CHAPTER VII.
Now and then fresh evidence turned up that Scruton was really a millionaire; and the clearer that grew, the more difficult it was to understand why he had tricked my uncle, and tried to trick me, into letting him have his house rent free by setting Amber to play that ghost trick on us. I might have thought that it was his idea of a joke if he had ever shown any other signs of a humorous disposition; but he did not. I never came across anybody more serious.
I had quite made up my mind that his baccarat parties were on the square. Too many of the keenest gamblers in London, men who could not be cheated for any length of time, played at them regularly week after week. I could not understand, however, why he gave these parties so often, for, though he played most of the time himself, he did not seem at all a keen gambler; and not once did I see him plunge heavily. Again, he did not use the parties as a means of rising in the social scale. He seemed to have no ambition that way. I came to the conclusion that my idea that it was his hobby to have the severest gambling in London at his house was the right one. I always noticed that he kept a close eye on our winnings and losings; and at the end of each party he would rub his hands together and announce gleefully that twenty-five or thirty thousand pounds had changed hands in the course of the evening; and he always added:
“Fine gambling! First-class gambling! Eh, what?”
But it did seem to me a trifle thick that he should use Amber as an attraction to bring men to his parties if they were merely his hobby. It would have been more excusable if he had been playing some shady game with them. But there! Millionaires are queer fish.
I went to most of his parties; and every time I went I was annoyed afresh to find Amber being used as a decoy. It was really no business of mine, except that she and I were growing more and more friendly. In fact, I liked to go to them chiefly because I could keep an eye on her, and see that she was not annoyed by any of Scruton's guests. New guests, who did not know the ropes, were apt to be familiar, and needed checking. I did it.
Sir Theobald Walsh was a nuisance every time. He had been a guest at Scruton's parties since the beginning, long before I had ever come to one. He seemed to think, or, at any rate, he pretended to think, that that gave him some kind of a claim on Amber; and, unless something prevented him, he always spent a good deal of the evening hanging over her and talking to her with a proprietary air.
Now, as I have said, Walsh is not at all the kind of man one likes to see hanging about a nice girl. Married women are all very well; but a young girl is different. Besides, it wasn't only Walsh's ways, and what we all knew about him among ourselves, but his bad character was notorious. He had not only appeared in the divorce court as corespondent in the Cumberly scandal; but, at the inquest on the unfortunate Mrs. Bulkeley, it came out that she had committed suicide owing to the blackguardly way in which he had treated her. Also, I happened to know of the orgies—they were really orgies—that he held at The Cedars, his country house near Pinner. Naturally, he was not the kind of man who could hang about a girl without harming her reputation; and, whenever I saw him hanging about Amber, I interrupted.
He hated to be interrupted, but I never missed a chance of doing it. I joined in their talk—or rather joined in his talk, for Amber had very little to say to him—firmly; and every time we were soon snapping freely. I would sneer at things that he said, and he would sneer at things that I said, till our conversation grew rather cheery. Nearly always, before ten minutes were up, I had got him rabid and snarling; and generally at the end of half an hour I had driven him off to the card table. He must have lost quite a lot of money from playing baccarat in a bad temper. Sometimes, however, he would stick it out till Amber went off to bed.
Amber enjoyed our little bickerings up to a certain point; when Walsh began really to snarl, it made her uncomfortable. I scored, because she was always on my side. In fact, so far as Walsh's getting encouragement from her went, there would have been no need for me to interfere at all. She snubbed him straight and steadily all the time. But he could get on without any encouragement. She might have snubbed him ninety-nine evenings running, and the hundredth he would have turned up scowling, driven away every one, except me, who happened to be talking to her, and then leaned over her and talked to her for an hour, in a low, confidential voice, with his air of a proprietor.
One night—we had grown quite friendly enough—I said to her:
“I say, I wish you would keep away from these gambling parties. I know it's pretty dull for you, and they make an amusing break; but, all the same, they're not quite the thing for you, don't you know?”
She frowned a little, and answered slowly:
“Oh, I don't come to them because they break the dullness, but because my stepfather makes a point of it.”
