The Oyster Part 43

Mr Holmes, the grocer, rubbing his fat chin, decided that sardines must be about to be used as fish by the great, seeing that he had supplied a dozen boxes the day before and was asked for another dozen now.

"Finished, Den?"

"Yes. I think I've forgotten something, though." Denise was driven home, answering questions, but not speaking, frightened, and too visibly ill at ease.

"H'm!" said Sir Cyril to himself.

He went to his study to write, stayed there until the luncheon gong rang, came out to find the first arrivals in the morning-room, and to see Denise, her colour high, hurrying in.

"I'm so sorry I'm late. I had to run over to the Vicarage to give the vicaress some books for her club. I forgot them this morning."

Denise had been to the bank, extracted two hundred pounds in notes from a beaming manager. She came in a little nervously, looking aside at Sir Cyril. The big man would have made a good detective. His hard eyes narrowed a little, his big chin shot out. Denise was not in the least likely to have remembered the books for the vicar's wife without some other motive. Without the faintest suspicion of Denise in his mind, he summed it all up.

"That Carteret woman's worried the girl; she went to get her the money." After all, the Carteret woman had been once full of devotion; Denise had heaps of money; but it must not go too far. Cyril Blakeney was a man who walked straight to his goal. He meant to ask Denise how much she had sent, to warn her against being bled.

He ate his plainly-cooked luncheon, almost in silence. A thorough Englishman, eating large helpings of roast beef and vegetables, topped up by a steamed pudding and cheese. A mouthful of something highly flavoured had no attractions for Cyril Blakeney.

Denise, picking at a cutlet, watched him, grew brighter as she began to feel certain that she had managed everything so well. She would have her own money soon, send on the advance to Esme.

Denise pulled out the one foot she had dabbled into the Slough of Despond. She walked gaily again in the suns.h.i.+ne on firm ground.

And yet the cue was on the call-boy's lips; the drama was being played out, and a net she never dreamed of closing about her.

By tea-time the party had nearly a.s.sembled; they took it in the big drawing-room, chilled people coming gladly near the blazing fire, drinking hot tea, eating tea-cakes and hot biscuits as if dinner were twenty-four hours away.

Lucy Richmond, a big blonde, married to one of the best shots, came to sit by Denise. She was a dull, stupid woman, deeply impressed by herself. Hostesses were profoundly bored by Mrs Richmond, but she delighted in house-parties and was comfortably certain that Gus, her lean little husband, was only asked for her sake.

"So nice to be here again, dear Lady Blakeney. I do love your big house. And now tell me all about the babies, and how they are."

Denise nibbled a sandwich, and looked for rescue. She was lamentably ignorant as to flannel undervests and patent foods.

"The little one is in knickers now, I expect, isn't he? I hope he wears...."

Denise's appealing eyes raked Sir Thomas from his chair; they called openly for help.

"That he wears really fine wool," said Mrs Richmond, heavily. "No, Sir Thomas, run away; you're not interested in children's clothes."

"In knickerbockers," giggled Denise, faintly.

"Not going to come out with the guns in 'em really, are you?" said Sir Thomas, blandly, ignoring everything except the last words. "Sportin'

of you, Mrs Rich--very. Has Raleigh taught you shootin' then?"

Mrs Richmond sniffed angrily.

"Get me some tea," said Denise, "and oh, here's Cyril."

The big man strolled across to his wife, handing her a telegram from a delayed guest.

"Nuisance," he said; "good shot, too."

"Oh! Lady Blakeney, I must show you my new pendant." Lucy Richmond forgot knickerbockers, and turned to a fresh subject. "One of those dear, old-fas.h.i.+oned, heavy things. Raleigh sent me to buy myself a birthday present, and it had just come in to Benhusan's."

Unfastening a clasp, she held the jewel out. Seeing it, Denise felt her colour ebb until she feared her cheeks must be deathly white. It was the pendant she had given to Esme. Why had the woman chosen this moment?

"It's just like yours, Den"--Sir Cyril took the jewel in his big fingers--"exactly the same."

"I love these dear old-fas.h.i.+oned solid things," babbled Lucy Richmond.

"As it was heavy, it wasn't so dear. Benhusan told me he had just bought it, but that they had made it originally themselves."

"Oh!" Sir Cyril sat down. "Yes. Bought it when, did you say?"

A bore is a person stocked with date and detail. Lucy Richmond loved a listener. How interesting she was, she felt, as she re-clasped the ugly pendant. Oh, on such a day--at such an hour.

Close by Denise sat listening, afraid to speak, hoping she was not showing her fear, her heart fluttering.

"Yes. Curiously, my wife has a duplicate of this, one an old aunt gave to her. Wear yours to-night, Denise."

"I hate it, Cyrrie," she faltered.

"Yet wear it," he said very quietly, and strolled away. Sir Cyril never seemed to hurry.

Denise, for the best reasons, could not wear the pendant. Wild thoughts shot through her head. Should she go to Mrs Richmond, borrow the diamonds, make up a story? No, for the gossiping fool would repeat it all over London.

It was late when Denise came to her room; she sent her maid away, sat by the fire. It was so comfortable there; she was surrounded by rich things; her dressing-table gleamed with gold and ivory; her bed was carved white wood, a nest of silken eider-down.

And if Cyril knew.

He came in then, quietly, walked to the fire and stood looking down at her.

Some silences are harder to bear than words. Denise s.h.i.+vered nervously.

"You did not wear the pendant to-night, Denise."

"No," she said miserably.

"Because you could not. Denise, why lie to me?"

"I--I," she crouched down in her big chair, sick, frightened, wondering what lie might serve her best.

"I know Benhusan," he said. "I rang him up at his own house. Den--Esme Carteret took that pendant, and--you lied to screen her."

The woman cowering in the chair turned as red as she had been pale, felt as some sinking swimmer who suddenly feels ground beneath his feet.

"I saw her standing at your safe, opening and shutting cases. She thought you might never miss this thing, as she knew you hated it.

Denise, I don't blame you; but one cannot know a thief. It was that, was it not?"

Stronger people have taken their rescue at the cost of a friend's reputation. Denise was not strong; she was shallow-natured and afraid and shaken.

"Oh, Cyril," she said, beginning to cry. "Oh! don't tell a soul. Oh, promise--promise! She wanted money so badly."