Part 47 (1/2)

The shock of meeting Eve in _The Sunday Picture_ was terrible, but equally terrible to Mr. Prohack was the discovery of his ignorance in regard to the owners.h.i.+p of the n.o.ble mansion. He had understood--or more correctly he had been given to understand--that the house and its contents belonged to a certain peer, whose taste in the arts was as celebrated as that of his lordly forefathers had been. a.s.suredly neither Eliza Fiddle nor anybody like her could have been responsible for the exquisite decorations and furnis.h.i.+ngs of that house. On the other hand, it would have been very characteristic of Eliza Fiddle to leave the house as carelessly as it had been left, with valuable or invaluable bibelots lying about all over the place. Almost certainly Eliza Fiddle must have had some sort of effective owners.h.i.+p of the place. He knew that dazzling public favourites did sometimes enjoy astounding and mysterious luck in the matter of luxurious homes, and that some of them progressed through a series of such homes, each more inexplicable than the last. He would not pursue the enquiry, even in his own mind. He had of course no grudge against the efficient and strenuous Eliza, for he was perfectly at liberty not to pay money in order to see her. She must be an exceedingly clever woman; and it was not in him to cast stones.

Yet, Pharisaical sn.o.b, he did most violently resent that she should be opposite his wife in _The Sunday Picture...._ Eve! Eve! A few short weeks ago, and you made a mock of women who let themselves get into _The Daily Picture_. And now you are there yourself! (But so, and often, was the siren Lady Ma.s.sulam! A ticklish thing, criticism of life!)

And there was another point, as sharp as any. Ozzie Morfey must have known, Charlie must have known, Sissie must have known, Eve herself must have known, that the _de facto_ owner of the n.o.ble mansion was Eliza Fiddle. And none had vouchsafed the truth to him.

”We'll struggle back to town I think,” said Mr. Prohack to Carthew, with a pitiable affectation of brightness. And instead of sitting by Carthew's side, as previously, he sat behind, and reflected upon the wisdom of Carthew. He had held that Carthew's views were warped by a peculiar experience. He now saw that they were not warped at all, but shapely, sane and incontrovertible.

II

That evening, soon after dark, the Eagle, dusty and unkempt from a journey which had not been free from mishaps, rolled up to the front-door of Mr. Prohack's original modest residence behind Hyde Park; and Mr. Prohack jumped out; and Carthew came after him with two bags.

The house was as dark as the owner's soul; not a gleam of light in any window. Mr. Prohack produced his familiar latch-key, sc.r.a.ped round the edge of the key-hole, savagely pushed in the key, and opened the door.

There was still no light nor sign of life. Mr. Prohack paused on the threshold, and then his hand instinctively sought the electric switch and pulled it down. No responsive gleam!

”Machin!” called Mr. Prohack, as it were plaintively.

No sound.

”I am a fool,” thought Mr. Prohack.

He struck a match and walked forward delicately, peering. He descried an empty portmanteau lying on the stairs. He shoved against the dining-room door, which was ajar, and lit another match, and started back. The dining-room was full of ghosts, furniture sheeted in dust-sheets; and a newspaper had been made into a cap over his favourite Chippendale clock.

He retreated.

”Put those bags into the car again,” he said to Carthew, who stood hesitant on the vague whiteness of the front-step.

How much did Carthew know? Mr. Prohack was too proud to ask. Carthew was no longer an authority on women lunching with an equal; he was a servitor engaged and paid on the clear understanding that he should not speak until spoken to.

”Drive to Claridge's Hotel,” said Mr. Prohack.

”Yes, sir.”

At the entrance to the hotel the party was received by gigantic uniformed guards with all the respect due to an Eagle. Ignoring the guards, Mr. Prohack pa.s.sed imperially within to the reception office.

”I want a bedroom, a sitting-room and a bath-room, please.”

”A private suite, sir?”

”A private suite.”

”What--er--kind, sir? We have--”

”The best,” said Mr. Prohack, with finality. He signed his name and received a ticket.

”Please have my luggage taken out of the car, and tell my chauffeur I shall want him at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, and that he should take the car to the hotel-garage, wherever it is, and sleep here. I will have some tea at once in my sitting-room.”

The hotel-staff, like all hotel-staffs, loved a customer who knew his mind with precision and could speak it. Mr. Prohack was admirably served.

After tea he took a bath because he could think of nothing else to do.

The bath, as baths will, inspired him with an idea. He set out on foot to Manchester Square, and having reached the Square cautiously followed the side opposite to the n.o.ble mansion. The n.o.ble mansion blazed with lights through the wintry trees. It resembled the set-piece of a pyrotechnic display. Mr. Prohack s.h.i.+vered in the dank evening. Then he observed that blinds and curtains were being drawn in the n.o.ble mansion, shutting out from its superb n.o.bility the miserable, crude, poverty-stricken world. With the exception of the glow in the fan light over the majestic portals, the n.o.ble mansion was now as dark as Mr.

Prohack's other house.