“I wouldn't take any notice of that, if I were you.”
“Oh, but I must,” she said. “Here I am, living in his house, practically dependent on him. I must do what he asks me. And what forces me to do it more than anything else is that it's the only thing he does ask of me.”
“Well, if that's so, I must keep on being sociable with Walsh,” I sighed.
“You do annoy him,” she said, and she laughed softly.
“I do it for his good,” said I.
I did keep on being good to Walsh; so good that whenever he saw me, his eyes began to sparkle, and his usually amiable scowl grew blacker and blacker.
One night had been particularly bland with him; and though we came out of Number Nine in a nice, bright, morning light, and he should have had time to cool, since Amber had been in bed four hours, it seemed that he was boiling still.
I went down the steps first, and walked toward my house, expecting him to keep his distance behind me; for outside Scruton's I always cut him,
But he caught me up at once, and said:
“Look here, Garthoyle. We've got to come to some arrangement about that girl of Scruton's.”
“That's a pretty way of speaking of Miss Devine,” I said.
“I'm not in a punctilious temper to-night,” he growled savagely. “I'm in earnest. I'm going to have the matter settled up here and now.”
I looked at his working face and saw that he was indeed serious.
“Don't be an ass,” I said. “How can you settle it? The woman always settles this kind of thing.”
“It's no good you're shuffling. You know she can't settle it,” he snarled. “You won't let her. You keep diverting her attention from it.”
“From you, you mean,” said I.
“Yes, from me. You're always trying to set her against me. And it isn't as if you meant anything yourself. You don't. You're just playing the dog in the manger. You'd never marry her.”
“Would you?” I asked.
“Yes, I would—I will!” he cried.
“Poor girl!” said I.
He stormed and cursed at me in a growling roar.
“Don't make so much noise; you'll wake my tenants,” I protested.
He made more noise.
I waited till he had run out of breath; it gave me more time to think. Then I said:
“No; you shan't marry her—not if I can stop it. You're not fit to come near a decent girl, much less marry her. I'll stop it if I can; and think I can.”
“You think you can, do you? You infernal prig!” he cried. “Well, I'll show you all about that, and inside of a month, too.”
With that, he went off down Carisbrook Street, and I turned off to my house. He had given me plenty to think about, and I was uneasy. I did not see what he could do, but I did know that he would stick at nothing where a woman was concerned. At the same time I was a good deal surprised to learn that he was carrying le bon motif concealed about his person.
On consideration, I did not believe in it. Certainly he would not marry Amber; he had no intention of marrying her. Well, I must look after her more carefully than ever, when he was about.
But that was where he put a spoke in my wheel. Three mornings later, Herbert Polkington came to see me. I hadn't seen him for some time; not since I had congratulated him on having been saved from marrying Kitty Maynard. He came looking his most portentous—more like a funeral than a human being—and I braced myself.
He sat down, crossed his legs, and looked at me in what he believes to be an impressive way; it makes him look like an excited codfish. Then he cleared his throat and began:
“I've come to see you about a serious matter, Rupert—a very serious matter, indeed.”
“You generally do,” I retorted, without any show of gratitude at all. “What is it? Fire away; and try to put it plainly.”
Herbert frowned.
“It's about Miss Devine. I have been assured that you propose to contract an alliance with that young woman, the stepdaughter of that more-than-suspect New Zealander, Scruton.”
“Well, you've been assured wrong,” I said. “But suppose I did? Miss Devine is a very nice girl, quite charming.”
“I wish I had been misinformed,” said Herbert gloomily, shaking his large head. “But my informant”
“Who is your informant?” I asked quickly.
Herbert hesitated; then he said:
“Sir Theobald Walsh.”
“The biggest blackguard in London! You Liberals do keep nice company!”
“I met him quite by accident,” explained Herbert.
“We all know all about those accidents. And, now I come to think of it, it was you who first took me to gamble at Scruton's. You Liberals do lead lives!”
