"If you were an ordinary man like hundreds of the idle young men one meets in London, I would have nothing to say. I dislike the girl intensely, but I would not interfere in what would be your own private business. No doubt there are plenty of sets in society where it matters very little what sort of a woman a man marries. But if you have a career, especially in politics, you know as well as I do that a suitable wife means everything. You are a public figure even now. In a few years you will be a very big public figure. That means that your wife will have every eye upon her. And what will she be? A minx!" said Lady Underhill viciously.
Once more Derek stirred uneasily, and once more he remained silent. A gleam came into Lady Underhill's black eyes. All her life she had been a fighter, and experience had taught her to perceive when she was winning. She blessed the dilatory cabman.
"Well, I am not going to say any more," she said, getting up and buttoning her glove. "I will leave you to think it over. All I will say is that, though I only met her yesterday, I can assure you that I am quite confident that this girl is just the sort of harum-scarum, so-called 'modern' girl who is sure some day to involve herself in a really serious scandal. I don't want her to be in a position to drag you into it as well. Yes, Parker, what is it? Is Sir Derek's cab here?"
The lantern-jawed Parker had entered softly, and was standing deferentially in the doorway. There was no emotion on his face beyond the vague sadness which a sense of what was correct made him always wear like a sort of mask when in the presence of those of superior station.
"The cab will be at the door very shortly, m'lady. If you please, Sir Derek, a policeman has come with a message."
"A policeman?"
"With a message from Mr Rooke."
"What do you mean?"
"I have had a few words of conversation with the constable, sir," said Parker sadly, "and I understand from him that Mr Rooke and Miss Mariner have been arrested."
"Arrested! What are you talking about?"
"Mr Rooke desired the officer to ask you to be good enough to step round and bail them out!"
The gleam in Lady Underhill's eye became a flame, but she controlled her voice.
"Why were Miss Mariner and Mr Rooke arrested, Parker?"
"As far as I can gather, m'lady, Miss Mariner struck a man in the street with a stick, and they took both her and Rooke to the Chelsea Police Station."
Lady Underhill glanced at Derek, who was looking into the fire.
"This is a little awkward, Derek," she said suavely. "If you go to the police-station, you will miss your train."
"I fancy, m'lady, it would be sufficient if Sir Derek were to dispatch me with a check for ten pounds."
"Very well. Tell the policeman to wait a moment."
"Very good, m'lady."
Derek roused himself with an effort. His face was drawn and gloomy. He sat down at the writing-table, and took out his check-book. There was silence for a moment, broken only by the scratching of the pen. Parker took the check and left the room.
"Now, perhaps," said Lady Underhill, "you will admit that I was right!" She spoke in almost an awed voice, for this occurrence at just this moment seemed to her very like a direct answer to prayer. "You can't hesitate now! You must free yourself from this detestable entanglement!"
Derek rose without speaking. He took his coat and hat from where they lay on a chair.
"Derek! You will! Say you will!"
Derek put on his coat.
"Derek!"
"For heaven's sake, leave me alone, mother. I want to think."
"Very well. I will leave you to think it over, then." Lady Underhill moved to the door. At the door she paused for a moment, and seemed about to speak again, but her mouth closed resolutely. She was a shrewd woman, and knew that the art of life is to know when to stop talking. What words have accomplished, too many words can undo.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye, mother."
"I'll see you when you get back?"
"Yes. No. I don't know. I'm not certain when I shall return. I may go away for a bit."
The door closed behind Lady Underhill. Derek sat down again at the writing-table. He wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, then tore it up. His eye travelled to the mantelpiece. Jill's photograph smiled happily down at him. He turned back to the writing-table, took out a fresh piece of paper, thought for a few moments, and began to write again.
The door opened softly.
"The cab is at the door, Sir Derek," said Parker.
Derek addressed an envelope, and got up.
"All right. Thanks. Oh, Parker, stop at a district-messenger office on your way to the police-station, and have this sent off at once."
"Very good, Sir Derek," said Parker.
Derek's eyes turned once more to the mantelpiece. He stood looking for an instant, then walked quickly out of the room.
CHAPTER SIX
1.
A taxi-cab stopped at the door of number twenty-two Ovington Square. Freddie Rooke emerged, followed by Jill. While Freddie paid the driver, Jill sniffed the afternoon air happily. It had turned into a delightful day. A westerly breeze, springing up in the morning, had sent the thermometer up with a run and broken the cold spell which had been gripping London. It was one of those afternoons which intrude on the bleakness of winter with a false but none the less agreeable intimation that Spring is on its way. The sidewalks were wet underfoot, and the gutters ran with thawed snow. The sun shone exhilaratingly from a sky the color of a hedge-sparrow's egg.
"Doesn't everything smell lovely, Freddie," said Jill, "after our prison-life!"
"Topping!"
"Fancy getting out so quickly! Whenever I'm arrested, I must always make a point of having a rich man with me. I shall never tease you about that fifty-pound note again."
"Fifty-pound note?"
"It certainly came in handy today!"
She was opening the door with her latch-key, and missed the sudden sagging of Freddie's jaw, the sudden clutch at his breast-pocket, and the look of horror and anguish that started into his eyes. Freddie was appalled. Finding himself at the police-station penniless with the exception of a little loose change, he had sent that message to Derek, imploring assistance, as the only alternative to spending the night in a cell, with Jill in another. He had realized that there was a risk of Derek taking the matter hardly, and he had not wanted to get Jill into trouble, but there seemed nothing else to do. If they remained where they were overnight, the thing would get into the papers, and that would be a thousand times worse. And if he applied for aid to Ronny Devereux or Algy Martyn or anybody like that all London would know about it next day. So Freddie, with misgivings, had sent the message to Derek, and now Jill's words had reminded him that there was no need to have done so. Years ago he had read somewhere or heard somewhere about some chappie who always buzzed around with a sizeable banknote stitched into his clothes, and the scheme had seemed to him ripe to a degree. You never knew when you might find yourself short of cash and faced by an immediate call for the ready. He had followed the chappie's example. And now, when the crisis had arrived, he had forgotten—absolutely forgotten!—that he had the dashed thing on his person at all.