Part 12 (1/2)

”Let's go into a waiting-room and talk it over quietly. We don't want to make any silly mistakes,” said Mr. Wilkinson yet more faintly.

”I should think you didn't! You've made enough already,” said the Honourable John Ruffin frankly. ”But you'd better come along to my chambers. I've got Mary Bride's little brother there and a woman who has known her all her life. If you can't take my word for it, she'll convince you all right.”

Mr. Wilkinson was very limp in the taxicab: he perceived that he had allowed his enthusiasm to carry him away with the result that he had been hopelessly duped. It was indeed mortifying, the more mortifying that he could not blame any one but himself--himself and nature. The more carefully he examined Pollyooly the more impressed he was by her likeness to Lady Marion Ricksborough. The detective was gloomy; he had lost a night's rest for nothing, as well as his hope of forthwith receiving the reward for the capture of the missing child, for it was he who had tracked her to the house in Devon. Now he might be months recovering her trail.

The Honourable John Ruffin on the other hand was in excellent spirits.

He had no desire to embroil himself with his cousin, by definitely taking the side of the d.u.c.h.ess in their quarrel; and he began to see plainly that the matter would never come to the duke's ears. Neither the lawyer nor the detective would talk about it; they both cut too ridiculous a figure.

At 75 the King's Bench Walk, they found Mrs. Brown and the Lump. Mr.

Wilkinson needed no more evidence than the warmth with which Pollyooly kissed and hugged her little brother; but none the less he received Mrs. Brown's convincing a.s.surances that she was Mary Bride.

When that worthy woman had been dismissed to the kitchen, he said heavily:

”This has been an unfortunate mistake--very unfortunate.”

”Not so unfortunate as it would have been if Pollyooly had been ten years older. It would have cost you hundreds. As it is, I shouldn't wonder if she would be content with a fiver as compensation,” said the Honourable John Ruffin with a soothing smile.

Mr. Wilkinson groaned; then he said:

”Well, I've made a mistake, and I suppose I must pay for it.”

Slowly and sadly he drew a five-pound note from his notebook and handed it to Pollyooly.

”Thank you, sir,” said Pollyooly; and dropped a curtsey, like the well-mannered child she was.

”Your housekeeper? To think that she should have roused the whole hotel to get that bath!” said Mr. Wilkinson bitterly.

”She was for the time being the daughter of a duke--by your appointment,” said the Honourable John Ruffin suavely.

Mr. Wilkinson waved the detective out of the room, and followed him.

At the door he paused to say very heavily:

”I shall never trust my eyes again.”

”No: I shouldn't,” said the Honourable John Ruffin gently. ”I think another time, if I were you, I should try gla.s.ses.”

CHAPTER VII

POLLYOOLY PLAYS THE GOOD SAMARITAN

Mr. Wilkinson had departed, a sadder but very little wiser man, and taken his detective with him; Mrs. Brown had been thanked, paid, and dismissed; and Pollyooly, having sufficiently fondled and kissed the irresponsive but unresisting Lump, went into the kitchen and set about getting ready the Honourable John Ruffin's tea.

She had lighted the gas under the kettle and taken the bread and b.u.t.ter from the cupboard, when he came into the kitchen, wearing an air of the most earnest purpose, and said impressively:

”Genius, Pollyooly--genius is the art of taking infinite pains.”

”Yes, sir,” said Pollyooly politely.

”That is why you are unsurpa.s.sed in the art of grilling bacon; you take infinite pains with it,” he went on with the same earnestness.