"Of course I said 'father!'"
"This is my daughter, Mr. Peters."
"My daughter! I mean, your daughter! Are—are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Do you think I don't know my own daughter?"
"But she called me Mr. Peters!"
"Well, it's your name, isn't it?"
"But, if she—if this young lady is your daughter, how did she know my name?"
The point seemed to strike Mr. Bennett. He turned to Billie.
"That's true. Tell me, Wilhelmina, when did you and Mr. Peters meet?"
"Why, in—in Sir Mallaby Marlowe's office, the morning you came there and found me when I was talking to Sam."
Mr. Peters uttered a subdued gargling sound. He was finding this scene oppressive to a not very robust intellect.
"He—Mr. Samuel—told me your name was Miss Milliken," he said dully.
Billie stared at him.
"Mr. Marlowe told you my name was Miss Milliken!" she repeated.
"He told me that you were the sister of the Miss Milliken who acts as stenographer for the guv'—for Sir Mallaby, and sent me in to show you my revolver, because he said you were interested and wanted to see it."
Billie uttered an exclamation. So did Mr. Bennett, who hated mysteries.
"What revolver? Which revolver? What's all this about a revolver? Have you a revolver?"
"Why, yes, Mr. Bennett. It is packed now in my trunk, but usually I carry it about with me everywhere in order to take a little practice at the Rupert Street range. I bought it when Sir Mallaby told me he was sending me to America, because I thought I ought to be prepared—because of the Underworld, you know."
A cold gleam had come into Billie's eyes. Her face was pale and hard. If Sam Marlowe—at that moment carolling blithely in his bedroom at the Blue Boar in Windlehurst, washing his hands preparatory to descending to the coffee-room for a bit of cold lunch—could have seen her, the song would have frozen on his lips. Which, one might mention, as showing that there is always a bright side, would have been much appreciated by the travelling gentleman in the adjoining room, who had had a wild night with some other travelling gentlemen, and was then nursing a rather severe headache, separated from Sam's penetrating baritone only by the thickness of a wooden wall.
Billie knew all. And, terrible though the fact is as an indictment of the male sex, when a woman knows all, there is invariably trouble ahead for some man. There was trouble ahead for Samuel Marlowe. Billie, now in possession of the facts, had examined them and come to the conclusion that Sam had played a practical joke on her, and she was a girl who strongly disapproved of practical humour at her expense.
"That morning I met you at Sir Mallaby's office, Mr. Peters," she said in a frosty voice, "Mr. Marlowe had just finished telling me a long and convincing story to the effect that you were madly in love with a Miss Milliken, who had jilted you, and that this had driven you off your head, and that you spent your time going about with a pistol, trying to shoot every red-haired woman you saw, because you thought they were Miss Milliken. Naturally, when you came in and called me Miss Milliken, and brandished a revolver, I was very frightened. I thought it would be useless to tell you that I wasn't Miss Milliken, so I tried to persuade you that I was and hadn't jilted you after all."
"Good gracious!" said Mr. Peters, vastly relieved; and yet—for always there is bitter mixed with the sweet—a shade disappointed. "Then—er—you don't love me after all?"
"No!" said Billie. "I am engaged to Bream Mortimer, and I love him and nobody else in the world!"
The last portion of her observation was intended for the consumption of Mr. Bennett, rather than that of Mr. Peters, and he consumed it joyfully. He folded Billie in his ample embrace.
"I always thought you had a grain of sense hidden away somewhere," he said, paying her a striking tribute. "I hope now that we've heard the last of all this foolishness about that young hound Marlowe."
"You certainly have! I don't want ever to see him again! I hate him!"
"You couldn't do better, my dear," said Mr. Bennett, approvingly. "And now run away. Mr. Peters and I have some business to discuss."
A quarter of an hour later, Webster, the valet, sunning himself in the stable-yard, was aware of the daughter of his employer approaching him.
"Webster," said Billie. She was still pale. Her face was still hard, and her eyes still gleamed coldly.
"Miss?" said Webster politely, throwing away the cigarette with which he had been refreshing himself.
"Will you do something for me?"
"I should be more than delighted, miss."
Billie whisked into view an envelope which had been concealed in the recesses of her dress.
"Do you know the country about here well, Webster?"
"Within a certain radius, not unintimately, miss. I have been for several enjoyable rambles since the fine weather set in."
"Do you know the place where there is a road leading to Havant, and another to Cosham? It's about a mile down...."
"I know the spot well, miss."
"Well, straight in front of you when you get to the sign-post there is a little lane...."
"I know it, miss," said Webster, with a faint smile. Twice had he escorted Miss Trimblett, Billie's maid, thither. "A delightfully romantic spot. What with the overhanging trees, the wealth of blackberry bushes, the varied wild-flowers...."
"Yes, never mind about the wild-flowers now. I want you after lunch, to take this note to a gentleman you will find sitting on the gate at the bottom of the lane...."
"Sitting on the gate, miss. Yes, miss."
"Or leaning against it. You can't mistake him. He is rather tall and ... oh, well, there isn't likely to be anybody else there, so you can't make a mistake. Give him this, will you?"
"Certainly, miss. Er—any message?"
"Any what?"
"Any verbal message, miss?"
"No, certainly not! You won't forget, will you, Webster?"
"On no account whatever, miss. Shall I wait for an answer?"
"There won't be any answer," said Billie, setting her teeth for an instant. "Oh, Webster!"
"Miss?"
"I can rely on you to say nothing to anybody?"
"Most undoubtedly, miss. Most undoubtedly."
"Does anybody know anything about a feller named S. Marlowe?" inquired Webster, entering the kitchen. "Don't all speak at once! S. Marlowe. Ever heard of him?"
He paused for a reply, but nobody had any information to impart.
"Because there's something jolly well up! Our Miss B. is sending me with notes for him to the bottom of lanes."
"And her engaged to young Mr. Mortimer!" said the scullery-maid, shocked. "The way they go on. Chronic!" said the scullery-maid.
"Don't you go getting alarmed! And don't you," added Webster, "go shoving your oar in when your social superiors are talking! I've had to speak to you about that before. My remarks were addressed to Mrs. Withers here."
He indicated the cook with a respectful gesture.
"Yes, here's the note, Mrs. Withers. Of course, if you had a steamy kettle handy, in about half a moment we could ... but no, perhaps it's wiser not to risk it. And, come to that, I don't need to unstick the envelope to know what's inside here. It's the raspberry, ma'am, or I've lost all my power to read the human female countenance. Very cold and proud-looking she was! I don't know who this S. Marlowe is, but I do know one thing; in this hand I hold the instrument that's going to give it him in the neck, proper! Right in the neck, or my name isn't Montagu Webster!"
"Well!" said Mrs. Withers, comfortably, pausing for a moment from her labours. "Think of that!"
"The way I look at it," said Webster, "is that there's been some sort of understanding between our Miss B. and this S. Marlowe, and she's thought better of it and decided to stick to the man of her parent's choice. She's chosen wealth and made up her mind to hand the humble suitor the mitten. There was a rather similar situation in 'Cupid or Mammon,' that Nosegay Novelette I was reading in the train coming down here, only that ended different. For my part I'd be better pleased if our Miss B. would let the cash go, and obey the dictates of her own heart; but these modern girls are all alike! All out for the stuff, they are! Oh, well, it's none of my affair," said Webster, stifling a not unmanly sigh. For beneath that immaculate shirt-front there beat a warm heart. Montagu Webster was a sentimentalist.