“As a matter of fact, I met him at one of your clubs, the Palladium!” snapped Herbert, his round face beginning to grow purplish. “And, in a case like this, I would as soon take the opinion of Sir Theobald Walsh as anybody's. His intrigues have made him an expert; and he is convinced that you are infatuated with this girl—infatuated. But it won't do, Rupert. With your name and money, you can't marry a girl who is merely a decoy in a gambling hell. That's what Scruton's house is.”
“I like this from you,” I said. “It's exactly what you wanted to do yourself. You wanted to marry Kitty Gage; and she was just as much, and just as little, a decoy as Miss Devine is. In fact, I think that Kitty Gage was a great deal more aware of the part she was playing than ever Miss Devine is.”
“Yes; I did want to marry Kitty Maynard, and I have learned that you saved me from the marriage”
“Saved her, my good chap—saved her,” I interrupted kindly.
“by helping Freddy Gage carry her off and marry her,”- Herbert went on, without heeding the interruption. “I am grateful to you, now, though I was very much annoyed at the time. It was an unfortunate fascination, and I had a lucky escape.”
“She had, at any rate,” said I.
“I could not let you fall into the very pit out of which you helped me without a word of protest and warning,” Herbert continued. “And this marriage wouldn't do. Walsh is very shrewd; and we both agreed that it wouldn't do.”
“I'm devilishly obliged to both of you for your interference,” I said. “But I've never dreamed of marrying Miss Devine; and I'm quite sure she's never dreamed of marrying me.”
“Oh, hasn't she?” sneered Herbert. “It's no use telling that kind of thing to a man of the world like me. Of course, she's had your thirty thousand a year in mind all the time.”
I stood up rather suddenly.
“You'd better go, Herbert,” I said quickly. “I should hate to kick a cousin out of my house.”
Herbert rose suddenly, too; and he went, protesting that that was not the way to receive a well-meant remonstrance. But he went quickly.
I was really angry. Amber was the last girl in the world to think about my thirty thousand a year—the very last He had no right, moreover, to talk about my marrying her. We were not at all on that kind of footing. We were just good friends, and nothing more.
I was glad that Herbert had gone quickly; on second thoughts, I should certainly have kicked him out of the house. At any rate, I had checked his interfering, and I thought no more about him. I had two or three of my usual talks with Amber, in the central garden, or at her stepfather's parties. Then, for two days, she did not come into the garden once—at any rate, while I was in it. I began to wonder what was keeping her away, and I was quite surprised to find how much I missed her. When I first caught sight of her at her stepfather's next party, my heart gave quite a funny little jump.
But something had gone wrong. She did not smile when I shook hands with her; she looked at me in quite a different way. There was no friendliness in her eyes. She answered only “Yes” and “No” to everything that I said to her.
Presently I left her, resolving that I would talk to her when she was not so busy with her stepfather's guests, and went to the card table. I wondered a little what had upset her. Then Walsh came, and she was very different with him. She smiled and talked to him quite cheerfully. They seemed all of a sudden to have become quite friends. I was a good deal annoyed. An hour later, when Walsh was playing baccarat, and no one else was with her, went to her and tried to talk to her again. It was no use. She looked at me with no expression at all in her face, and had nothing whatever to say to me.
At the party after that, I made my effort. I tried to get her to tell me what I had done to offend her. She answered that she did not know what I meant, and pretended that I had no reason at all to fancy that I had offended her. Then she let Walsh talk to her for more than an hour, and seemed to enjoy it thoroughly. It was very annoying.
I saw that some of the other men noticed her new friendliness with Walsh; and I saw that they did not like it, for they were friends of hers. Then I was helping myself to a drink at the side table when the piebald duke came over to it and began to mix a brandy and soda.
He looked at me in a rather hesitating way; then he said:
“I say, Garthoyle, that little girl—Scruton's stepdaughter—she's a friend of yours, isn't she?”
“Yes.” I answered, wondering what was coming
He paused, and looked at the cheerful pair on the sofa.
