There was a sound of breaking glass. Geoffrey Masterman’s grip upon the tumbler he was holding had tightened in an involuntary jerk.
Gregory was all concern.
“My dear fellow-have you cut yourself?”
It appeared that he had not. There was no blood upon his hands. Some glass to be picked up, a splash of whisky and soda to be wiped from a trouser leg, and they were back at the point of what Annie might or might not be going to say.
Masterman leaned forward.
“Of course the whole thing’s damned nonsense from beginning to end-a pack of lies!”
“Naturally.”
“Blackmail-that’s what it is-blackmail!”
“Well, my dear fellow, if that’s what you think, the only advice I can give you is to go straight to the police. I think the will under which you inherited was several years old. If there wasn’t a later will, the whole thing falls to the ground.”
Masterman stared past him.
“If there was another will, she destroyed it herself. Old women are always making wills.”
“Was there another will?”
“There may have been. How do I know?”
Gregory Porlock whistled.
“That means there was. It’s awkward, you know.”
“It’s rank blackmail!” said Masterman violently.
“My dear fellow, she hasn’t asked you for a penny. She is engaged in a struggle with her conscience. If she decides to go to the police-”
Masterman interrupted.
“How did she come to go to you?”
He received a slow, benignant smile.
“Too long a story to go into-far too long. Really a very curious chain of circumstances. But very fortunate for you.”
“Was it?” Masterman’s voice was savage.
“Undoubtedly-or she might have gone to the police. There is a point at which a woman’s conscience simply has to boil over. For the moment I have, as it were, turned down the gas under the pot, but it may reach boiling-point again.”
Masterman’s control broke. He swore vehemently. He cursed women in general and Annie in particular, and finished by turning furiously upon his host.
“You said the whole thing could be settled, damn you! And all you do is to go on baiting me! You know as well as I do that I can’t go to the police. However that sort of thing turns out, the mud sticks-you never get clear of it.”
“And you couldn’t trust your sister in the witness-box-could you?” Gregory Porlock’s voice was sympathetic. “A nervous type. And she won’t touch the money-will she?”
Into a stricken silence Masterman’s voice came only just above a whisper.
“Who said so?”
Gregory Porlock laughed.
“Her fur coat. If she was handling the money she’d have bought herself a new one.” He let something like a groan go by and resumed briskly. “That being that, we’d better get down to brass tacks. There really isn’t any need to get in a flap. Neither of the two witnesses to that will are going to think anything about it unless someone puts it into their heads. Mrs. Wells has been away with a married daughter, and the cook at No. 17 has left and gone back to the north where she came from. Annie has devoted relations in Canada who have been begging her to join them for years. If she were to go out to them with her passage paid and a little something in her stocking foot, I have a feeling that her conscience would simmer down. Change of air, you know-change of scene-new interests-reunion with a loving family-I don’t suppose she’d ever think about that will again. Of course you wouldn’t appear in the matter at all. There wouldn’t be the slightest connection. She hasn’t asked for anything, and she won’t know where the money comes from. An unknown benefactor supplies a long-felt want and no questions asked. I will see that her passage is taken and that she avails herself of it.”
Geoffrey Masterman set his teeth and said,
“How much?”
“A thousand pounds.”
Chapter XII
Mr. and Mrs. Tote and Moira Lane arrived in time for tea, Miss Lane very tall and elegant, with brilliant eyes, a flashing smile, and considerable charm.
Mrs. Tote presented as great a contrast as it was possible to imagine. A very expensive fur coat having been shed, there appeared a wispy little woman rather like a mouse, with scant grey hair twisted up into a straggly knot behind. Do her hair any other way than she had done it ever since she grew up, Mrs. Tote would not. She brushed it neatly, and she put in plenty of pins. It wasn’t her fault if the fur turban which went with the coat was so heavy that it dragged the hair down. She hadn’t wanted the fur turban. She would have liked a nice neat matron’s hat in one of those light felts like she used to get when they had their business in Clapham, before Albert made all that money. The turban made her head ache, like a lot of the things that had happened since they got rich. She would have been glad to take it off like that Miss Lane had done with hers, pulling it off careless, and her hair all shining waves underneath. She liked to see a girl with a nice head of hair, and fair hair paid for dressing. Nice to be able just to pull off your hat like that and feel sure that you were all right underneath. But of course not suitable at her age, and the hairpins dropping out like they always did all the way down in the car.
Moira Lane ’s clear, light voice broke into Mrs. Tote’s reflections. Gregory Porlock had just said, “Where’s your young man?” and Moira was saying, “He won’t be a moment-he’s just putting the car away. Really angel of you to let me bring him, Greg, because if you hadn’t, I’d have had to come by train, and if there’s one thing that brings my sordid stony-broke state home to me more than another, it is having to travel third-class on this revolting line and grapple with my luggage at the change, whereas if I can float from door to door in somebody’s car I get the heavenly illusion of being not only solvent but more or less in the class of the idle rich. So when I ran into Justin last night and found he was positively dying to meet you-well, it all did seem too good to be wasted, didn’t it?”
Gregory Porlock put a friendly hand on her shoulder.
“That’s all right, my dear. But-dying to meet me-why?”
Moira laughed.
“Well, to be quite accurate, it’s the Martin Oakleys he’s dying to meet. Sorry if it’s a disappointment, but it’s all the same thing, isn’t it-Martin and you being the world’s buddies and all that.”
“Why does he want to meet Martin Oakley?”
She gave a slight impatient frown.
“Oh, some schoolgirl cousin umpteen times removed has just taken a job there-secretary to his wife or something. Justin says he’s practically her guardian, so he wants to meet them. Amusing when you know Justin. I’m just wondering how ravishingly pretty she would have to be to make him come over responsible.”
Gregory Porlock laughed.
“Well, you’ll be able to see for yourself in an hour or two, because the Oakleys are dining here and I told them to bring her along.”
He moved away from her to make himself charming to Mrs. Tote.
Miss Masterman poured out tea with an exhausted air. There were very good scones and home-made cakes, but the only one who did any justice to them was Mrs. Tote. One of the things she didn’t like about being fashionable was the miserable sort of tea people gave you in London -little wafery curls of bread and butter, and the sort of sandwich that wouldn’t keep a butterfly alive. She didn’t care whether she ever had another late dinner, but she did like a good sit-down tea. And here was Mr. Porlock giving her a little table to herself and helping her to honey with her buttered scone.
When Justin Leigh came in he kept her company. Having missed lunch, he was hungry enough to deal appreciatively with the excellent tea provided by his host.
“Your cousin’s coming to dinner,” said Moira Lane. “No-I don’t eat tea. It’s no use waving buns at me as if I was something in a zoo. What’s her name?”