The Man with the Double Heart Part 6

"I've half promised a man at the Club..." He offered the well-worn excuse, but Mrs. Cadell moved to the door.

"A half promise," she said lightly, "is surely one that can be broken."

As they pa.s.sed out on to the stairs she referred the matter to the Bishop.

"You mustn't ask for my opinion," he entered into the little joke.

"I'm not a believer in half measures! But if you make it a point of conscience I should say it depended upon the host."

"In that case"--McTaggart smiled--"I may consider myself absolved. It was what the Americans call 'Dutch Treat'--each to pay his own expenses."

They settled themselves at the round table, curiously inlaid with bra.s.s, smooth and innocent of cloth, where oysters in old Wedgwood plates lay on mats of Italian lace. The fruit, piled high on a centre dish--grapes with peaches and pears beneath--and the gold-flecked Venetian gla.s.s gave it a wholly foreign look. And this was emphasized by the room; the faded tapestry of the walls forming a mellow-toned background for the high-backed chairs and painted chest--once a wedding-coffer of state--and the heavy curtains of brocade, where the gold thread, tarnished, caught the light.

A perfect setting, McTaggart thought, for the fair-haired girl in her satin gown, as he watched the small patrician head bend attentive to the Bishop.

He wondered if she herself had chosen that misty, metallic blue, and the single ornament that hung from a fine gold chain around her neck.

He looked at the latter with curious eyes, appreciating the design; seed pearls strung about a cross of pale and flawed emeralds, set with barbaric carelessness in the rough hand-wrought metal, and weighed down by loops of pearls, quivering with each breath she drew.

Meanwhile, the hostess was explaining the reason for the young man's visit. The Bishop, happy over his oysters, beamed his approval of the scheme.

"But who, may I ask, is to be the Prince?" His voice was sly and a twinkle gleamed in the prominent short-sighted eyes, as McTaggart, somewhat hurriedly, admitted that the part was his.

"In doublet and hose and pointed shoes. And a dreadful cap that won't stay on. You've no idea"--he turned to Cydonia--"the agony of mind it causes! Supposing--at the crucial moment"--he watched her still face as he spoke--"it tilted forward on to my nose? What a death-blow to Romance! And they won't allow me to wear an elastic, neatly fastened under my chin. And hat-pins are no earthly use. Can you suggest a remedy?"

"I should hold it in my hand," she said.

"Wonderful!"--McTaggart laughed--"and it never even occurred to me."

He was relieved--at the same time piqued--by her smiling air of unconcern.

"Under the circ.u.mstances, too, it might appear more chivalrous."

He added the speech in a lower tone, with a sudden mischievous desire to stir in her a slight revolt. And, as if conscious of his thought, the brown eyes were averted. A faint fugitive color stole under the fairness of her skin.

The Bishop's glance sought his hostess. Between the pair of elderly folk a silent question and answer flashed.

"That's what I shall do," said McTaggart, "kneel and press it to my heart. I'd far rather have it there than balanced on my luckless head.

Unfortunately," his voice was light--"you'll miss all my exquisite acting--unless you peep beneath your lashes. Do tell me that you will?

Of course you're _supposed_ to be asleep."

"You talk as if it were quite settled," Mrs. Cadell with a smile, interposed, "but I haven't yet decided whether Cydonia will take the part."

"Oh! you couldn't be so cruel!" McTaggart showed his disappointment.

"Think of poor Lady Leason. You've no idea how worried she is. And, if your daughter refuses to help us, we're threatened with Mrs. Bertie Eying. She's simply dying to take it on. Just picture her as a Sleeping Beauty!"

He gave a sudden s.h.i.+ver and turned toward the amused Bishop.

"One of those new ropy girls--all shoulders and feet, you know. No spine, and straight hair drawn down over her ears. Like a French fas.h.i.+on-plate with all the Frenchness left out."

"I observe there are no half-measures here," the Bishop gave a little chuckle. "I had no idea of the hara.s.sing details involved in an effort of charity. It's for some hospital, is it not?"

Mrs. Cadell supplied the name.

"We hope to clear off part of the debt. Since the Insurance Act was pa.s.sed the subscriptions have decreased. So seriously in fact they talk of closing down a ward."

"Indeed?" The Bishop, nervously, evaded the lead into politics.

"Talking of financial losses----" he went on somewhat hurriedly--"reminds me of my morning's work. I'm afraid the ways of the City are quite beyond my understanding."

He sighed as he helped himself to curry.

Mrs. Cadell, to fill the pause, remarked that McTaggart was on the Stock Exchange.

"Really?" The Bishop looked up quickly. "Then, perhaps, he can relieve my mind on the question that is puzzling me."

Into the younger man's blue eyes came a shrewd look of attention.

Inwardly he was summing up the possibility of a client.

"Delighted--if I can help at all."

Cydonia stole a glance at him. Here was another side to the picture she already knew by heart.

She watched the serious olive face with its strong chin and tight-closed lips--a hint of obstinacy there which added a strongly British look to his slightly foreign grace, banis.h.i.+ng all effeminacy, suggesting a hidden power.

It seemed to her he was s.n.a.t.c.hed away into a world remote from her, and for the first time in her life she felt uneasy, half-afraid ...

"Some years ago," the Bishop blinked, "six, to be strictly accurate, I was induced to invest some money in a new company. I am not quite sure as to the process, but it--the invention--claimed to produce a liquid fuel out of coal-slag at an absurdly low cost. The shares had run up quickly until they were eight pounds apiece--one pound shares, you understand. I gave eight." He paused ruefully.

"And now?" McTaggart prompted gently.

"I believe," the Bishop gave a sigh--"they are selling at ... about twelve s.h.i.+llings! The worst of it is----" his voice rose. "They have never paid a dividend."

"How did you hear of it?" McTaggart felt a half-amused sense of pity.

"One night I was dining with Lord Warleigh. His place, you know, is near Oxton. And the princ.i.p.al director--the promoter of the affair--was staying with him for the week-end, in order to place a block of shares to provide for further working expenses. Warleigh was enthusiastic and as to the man himself, he seemed most reliable, heart and soul absorbed in the scheme. Of German origin, naturalized--Herman Schliff---- Do you know the name?"

"Never heard of it--or the company." McTaggart shook his head.

"No, really?" The Bishop frowned.

"One of the most eloquent men I have ever come across. I remember, at the time----" he smiled apologetically--"I thought what a preacher was lost to the Church! And with it an enthusiasm, a grip of his subject and a faith in the prospects, which carried his listeners bodily away.

To give you an example of this, Warleigh's poor old butler invested his savings--the hardly won nest-egg of forty years' service--then and there in the affair. He handed every penny of it over to Schliff before he left."

"What a shame!" Mrs. Cadell's sympathy was plainly aroused--"I suppose he will never get it back?"

"I fear not. And he's one of many." The Bishop frowned thoughtfully.

"Looking through a list of shareholders only this morning I was surprised to find many names I knew personally of quite small people with narrow incomes. Good people too, I mean. Service men and petty squires living in the depths of the country."

"Exactly." McTaggart's face was grim--"the usual victims, I'm afraid.