Part 35 (1/2)
Lydia turned reproachful eyes upon her.
”You think so, too,” she said.
”Why, yes, dear imp, I know it. Jeff's case is ancient history.
We can't do anything practical about it, so what we want is to agitate--agitate--until he leaves his absurd plaything--carrots, is it, or summer squash?--and gets into business in a civilised way. The man's a genius, if only his mind wakes up. Let him think we're going to spread the necklace story far and wide, let him see Esther about to be hauled before public opinion--”
”He doesn't love Esther,” said Lydia, and then savagely bit her lip.
”Don't you believe it,” said Madame Beattie sagely. ”She's only to crook her finger. Agitate. Why, I'll do it myself. There's that dirty little man that wants an interview for his paper. I'll give him one.”
”Weedon Moore?” asked Lydia. ”Anne won't let me know him.”
”Well, you do know him, don't you?”
”I saw him once. But when I threaten to take Jeff's case to him, if Mr.
Choate won't stir himself, Anne says I sha'n't even speak to him. He isn't nice, she thinks. I don't know who told her.”
”Choate, my dear,” said Madame Beattie. ”He's afraid Moore will get hold of you. He's blocking your game, that's all.”
Madame Beattie, the next day, did go to Weedon Moore's office. He was unprepared for her and so the more agonisingly impressed. Here was a rough-spoken lady who, he understood, was something like a princess in other countries, and she was offering him an interview.
Madame Beattie showed she had the formula, and could manage quite well alone.
”The point is the necklace,” said she, sitting straight and fanning herself, regarding him with so direct a gaze that he pressed his knees in nervous spasms. ”You don't need to ask me how old I am nor whether I like this country. The facts are that I was given a very valuable necklace--by a Royal Personage. Bless you, man! aren't you going to take it down?”
”Yes, yes,” stammered Moore. ”I beg your pardon.”
He got block and pencil, and though the att.i.tude of writing relieved him from the necessity of looking at her, he felt the sweat break out on his forehead and knew how it was dampening his flat hair.
”The necklace,” said Madame Beattie, ”became famous. I wore it just enough to give everybody a chance to wonder whether I was to wear it or not. The papers would say, 'Madame Beattie wore the famous necklace.'”
”Am I permitted to say--” Weedon began, and then wondered how he could proceed.
”You can say anything I do,” said Madame Beattie promptly. ”No more. Of course not anything else. What is it you want to say?”
Weedon dropped the pencil, and under the table began to squeeze inspiration from his knees.
”Am I permitted,” he continued, aghast at the liberty he was taking, ”to know the name of the giver?”
”Certainly not,” said Madame Beattie, but without offence. ”I told you a Royal Personage. Besides, everybody knows. If your people here don't, it's because the're provincial and it doesn't matter whether they know it or not. I will continue. The necklace, I told you, became almost as famous as I. Then there was trouble.”
”When?” ventured Weedon.
”Oh, a long time after, a very long time. The Royal Personage was going to be married and her Royal Highness--”
”Her Royal Highness?”
”Of course. Do you suppose he would have been allowed to marry a commoner? That was always the point. She made a row, very properly. The necklace was famous and some of the gems in it are historic. She was a thrifty person. I don't blame her for it. She wasn't going to see historic jewels drift back to the rue de la Paix. So they made me a proposition.”
Moore was forgetting to be shy. He licked his lips, the story promised so enticingly.