Part 12 (1/2)

”Everybody arrived yet, Preston?” I asked.

”Not yet, Sir Thomas, so I understand. I and Captain Moore's man and his lords.h.i.+p's was havin' a cherry brandy in the housekeeper's room just now, and the bulk of the house-party will be arriving by the later train, between tea and dinner, Sir Thomas.”

”And Mr. Morse?”

”Only just before dinner, Sir Thomas; he always travels in a special train.”

I saw by Preston's face that he considered this a sn.o.bbish and ostentatious thing to do, and, in the case of an ordinary multi-millionaire, I should certainly have agreed with him. But I recalled facts that had come to my notice about the famous Brazilian, and I wondered. There was the astounding scene at the Ritz, for instance, and more than that. I had not been following up Juanita for three months, in town, at Henley, and at Cowes, without noticing that Mr. Gideon Morse seemed to have an un.o.btrusive but quite singular entourage.

More than once, for example, I had caught sight of a certain great hulking man in tweeds, a professional Irish-American bruiser, if ever there was one.

Tea was in the hall of the great house. I was introduced to Sir Walter, a delightful man, with a hooked nose, a tiny mustache, the remains of gray hair, and a charming smile. Lady Stileman also made me most welcome. Her hair was gray, but her figure was slight and upright as a girl's, and many girls in the County must have envied her dainty prettiness, and the charm of her lazy, musical voice.

Circ.u.mstances paired me off with a vivacious young lady whose face I seemed to know, whose surname I could not catch, but whom every one called ”Poppy.”

”I say,” she said, after her third cup of tea and fourth egg sandwich, ”you're the _Evening Special_, aren't you?”

I admitted it.

”Well,” she said, ”I do think you might give me a show now and then.

Considering the press I generally get, I've never been quite able to understand why the _Special_ leaves me out of it.”

I thought she must be an actress--and yet she hadn't quite that manner.

At any rate I said:

”I'm awfully sorry, but you see I'm only editor, and I've nothing really to do with the dramatic criticism. However, please say the word, and I'll ginger up my man at once.”

”Dramatic criticism!” she said, her eyes wide with surprise. ”Sir Thomas, can it really be that you don't know who I am?”

It was a little embarra.s.sing.

”Do you know, I know your face awfully well,” I said, ”though I'm quite sure we've never met before or I should have remembered, and when Lady Stileman introduced us just now all I caught was Poppy.”

She sighed--I should put her between nineteen and twenty in age--”Well, for a London editor, you _are_ a fossil, though you don't look more than about six-and-twenty. Why, Poppy Boynton!”

Then, in a flash, I knew. This was the Hon. Poppy Boynton, Lord Portesham's daughter, the flying girl, the leading lady aviator, who had looped the loop over Mont Blanc and done all sorts of mad, extraordinary things.

”_Of course_, I know you, Miss Boynton! Only, I never expected to meet you here. What a chance for an editor! Do tell me all your adventures.”

”Will you give me a column interview on the front page if I do?”

”Of course I will. I'll write it myself.”

”And a large photograph?”

”Half the back page if you like.”

”You're a dear,” she said in a business-like voice. ”On second thoughts, I'll write the interview myself and give it you before we leave here. And, meanwhile, I'll tell you an extraordinary flight of mine only yesterday.”

I was in for it and there was no way out. Still, she was extremely pretty and a celebrity in her way, so I settled myself to listen.