“That hound, Walsh, seems to be getting very friendly with her. Doesn't it want checking? You know what Walsh is with women. And she seems a nice child—simple. She has no business to be at these parties at all, don't you know? Couldn't you play a little less, and keep her amused—keep Walsh away?”
“I might try,” I said. “Not that she will take any harm from Walsh—she's not the kind.”
“Yes, yes; of course. But she's very young. No use taking any risks. You know what women are—silly.”
“Well, I'll do what I can,” I promised. “But I don't think I can do much at present. Either I've offended Miss Devine, or Walsh has been telling her lies about me.”
He looked at Walsh not at all as if he liked or admired him.
“I should think it's that Walsh has been lying,” he said.
“Well, anyhow, I'm afraid I shall have to play a waiting game.”
“It would be an awfully good thing if you could find a reasonable excuse for blacking both his eyes and keeping him at home for a while.” The duke was most vicious.
“He wouldn't give me the chance. He knows too much about me,” I said. “If a middleweight amateur champion wants a scrap, he has to find a perfect stranger to oblige him. As a matter of fact, I gave Walsh a fair chance a few nights ago. I told him several unpleasant things about himself. But he didn't take it.”
We finished our drinks and went back to the table. I was a good deal surprised by the duke's speaking to me. I had not thought that he could keep his attention off the game long enough to notice such a thing as the friendliness between Amber and Walsh. His warning made the matter much more serious. A duke is naturally an expert in women; they run after him so. He must be thinking that things were getting pretty dangerous. I knew that Walsh was in dead earnest; and now there was no relying on Amber's dislike of him. He seemed to have worn it down.
If only I could find out how I had offended her and set that right, it would be a different matter; for, if she and I were friends again, I thought that could queer Walsh's game. But I could not think what on earth I had done, or what she had been told I had done, though I thought of every possible thing.
Then Walsh himself gave me the hint. At Scruton's next party he was sitting by Amber when I came in.
“Ah, the gay abductor!” he said, in his sneering way.
Then I tumbled to it. He was friendly enough with Herbert to have learned from him how I had helped Gage carry off Kitty Maynard. I might take it as pretty certain that Herbert had also told him that I had said that I never dreamed of marrying Amber. Walsh had told Amber this with embellishments. He had made it seem absolutely offensive. No wonder she was angry with me! I could have wrung his neck cheerfully.
When I came to consider the matter, I found myself no better off now that I had guessed why she was furious with me than I was before. I could not go to her and say:
“Look here! You've been told that I've been saying that I should never dream of marrying you. I didn't say it the way you think I did.”
It was absurd. I did want to wring Walsh's neck.
Well, I could only sit tight and keep my temper. I did. I took Amber's snubbings like a lamb, a cheerful lamb. But once or twice when Walsh chipped in, I was pleased to get the chance to show that the lambness was only skin deep. Certainly I gave him every excuse to punch my head. I only wished he would. But to Amber, I tried to make it plain that whatever she might say, I was still her friend. Yet it was hard work to see her playing with fire, and keep quiet. If I had not been so tied up, if I could have let myself go, and made up my mind to marry her, and to ask her to marry me, I thought that I could get into a position to set things right. But I could not. The ghost trick stuck in my mind.
All the while she went on growing more and more friendly with Walsh. I found that she was even letting him help her take her waifs into the country for afternoon outings. He spoke to her about it before me, just to annoy me. He took them in his motor car, just as I had taken the anarchists; and she went with them to look after them. I must say that that did annoy me worse than anything. I could only hope that her old distrust of him was still alive under this new friendliness; and I had an idea that she showed herself far more friendly with him when I was there than when I was not. He tried to be quite insufferable with his triumphant airs, but they did not get at me much. I took it that he was only putting them on to annoy me.
Naturally, I was delighted to see, one evening at Scruton's, that Walsh had received a setback. Amber had plainly quarreled with him; she would have nothing to do with him. He kept leaving the baccarat table and coming over to her; but from his face I gathered that she was snubbing him worse than she snubbed me. He was a blackish purple. At the same time, she showed herself no friendlier with me; she did not use me to annoy Walsh. Then I thought that she looked rather unhappy; and it spoiled my pleasure in her quarrel with Walsh. It looked as if she were feeling unhappy because she had quarreled with him.
