Part 12 (2/2)
”What!”
”I suppose he is still the same dear, stupid, s.h.i.+ftless fellow?
He left here with the intention of travelling round the world, and he has stopped in New York! How like him!”
”Do you know Lord Wisbeach?” demanded Mrs. Pett.
Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows.
”Know him? Why, I suppose, after Lord Percy Whipple, he is James'
most intimate friend!”
Mrs. Pett rose. She was dignified even in defeat. She collected Ogden and Mr. Pett with an eye which even Ogden could see was not to be trifled with. She uttered no word.
”Must you really go?” said Mrs. Crocker. ”It was sweet of you to bother to come all the way from America like this. So strange to meet any one from America nowadays. Most extraordinary!”
The _cortege_ left the room in silence. Mrs. Crocker had touched the bell, but the mourners did not wait for the arrival of Bayliss. They were in no mood for the formalities of polite Society. They wanted to be elsewhere, and they wanted to be there quick. The front door had closed behind them before the butler reached the morning-room.
”Bayliss,” said Mrs. Crocker with happy, s.h.i.+ning face, ”send for the car to come round at once.”
”Very good, madam.”
”Is Mr. James up yet?”
”I believe not, madam.”
Mrs. Crocker went upstairs to her room. If Bayliss had not been within earshot, she would probably have sung a bar or two. Her amiability extended even to her step-son, though she had not altered her intention of speaking eloquently to him on certain matters when she could get hold of him. That, however, could wait. For the moment, she felt in vein for a gentle drive in the Park.
A few minutes after she had disappeared, there was a sound of slow footsteps on the stairs, and a young man came down into the hall. Bayliss, who had finished telephoning to the garage for Mrs. Crocker's limousine and was about to descend to those lower depths where he had his being, turned, and a grave smile of welcome played over his face.
”Good morning, Mr. James,” he said.
CHAPTER IV
JIMMY'S DISTURBING NEWS
Jimmy Crocker was a tall and well-knit young man who later on in the day would no doubt be at least pa.s.sably good-looking. At the moment an unbecoming pallor marred his face, and beneath his eyes were marks that suggested that he had slept little and ill. He stood at the foot of the stairs, yawning cavernously.
”Bayliss,” he said, ”have you been painting yourself yellow?”
”No, sir.”
”Strange! Your face looks a bright gamboge to me, and your outlines wobble. Bayliss, never mix your drinks. I say this to you as a friend. Is there any one in the morning-room?”
”No, Mr. James.”
”Speak softly, Bayliss, for I am not well. I am conscious of a strange weakness. Lead me to the morning-room, then, and lay me gently on a sofa. These are the times that try men's souls.”
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