Part 21 (1/2)

The other hastened to rea.s.sure him.

”Oh, no, not at all. But I thought you might be able to tell me where the person is to be found, her address, or something about her. I understand that she was a model; you probably know her....”

The painter shrugged his shoulders.

”Who is she? What is her name?”

”Kitty--that's all I know.”

”Kitty? Kitty Crichton, I suppose.”

A light dawned on him; the name opened a door to many forgotten trivial incidents. He did not speak again for a minute, and when he broke the silence there was a harder tone in his voice, and he rose from his chair at the same time.

”I don't see how this can concern me, or you, either. You must pardon me if I say that I dislike meddling, and people who meddle.”

Sylvester blushed hotly.

”You don't suppose I want to do him anything but good,” he said diplomatically, trying to convince himself that he was not damaging the reputation for perfect candour which he hoped that he enjoyed.

”It's not a pleasant task, but there are circ.u.mstances in which one has to sacrifice one's scruples--one's feelings.”

Oswyn glanced at him again, with some contempt in the lines of his worn face.

”Excuse me if I refrain from sounding your motives.”

Then he paused, fingering his soft felt hat. Suddenly his face was illumined by a remarkably grim smile, and it became evident to the man who was watching him so anxiously that there had occurred some change in his mental perspective.

”I don't quite understand why you brought me into this,” he added, the smile still hovering very lightly on his lips. ”However, under the circ.u.mstances, I think I can't do much harm by putting you in the way of finding Mrs. Crichton. Let me recommend you to inquire for her at the office of the _Outcry_, the newspaper--she used to work for it, I believe--in Took's Court. They will know her address there. Took's Court--it's only a few minutes' walk from here.

Thanks, I can find my way out....”

”I suppose that was rather a stupid thing to do,” he said regretfully, as he stopped in the doorway below to light a cigarette, ”though not such a _betise_ as his, _mon dieu_!... But I couldn't resist the temptation. Now, I wonder if he's clever enough to find out the truth?”

CHAPTER XXI

The night was dark and still--so dark that above the tree-tops all was a soft, abysmal blank, so still that the j.a.panese lanterns scarcely swung on their strings among the apple-trees, and the leaves almost forgot to rustle. From the tent in the corner of the little garden (little, but large for a garden in London) the quaint, rapturous music of the Hungarian band floated in fitful extravagance, now wildly dominating, now graciously accompanying the murmur of many voices, the mingled pace of feet, and the lingering sweep of silken skirts upon the shadowed gra.s.s. The light streamed in broad, electric rays from the open windows of the low, wide house, and from the tall double doors of the studio, which had been added at the side, broken continually by the silhouettes of guests who entered the rooms or sought the cooler air outside, and dulling to the quiet glow of old stained gla.s.s the rich radiance of the fantastic coloured lanterns.

It was one of the series of summer evenings on which, according to the cards which had been so widely circulated, Mr. and Mrs.

Lightmark were ”at home” to their friends and to their friends'

friends; and Rainham, who was a late arrival at the elaborate house in Grove Road, was able after a time to recognise many familiar faces, some of them almost forgotten, among those who had elected to be present. The rooms, in spite of the outlet afforded by the garden, were all surprisingly full; and after a hurried exchange of greetings, which Eve's duties as hostess had compelled her to curtail, he had pa.s.sed through a jungle of brilliant toilettes and unfamiliar figures into the newly-built, bright studio, where he had been told that he would find his friend. He had abundant leisure to corroborate the first impression of a splendour for which he was hardly prepared, which had seized him when he entered the hall and surrendered his coat to a courteous servant in livery, before Lightmark, radiant and flushed with success, singled him out in the corner to which he had retreated in loneliness.

”So glad to see you, old man! we were hoping you would turn up.

Better late than never. Isn't it a crush? I a.s.sure you our evenings are becoming quite an inst.i.tution. You will find scores of people you know here. Excuse my leaving you. Not much like the old studio days, eh? Afternoon tea with Copal's cups and saucers, and Mrs. Thingumy's tea-cakes. Your friend Lady Garnett is here somewhere--I'll be shot if I know where. Try the garden; you can get out this way. See you again later.”

”All right, d.i.c.k,” he answered with equanimity, smiling with a little inward amus.e.m.e.nt; ”you look after your people. I will find my way about.”

As he made his way discreetly among the little groups of people who strolled processionally along the gravel walks and beneath the trees, or disposed themselves in basket chairs upon the lawn, feeling himself vaguely exhilarated by the not too abstruse music of the posturing fiddlers, his eyes caressed by the soft glow of the j.a.panese lanterns, strung like antique jewelled necklets against the almost tangible blackness of the night, he found himself listening with an half-malicious amus.e.m.e.nt to the commonplace of the conversational formulae affected by the young world of society, the well-worn, patched-up questions, the antic.i.p.ated answers. It was very little changed since the time when he had not yet emanc.i.p.ated himself from the dreary bondage of such functions. It was croquet then, lawn-tennis now; for the rest only the names were different.

Presently he encountered McAllister, a solitary wanderer like himself, and they found themselves seats before long in the darkest corner of the garden, where a few chairs had been placed, outside the radius of the lanterns, underneath a weeping willow.