I could not help saying:
“I'm glad to see you've found Walsh out. I thought he was pretty sure to give himself away. He's not the sort of man that it's safe for a woman to be decent to at all.”
She was sitting stiffly enough, but she drew herself up even more stiffly, and her pretty eyes sparkled, and she said:
“I don't see anything whatever to choose between Sir Theobald Walsh and Lord Garthoyle.”
“Oh, but there is—lots,” I assured her.
She said a little breathlessly:
“Oh, you have—you have a—a”
“Cheek? Yes; I have. I was born with it,” I replied, stroking it. “But, all the same, it's true. And, honestly, where Walsh is concerned, you have to be careful—you do, really. You can tell him I said so, too.”
She looked at me as if she did not know quite what unpleasant thing to say—as if I was too aggravating for words. She opened her lips; then she shut them and said nothing.
Of course, it was cheek; but I was glad to have given her the warning. I suppose, however, that that was why she let Walsh make peace with her. It really looked as if he would win out and marry her.
It worried me, and made me restless. I felt so helpless to prevent her making a mess of things. Yet, somehow, I could not get it out of my head that she did not really care for Walsh, that she was just friendly with him and nothing more. I wondered how he would take it when he found, out that it was so. I was afraid that he might make himself violently unpleasant. I could only hope that I might be at hand when he did, for I did not think that, even if she went to Scruton, he would be of much help to her.
One afternoon I went down to Wembley Park for some polo practice. As I motored into the Gardens, on my return, I saw a small and rather ragged boy hurrying along the pavement, and recognized Amber's protégé, Robespierre Briggs, the anarchist. I stopped the car, and called to him.
He came running up, crying:
“Mr. Garth, it's Miss Amber! She's bin carried awye!”
“Carried away! What do you mean?” I exclaimed roughly.
“It's Sir Theobald Walsh—'im what's a baronit. 'E an' Miss Amber took us to Chipperfield Common in 'is moter, the syme as you did. An' we got outer the car, an' 'e shoves a 'andful of money—silver—inter my 'and, an' catches 'old of Miss Amber an' pulls 'er back inter the car. An' she tells 'im to let 'er go; an' 'e says 'e ain't never goin' to let 'er go. An' she calls out ter me: 'Go to Mr. Scruton, Garthoyle Gardens, Robbie, an' tell im!' An' the car goes orf an' leaves us there. An' I gives Cherlie most of the money, an' I run most of the wye to King's Langley stytion, an' a tryne to London come in, an' I come by it to Euston; an' got 'ere in a bus; an' there ain't a copper abart, an' I carn't find which is Mr. Scruton's 'ouse!”
He was white and breathless, and ready to cry. I bade him jump into the car and ran around the triangle to Scruton's.
We were taken straight to him in his smoking room, and found him sleeping peacefully in an easy-chair.
Our entrance woke him, and I said:
“I've nice news for you, Scruton. That blackguard, Walsh, has kidnaped Miss Devine.”
“Kidnaped! What the deuce are you talking about?” he cried, waking up thoroughly.
I told him Robespierre's story of the abduction.
“I wouldn't have had this happen for fifty thousand pounds!” he cried. “Amber's all the kith and kin I've got in the world! How are we to find them? How are we to get at the swine?”
He was growing, if anything, blacker than Walsh himself.
“Well, there's just a chance,” I said. “Walsh has a house near Pinner, and I happen to know that he uses it in his love affairs. Now Pinner's on the way between Chipperfield and London. It's any odds that he's taken her there. He doesn't know that I know anything about it. We might try it on the chance. My car's at the door.”
“By Jove! It is a chance! Quite a good chance!” cried Scruton.
He ran across the room to a bureau, opened a drawer, took a revolver from it, and thrust it into his hip pocket, saying:
“I always feel more comfortable carrying a gun when there's trouble about.”
