Part 39 (1/2)

'Dare say! But there's no dare say about it. It's a question of fact.

And, by George, that Jimmy of yours, he's a Marquis too.'

'So Miss Desmond says.'

'She does, does she? And Pollie, she's the Lady Pollie. Why, you've got a room full of t.i.tles, and I'm the only common person in it. I'm not accustomed to having intimate relations with the upper circles, so you'll have to excuse me if my manners fall short of what they ought to be. Talk of the romance of the stage. Nothing I ever heard of in that line comes within shouting distance of this. To think of you having been a Marchioness all these years and never knowing it! And such a Marchioness too! None of your pauper peeresses who have to introduce American young women to the Queen in order to make two ends meet, but the real, gilt-edged, rolling-in-riches, house-in-Grosvenor Square kind. Why, I have heard that the income of the Marquis of Twickenham is over a hundred thousand pounds a year, all profit--besides plenty of perquisites. That's better than being a Star of the Halls.'

He was silent; I expect because he was turning things over in his mind.

'I remember now reading about the Marquis of Twickenham's being rather a funny lot, and I've a sort of notion that I did hear that no one knew where he was. So Babbacombe was he! Well, tastes do differ. And without wanting to know too much about what caused him to turn up, being a Marquis, I can only say that it would have wanted a lot to have made me take to the game of Wonderful Sleeping Man instead.

Between a real live Marquis and even a Marvel of the Age there is a difference.'

Another pause. I seemed to hear him talking to me like a person in a dream.

'Well, Marchioness--I don't know if that's the proper way in which to address a lady in your position, but if it isn't you'll have to excuse me till I do know--you are now one of the greatest ladies in the land, and I shall have to behave to you as such. As for my lord the Marquis, I shall have to mind my p's and q's with a vengeance when I'm talking to him. I suppose he'll give up his taste for hardbake, and won't look at anything under chocolate creams. Which is a pity--because I happen to have some hardbake in my pocket at this very moment--My Lord Marquis!' Spoken to like that, Jimmy wouldn't go. 'Pardon me if I'm over familiar just this once, but--Jimmy!'

Jimmy went. Mr. FitzHoward was mistaken if he really did think hardbake wasn't good enough; because Pollie and the boy began to get rid of what he gave them in a style which I knew meant sticky fingers and dirty faces.

'There is only one remark, my dear Marchioness--if you'll allow me to make so bold as to call you so--which I wish to make, and that is that it's a pretty sure thing that you'll do honour to the high position to which you have so suddenly been called. You'll look the part just as well as you will act it, And if there's any woman who's more worthy of being the great lady than you are, I've yet to come across her. In a man who's had such a varied experience of the profession as I have had, that's saying something, as you know.'

'Mr. FitzHoward, you forget one thing.'

'What's that?'

'James is dead.'

'I don't forget it. I remember it all the time. But there are visitations of Providence, Marchioness, which we must all put up with; the lowly like me, as well as the great like you.'

'He was killed.'

'Killed! Mrs. Merrett! I mean, Marchioness!'

'Mr. Howarth killed him.'

'I say! My dear lady--if you'll pardon my dropping the t.i.tle for just this once--don't you go taking foolish words of mine as if they'd been meant. As I explained to you yesterday, I've a professional way of talking and an unprofessional; and when I'm talking professionally, I'm not, between you and me, to be taken as meaning just exactly what I say. Now this is an unprofessional moment, in which we're dealing with the cold, dry truth; so let me take this opportunity to tell you that what I was saying about Mr. Howarth, in my professional manner, was just tommy rot, and nothing more. A man in Mr. Howarth's position is no more likely to kill your husband, or any one else, than he is to ride on a broomstick to the moon.'

'But he did kill him.'

'Now, my dear, my esteemed Marchioness, what grounds have you for saying that? What t.i.ttle of evidence--outside my balderdash, which, mind, was balderdash, and nothing else--have you which points that way?'

'I haven't told you how they say he died.'

'Well, let's hear.'

'They say he died of heart disease.'

'Of what?'

'Of heart disease--on the day after he left home.'

'That he certainly never did. There's some mistake there. His heart was sound as a bell. He had it examined by three doctors before the Aquarium people would let him start upon that sleep of his. They were unanimously of opinion that its condition was perfect. They gave their certificate to that effect--I have it at home now. And the night he woke he was overhauled by at least half-a-dozen. Every man Jack of them said that his heart and lungs were flawless, and that his general condition was altogether beyond their expectation.'