price for them which may surprise you. Look upon this as a special bequest from me, and one upon which you will not have to pay inheritance tax.
With my fondest love
“Well, I shall say good-bye,” said the stranger. “If you ever happen to be in New York, and are interested in rare books, I shall be happy to show you what I have in my shop. Here is my card.”
Only Mr Maybee had the presence of mind to take it. The group broke up, and four of them went their different ways with painful and conflicting thoughts buzzing in their heads.
Long before the light began to fade on this beautiful June day the ladies of Salterton were dressing themselves for the dinner parties which came before the Ball. Already in the composing room of the local newspaper the long galleys of type were ranged in which their gowns were described, for the Society Editor had been busy on the telephone for three days past. Every lady who was to be present at the great affair had been called, and asked for a description of what she would wear; in some cases this call was inspired by courtesy rather than curiosity, for particularly among the older ladies it was not unknown for a gown to make several annual appearances, and the Society Editor could have done much of her work by simply consulting the back files. The descriptions which appeared were very brief; they conveyed nothing, to the stranger, of the real appearance of some of these remarkable garments; but to the informed reader they were rich in information. The briefest extract will suffice:
Mrs A. M. Mangin: lilac crepe, with lamé panel to tone. Miss Dymphna M’Dumphy: rust satin, with scarf in the M’Dumphy tartan, and a parure of cairngorms. Mrs Shakerley Marmion: wine velvet. Mrs M. Medbourne: écru shantung, with panels of self-coloured lace. Mrs E. P. Moubray: amethyst cut velvet. Mrs James Mylne: pleated puce crepe, with inserts of Paddy green moire…etc., etc.
The persistent reader, seeking information about the ladies associated with the Little Theatre’s forthcoming production, might have compiled his own paragraph, thus:
Mrs Roscoe Forrester: champagne lace. Miss Valentine Rich: flame taffeta. Miss Bonnie-Susan Tompkins: a strapless peach satin, with slit skirt. Miss Pearl Vambrace: pink organdie with puff sleeves. Miss Griselda Webster: white silk jersey, with Greek drapery.
The newspaper never made any mention of what the escorts of the ladies wore; it went without saying that they wore evening dress of every cut known during the past fifty years, and that the military wore dress uniforms, some of which had been made during their slimmer days, so that the trousers had been augmented at the back with gussets which were not always a perfect match.
Since half-past five Pearl Vambrace had been in her bedroom with the door locked. At three o’clock she had taken a long and elaborate bath, in the course of which she made a violent assault upon her armpits with her father’s razor. She had then composed herself for a nap, for she had read in a magazine that in order to look radiant at night, it was necessary to rest in the afternoon; such rest delayed the onset of crow’s feet, the article said, and Pearl, at nineteen, was determined to show no crow’s feet when she appeared at the Ball with Solly.
As she lay on her bed, trying to relax completely, she thought how astonishing it had been that Solly had asked her to go to the Ball with him. She had never, even in dreams, expected that Roger would ask her. He never seemed to pay any attention to her at all. At rehearsals he took her in his arms, and kissed her in the manner prescribed by Valentine, and although this experience terrified and ravished her it did nothing to make Roger less of a stranger: so must some maiden of the ancient world have felt when Jove descended and absent-mindedly made her his own. Even in the two private rehearsals, in her home, which Professor Vambrace had been able to impose upon the reluctant Roger, he had paid little attention to her. No, it was beyond the range of belief that Roger would ask her to go to the Ball with him, and when Pearl heard that Griselda was to be his partner she was too miserable even to be jealous. And then, astonishingly, Solly had asked her to go to the Ball with him, and shortly afterward a note had arrived from his mother, inviting her to dinner beforehand.
Relaxing completely was hard work. Try as she might to make herself heavy, and pretend that she was sinking through the bed, as the magazine had directed, she continued to twitch and jump unexpectedly. She would look dreadful at the Ball, she was sure—a mass of wrinkles, hollows and haggard shadows. And breath! Gargle as she might before going to the Bridgetowers’, how would she make sure afterward that her breath was—how did the advertisements put it?—“free of offence”? Could she slip her toothbrush and a tube of paste into her evening bag? She must sleep! She had a long and doubtless gay evening before her, in the company of a young man whom she scarcely knew. And even before the Ball began she had a dinner party! She had never been to a dinner party in her life, and she had heard that Mrs Bridgetower was a lady who demanded a high standard of elegant behaviour from her guests. She must relax! She must! In her efforts to relax Pearl twisted herself into a ball, and closed her eyes so tightly that the red darkness behind her eyelids seemed to writhe and surge.