The library door closed behind him.
"Jeeves," said Bill, "I've got to have a drink."
"I will bring it immediately, m'lord."
"No, don't bring it. I'll come to your pantry."
"And I'll come with you," said Jill. "But we must wait to hear that result. Let's hope Ballymore had sense enough to stick out his tongue."
"Ha!" cried Bill.
The radio had begun to speak.
"Hundreds of thousands of pounds hang on what that photograph decides," it was saying in the rather subdued voice of a man recovering from a hangover. It seemed to be a little ashamed of its recent emotion. "The number should be going up at any moment. Yes, here it is ..."
"Come on, Ballymore!" cried Jill.
"Come on, Ballymore!" shouted Bill.
"Come on, Ballymore," said Jeeves reservedly.
"Moke the Second wins," said the radio.
"Hard luck on Ballymore. He ran a wonderful race. If it hadn't been for that bad start, he would have won in a canter. His defeat saves the bookies a tremendous loss. A huge sum was bet on the Irish horse ten minutes before starting time, obviously one of those S.p. jobs which are so ..."
Dully, with something of the air of a man laying a wreath on the tomb of an old friend, Bill turned the radio off.
"Come on," he said. "After all, there's still champagne."
Mrs. Spottsworth came slowly down the stairs. Monica and the Chief Constable were still conducting their examination of the scene of the crime, but they had been speaking freely of Captain Biggar, and the trend of their remarks had been such as to make her feel that knives were being driven through her heart. When a woman loves a man with every fibre of a generous nature, it can never be pleasant for her to hear this man alluded to as a red-faced thug (monica) and as a scoundrel who can't possibly get away but must inevitably ere long be caught and slapped into the jug (colonel Wyvern). It was her intention to make for that rustic seat and there sit and think of what might have been.
The rustic seat stood at a junction of two moss-grown paths facing the river which lay—though only, as we have seen, during the summer months— at the bottom of the garden. Flowering bushes masked it from the eye of one approaching, and it was not till she had turned the last corner that Mrs.
Spottsworth was able to perceive that it already had an occupant. At the sight of that occupant she stood for a moment transfixed. Then there burst from her lips a cry so like that of a zebu calling to its mate that Captain Biggar, who had been sitting in a deep reverie, staring at a snail, had the momentary illusion that he was back in Africa.
He sprang to his feet, and for a long instant they stood there motionless, gazing at each other wide-eyed while the various birds, bees, wasps, gnats and other insects operating in the vicinity went about their business as if nothing at all sensational had happened. The snail, in particular, seemed completely unmoved.
Mrs. Spottsworth did not share its detached aloofness. She was stirred to her depths.
"You!" she cried. "Oh, I knew you would come. They said you wouldn't, but I knew."
Captain Biggar was hanging his head. The man seemed crushed, incapable of movement. A rhinoceros, seeing him now, would have plucked up heart and charged on him without a tremor, feeling that this was going to be easy.
"I couldn't do it," he muttered.
"I got to thinking of you and of the chaps at the club, and I couldn't do it."
"The club?"
"The old Anglo-Malay Club in Kuala Lumpur, where men are white and honesty goes for granted. Yes, I thought of the chaps. I thought of Tubby Frobisher. Would I ever be able to look him again in that one good eye of his? And then I thought that you had trusted me because ... because I was an Englishman. And I said to myself, it isn't only the old Anglo-Malay and Tubby and the Subahdar and Doc and Squiffy, Cuthbert Biggar—you're letting down the whole British Empire."
Mrs. Spottsworth choked.
"Did ... did you take it?"
Captain Biggar threw up his chin and squared his shoulders. He was so nearly himself again, now that he had spoken those brave words, that the rhinoceros, taking a look at him, would have changed its mind and decided to remember an appointment elsewhere.
"I took it, and I brought it back," he said in a firm, resonant voice, producing the pendant from his hip pocket. "The idea was merely to borrow it for the day, as security for a gamble. But I couldn't do it. It might have meant a fortune, but I couldn't do it."
Mrs. Spottsworth bent her head.
"Put it round my neck, Cuthbert," she whispered.
Captain Biggar stared incredulously at her back hair.
"You want me to? You don't mind if I touch you?"
"Put it round my neck," repeated Mrs.
Spottsworth.
Reverently the Captain did so, and there was a pause.
"Yes," said the Captain, "I might have made a fortune, and shall I tell you why I wanted a fortune? Don't run away with the idea that I'm a man who values money. Ask any of the chaps out East, and they'll say "Give Bwana Biggar his .505 Gibbs, his eland steak of a night, let him breathe God's clean air and turn his face up to God's good sun and he asks nothing more". But it was imperative that I should lay my hands on a bit of the stuff so that I might feel myself in a position to speak my love. Rosie ... I heard them calling you that, and I must use that name ...
Rosie, I love you. I loved you from that first moment in Kenya when you stepped out of the car and I said "Ah, the memsahib". All these years I have dreamed of you, and on this very seat last night it was all I could do to keep myself from pouring out my heart. It doesn't matter now. I can speak now because we are parting for ever. Soon I shall be wandering out into the sunset ... alone."
He paused, and Mrs. Spottsworth spoke. There was a certain sharpness in her voice.
"You won't be wandering out into any old sunset alone," she said. "Jiminy Christmas! What do you want to wander out into sunsets alone for?"
Captain Biggar smiled a faint, sad smile.
"I don't want to wander out into sunsets alone, dear lady. It's the code. The code that says a poor man must not propose marriage to a rich woman, for if he does, he loses his self-respect and ceases to play with a straight bat."
"I never heard such nonsense in my life.
Who started all this apple-sauce?"
Captain Biggar stiffened a little.
"I cannot say who started it, but it is the rule that guides the lives of men like Squiffy and Doc and the Subahdar and Augustus Frobisher."
Mrs. Spottsworth uttered an exclamation.
"Augustus Frobisher? For Pete's sake! I've been thinking all along that there was something familiar about that name Frobisher, and now you say Augustus ... This friend of yours, this Frobisher. Is he a fellow with a red face?"
"We all have red faces east of Suez."
"And a small, bristly moustache?"
"Small, bristly moustaches, too."
"Does he stammer slightly? Has he a small mole on the left cheek? Is one of his eyes green and the other glass?"
Captain Biggar was amazed.
"Good God! That's Tubby. You've met him?"
"Met him? You bet I've met him. It was only a week before I left the States that I was singing "Oh, perfect love" at his wedding."
Captain Biggar's eyes widened.
"Howki wa hoo!" he exclaimed.
"Tubby is married?"
"He certainly is. And do you know who he's married to? Cora Rita Rockmetteller, widow of the late Sigsbee Rockmetteller, the Sardine King, a woman with a darned sight more money than I've got myself.
Now you see how much your old code amounts to.