I gathered that he had not spent all his life in quiet New Zealand. We hurried out to the car; I gave Robespierre a tenner for his promptitude; and Scruton and I jumped into the tonneau. When I want the best got out of it, I leave it to Gaston; I do not drive it myself then. I told him to get to Pinner as fast as he could, and he set her going as we settled back in our seats.
Then Scruton turned to me.
“What does Walsh mean by it? What the devil does he mean by it?” he asked.
“He sticks at nothing where a woman is concerned. I should have thought you knew that.”
“Does he think that I'm the kind of man to have my womankind kidnaped? If any harm has come to Amber, I'll throttle him!”
“If he's taken her to the Cedars, we shall be in plenty of time. She won't have come to any harm,” I said. “But Walsh is very sidey; he thinks that, where a commoner like you is concerned, a British baronet can do anything he chooses.”
I thought it as well to get Scruton furious. Besides, it was true.
“Oh, he does, does he? Well, I'll teach him to play a scoundrelly trick on a young girl! I'll wring his neck for him, all right—all right!” he roared. “And the duke did give me a hint to keep my eye on him. But I didn't give heed to it, for I knew that Amber was all right. I never dreamed that Walsh would play this game on me.”
“Walsh is just the man to do it. You see, he doesn't give a damn for a man like you,” I said.
“I'll teach him all about that!” roared Scruton.
I saw no point in telling him that Walsh had told me that he wanted to marry Amber, and was not up to serious mischief, but merely trying to force her to marry him, by compromising her in exactly the same way that Freddy Gage had forced Kitty Maynard to marry him to save her from Herbert. In fact, Walsh had cribbed the idea from me; the one abduction had led to the other.
At the same time, I was infernally uneasy. There was no trusting Walsh, and if we did not find Amber at the Cedars, I should be frightened out of my life.
Scruton was properly furious. All the way he was either growling or raging at Walsh; and I did hope to goodness that he would get the chance of dealing with the hound.
Gaston made short work of the road to Pinner. But, oh, it was a devilishly uncomfortable journey! I was so frightened lest Walsh should have taken Amber somewhere else.
I did not let Gaston drive the car to the front gates of the Cedars. I told him to turn down a side lane half a mile on the London side of it; and we got out at a gate in a little wood.
Scruton and I hurried through the wood to the gate of the garden. It was locked, but we lifted it off its hinges and slipped into the covert of a shrubbery that ran right up to the house. I was pleased to see that several of the windows were open, and that a glass door led from the house to the garden.
“Somebody's living here, at any rate,” said Scruton.
We came under covert to within ten yards of the house; then we heard a murmur of voices from an open window at the left side of it on the ground floor. As we worked our way noiselessly toward it, I heard the tones of Amber's voice, and my heart gave a little jump of relief.
When we faced the window, there was Walsh, sitting with his back to us, right in the window seat, with one elbow sticking out over the sill. Beyond him, sitting at a little table with tea on it, was Amber. I saw that her face was pale, and that she was looking at Walsh with an extraordinary expression of contempt and dislike.
“For the hundredth time, I tell you there's no way out of it—you've got to marry me,” said Walsh, in a lazy, aggravating drawl.
“If you were the only man in the world, I wouldn't—after to-day,” said Amber.
She spoke quite calmly, without any temper, but as if she were thoroughly in earnest; and her voice was as full of dislike and contempt as her eyes.
“After to-day—after this visit you're paying me—I'm the only man left in the world who will marry you,” taunted Walsh.
“That makes no difference—you detestable cad!” said Amber slowly.
“What a way to speak of your future husband! On your wedding day, too!” said Walsh; and he laughed quietly, as if he were enjoying himself thoroughly. “And do bear in mind that it's only out of natural nobility of nature that I'm marrying you at all. It isn't really necessary.”
He laughed again—a laugh that made the very toes of my boots itch to kick him.
While he laughed, in three noiseless strides, Scruton crossed the turf, and leaned in at the window, and his arm shot around Walsh's neck, scragging him. Then, with furious jerks and tugs, he began to drag him out of the window.
“Mind his neck!” I warned.
