Part 21 (1/2)
”No one asked you to come, mother,” Eve remarked with a sigh.
”Asked me to come, indeed!” the newcomer retorted. ”Look at you both! I've heard all about your doings. This gentleman by my side has told me a few things. I'll talk to you presently, young woman. But say, is there anywhere on the face of this earth such a miserable, addle-headed lunatic as that man whom it's my misfortune to call my husband?”
She shook her fist at Mr. Bundercombe, who seemed to have become still smaller. Then she looked at me, and at Reggie, who was standing with his mouth wide open. She fixed upon us as her audience.
”Look at him!” she went on, stretching out her hands. ”There's a respectable American for you! For thirty years he works as a man should-- for it's what a man's made for--and thanks to his wife's help and advice he prospers. Look at him, I ask you! A baby can see that he hasn't the brains of a chicken. Yet there he stands--Joseph H. Bundercombe, of Bundercombe's Reapers, with eight million dollars' worth of stock to his name!”
I saw Reggie's eyes go up to the ceiling and I knew he was dividing eight million dollars by five. An expression almost of reverence pa.s.sed into his face as he achieved the result. We none of us felt the slightest inclination to interrupt. Mrs. Bundercombe's long, skinny forefinger drew a little nearer to her victim. Then she coughed--the short, dry cough of the professional speaker--and continued:
”Wouldn't you believe that was success enough for any reasonable mortal?
Wouldn't you say that, with a wife holding an honored and great position in the State, and his daughter by his side, he'd settle down out there and live a respectable, decent life? Not he! First of all he wants to travel.
”What does he do, then, but take up what he calls a hobby! He buys and gloats over every silly detective story that was ever written; practises disguises and making himself up, as he calls it; takes lessons in conjuring; haunts the police courts; consorts with criminals--in short, behaves like a great overgrown child in his own native city, where the name of Bundercombe--from the feminine standpoint--realizes everything that stands for freedom and greatness. The time came when it was necessary for me to put down my foot once and for all. I called him to me.
”'Joseph Henry Bundercombe,' I said,'there must be an end to this!' 'There shall be,' he promised. The next day he and Eve, my misguided stepdaughter, were on their way to Europe; and I am credibly informed they cheated a commercial traveler at cards on the way to New York. That I find him at liberty now, it seems to me, is entirely owing to the clemency and kindness of this gentleman, who recognized my description at Scotland Yard and brought me here.”
”Say, all I'm prepared to admit about that is that it was somehow fortunate,” Mr. Bundercombe remarked with a sudden revival of his old self, ”that it fell to my lot to have Mr. Cullen investigate some of my small adventures!”
”Mr. Bundercombe,” said Cullen severely, ”I think you will do well to listen to your wife and to take her advice. There are one or two of these little affairs, you must remember, that are not entirely closed yet.”
Mr. Bundercombe sighed. He adopted an att.i.tude of resignation.
”Well, Cullen,” he replied, ”if my career of crime is really to come to an end I don't want to bear you any ill will. We'll just take a stroll downstairs and talk about it.”
Mrs. Bundercombe, with a quick movement to the left, blocked the way.
”That means a visit to the bar!” she declared. ”I know you, Mr.
Bundercombe. You'll stay right here and listen to a little more of what I've got to say. Who this gentleman may be I don't at present know,” she went on, turning suddenly upon me; ”but I am agreeable to listen to his name if any one has the manners to mention it.”
”Walmsley, madam,” I told her quickly, ”Paul Walmsley. I have the honor to be engaged to marry your stepdaughter.”
Mrs. Bundercombe looked at me in stony silence. Twice she opened her lips, and I am quite sure that if words had come they would have been unkind ones. Twice apparently, however, her command of language seemed inadequate.
”So you're going to marry an Englishman,” she said, glaring at Eve.
”I am going to marry Mr. Walmsley, mother,” Eve agreed sweetly. ”He has been such a kind friend to us during the last few days--and I rather fancy I shall like living on this side.”
”Dear me! Dear me! I hadn't heard of this!” Mr. Bundercombe remarked with interest. ”You and I will go downstairs and have a little chat about it, Mr. Walmsley.”
He made another strategic movement toward the door, which was promptly and effectually frustrated by his wife.
”No, you don't!” Mrs. Bundercombe prohibited. ”I've a good deal more to say yet. I haven't been dragged over the ocean three thousand miles to have you all slip away directly I arrive. A nice state of things indeed!
My husband, Joseph H. Bundercombe, a suspect at Scotland Yard, followed everywhere by detectives; and my daughter----”
”Stepdaughter, please,” Eve interrupted.
”Stepdaughter then!--talking about marrying a man she's probably known about twenty-four hours and met at a bar or in a thieves' kitchen, or something of the sort! If you must marry an Englishman,” she continued with rising voice, ”why don't you marry Lord Reginald Sidley there? His father is an earl, anyway.”
”His uncle's one,” Reggie put in gloomily, jerking his head toward me.