Part 23 (1/2)

”But there's no party at Number 402,” I insisted. ”The thing's impossible.”

”Very well, then; I'm a liar, and that ends it.” He wheeled again and began to walk his horse sullenly forward. ”'Oo's blind this time?” he demanded, coming to a standstill in front of the house.

An awning stretched down from the front door and across the pavement, where two policemen guarded the alighting guests from pressure by a small but highly curious crowd. Overhead, the first-floor windows had been flung wide; the rooms within were aflame with light; and, as I grasped the rail of the splashboard, and, straightening myself up, gazed over the cab-roof with a wild surmise into the driver's face, a powerful but invisible string band struck up the 'Country Girl' Lancers!

”'Oo's a liar now?” He jerked his whip towards the number ”402” staring down at me from the illuminated pane above the awning.

”But it 'is my own house!” I gasped.

”Hoh?” said he. ”Well, it _may_ be. _I_ don't conteraddict.”

”Here, give me my bag!” I fumbled in my pocket for his fare.

”Cook giving a party? Well, you're handy for the Wild West out here--good old Earl's Court!” He jerked his whip again towards the awning as a North American Indian in full war-paint pa.s.sed up the steps and into the house, followed by the applause of the crowd.

I must have overpaid the man extravagantly, for his tone changed suddenly as he examined the coins in his hand. ”Look here, guvnor, if you want any little 'elp, I was barman one time at the 'Elephant'--”

But I caught up my bag, swung off the step, and, squeezing between a horse's wet nose and the back of a brougham, gained the pavement, where a red-baize carpet divided the ranks of the crowd.

”Hullo!” One of the policemen put out a hand to detain me.

”It's all right,” I a.s.sured him; ”I belong to the house.” It seemed a safer explanation than that the house belonged to me.

”Is it the ices?” he asked.

But I ran up the porchway, eager to get to grips with Trewlove.

On the threshold a young and extremely elegant footman confronted me.

”Where is Trewlove?” I demanded.

The footman was glorious in a ta.s.selled coat and knee-breeches, both of bright blue. He wore his hair in powder, and eyed me with suspicion if not with absolute disfavour.

”Where is Trewlove?” I repeated, dwelling fiercely on each syllable.

The a.s.s became lightly satirical. ”Well we may wonder,” said he; ”search the wide world over! But reely and truly you've come to the wrong 'ouse this time. Here, stand to one side!” he commanded, as a lady in the costume of La Pompadour, followed by an Old English Gentleman with an anachronistic Hebrew nose, swept past me into the hall. He bowed deferentially while he mastered their names, ”Mr. and Mrs. Levi-Levy!” he cried, and a second footman came forward to escort them up the stairs. To convince myself that this was my own house I stared hard at a bust of Havelock--my late uncle's chief, and for religious as well as military reasons his _beau ideal_ of a British warrior.

The young footman resumed. ”When you've had a good look round and seen all you want to see--”

”I am Mr. Richardson,” I interrupted; ”and up to a few minutes ago I supposed myself to be the owner of this house. Here--if you wish to a.s.sure yourself--is my card.”

His face fell instantly, fell so completely and woefully that I could not help feeling sorry for him. ”I beg pardon, sir--most 'umbly, I do indeed.

You will do me the justice, sir--I had no idea, as _per_ description, sir, being led to expect a different kind of gentleman altogether.

”You had my telegram, then?”

”Telegram, sir?” He hesitated, searching his memory.

”Certainly--a telegram sent by me at one o'clock this afternoon, or thereabouts--”

Here, with an apology, he left me to attend to a new arrival--a Yellow Dwarf with a decidedly music-hall manner, who nudged him in the stomach and fell upon his neck exclaiming, ”My long-lost brother!”