“Damn his neck! Come out, will you?” bellowed Scruton.
And Walsh came out, all waving arms and legs, grunting, black in the face with fury and suffocation.
“Get Amber away!” ordered Scruton.
She was already at the window; I caught hold of her, lifted her through it, and carried her into the shrubbery. It seemed the natural thing to do.
“Put me down! Put me down!” she cried, trying to twist out of my arms.
“All right,” I said. “But we've got to hurry.”
I put her down, but kept an arm around her as I hurried her along. She tried, not very violently, to push it away. But it seemed all right where it was—to me—and kept it there. She might have tripped and fallen on the rough ground of the shrubbery.
“Oh, I was so frightened! I am so glad you came!” Her voice quivered.
“And I was frightened, too—awfully frightened. I know that blackguard Walsh. It was the luckiest thing in the world that I lighted on Robespierre.”
“Oh, it was lucky!” she cried.
Ve were nearly at the bottom of the shrubbery when Walsh began to shout. I pushed through it out into the open, and looked back. He and Scruton were going at it hammer and tongs on the lawn in front of the house. I had no fear for Scruton; he was the heavier man, and as hard as nails, while Walsh was soft, and on the puffy side. He was howling for the servants. While I looked, he went down heavily; and he did not get up. I hurried Amber out of the garden.
In the wood, I loosed her—not that I wanted to—and we went through it more slowly.
“Oh, I was glad to see you!” she repeated. “How did you come to learn about it? Where did you see Robespierre?”
“I found him wandering about the Gardens, looking for your stepfather's house; and he told me that Walsh had carried you off.”
“I knew he'd find my stepfather. I was sure of it,” said Amber. “But I didn't see how my stepfather could find me—how he would know where that horrible brute had taken me. I thought that it might be days and days before he found out; and, oh, I was frightened!”
“Well, I knew of this lair of Walsh's; and we drew it on the chance. It was lucky that he brought you here. If he hadn't, it might have been days and days before we found you.”
She shivered, and we hurried on a few steps without speaking.
Then she said:
“It does seem strange that it should always be you who helps me when I'm in a difficulty.” And she looked at me with thankful eyes.
“No one would think it if they saw the brutal way you treat me,” I returned quickly.
“Oh, that!” she said, blushing. “Well, you—you deserved it.”
“No, I didn't. I did nothing to make you jump on me for weeks. And you wouldn't tell me what I'd done to offend you. What was it?” I asked, jumping at the chance of clearing things up.
She shook her head, and blushed again.
“I'm not going to tell you.”
“I know quite well that Walsh told you some lie about me.”
“Perhaps it was.”
“Of course, it was. And I don't think it was at all friendly to believe it; at least, you ought to have given me a chance of clearing it up.”
“Perhaps I ought. But it seemed to be the truth. He wasn't the only one to say it.”
It had been that ass, Herbert.
“I don't believe that you believed it—really. You just made it an excuse to jump on me.”
“Oh, no—no! I didn't want us to be unfriendly! I did believe it, truly!” she protested.
“Well, it was very wrong of you. But we're friends again now?”
“Yes—yes; we're friends again now,” she repeated softly. And I thought that her eyes shone so brightly because there were tears in them.
Scruton came running around a corner of the path behind us, carrying a broom handle.
“Hurry up! I've drawn a whole swarm!” he cried.
I slipped my arm around Amber again, and we ran through the wood. As we reached the car, we heard the clumping of thick boots and the grunting of voices behind us. We scrambled into the tonneau, and I told Gaston to let the car go.
“I laid him out, all right, all right!” said Scruton cheerfully. “And then I lammed him with this broom handle. It was all I could find. I wasn't half through with him when a gardener and a chauffeur, husky fellows, came bustling around the house; and, as they came, they shouted to some one else. So I gave Walsh three last souvenirs, and faded.”
“I'm so glad you thrashed him!” exclaimed Amber.
“Yes, missie; but for the future you cut out motoring with British baronets,” said Scruton.
“Yes, stick to peers; they're far safer,” said I.