When Greek meets Greek I
 
“But, Bill, I don’t understand. How much did you borrow from this man?”
Sybil Daventry looked at her brother, sitting huddled up in his chair, with a little frown.
“I borrowed a thousand,” he answered, sulkily. “And like a fool I didn’t read the thing he made me sign—at least, not carefully. Hang it, I’ve only had the money six months, and now he’s saying that I owe him over two. I saw something about twenty-five per cent., and now I find it was twenty-five per cent. a month. And the swine is pressing for payment unless——” He broke off and stared into the fire shamefacedly.
“Unless what?” demanded his sister.
“Well, you see, it’s this way.” The boy stammered a little, and refused to look at her. “I was jolly well up the spout when this blighter told me what I owed him, and I suppose I must have showed it pretty clearly. Anyway, I was propping up the bar at the Cri., getting a cocktail, when a fellow standing next me started gassing. Not a bad sort of cove at all; knows you very well by sight.”
“Knows me?” said the girl, bewildered. “Who was he?”
“I’m coming to that later,” went on her brother. “Well, we had a couple more and then he suggested tearing a chop together. And I don’t know—he seemed so decent and all that—that I told him I was in the soup. Told him the whole yarn and asked his advice sort of business. Well, as I say, he was bally sporting about it all, and finally asked me who the bird was who had tied up the boodle. I told him, and here’s the lucky part of the whole show—this fellow Perrison knew him. Perrison was the man I was lunching with.”
He paused and lit a cigarette, while the girl stared at him gravely.
“Well,” she said at length, “go on.”
“It was after lunch that he got busy. He said to me: ‘Look here, Daventry, you’ve made a bally fool of yourself, but you’re not the first. I’ll write a note to Messrs. Smith and Co.’—those are the warriors who gave me the money—‘and try and persuade them to give you more time, or even possibly reduce the rate of interest.’ Of course, I was all on this, and I arranged to lunch with him again next day, after Smith and Co. had had time to function. And sure enough they did. Wrote a letter in which they were all over me; any friend of Mr. Perrison’s was entitled to special treatment, and so on and so forth. Naturally I was as bucked as a dog with two tails, and asked Perrison if I couldn’t do something more material than just thank him. And—er—he—I mean it was then he told me he knew you by sight.”
He glanced at his sister, and then quickly looked away again.
“He suggested—er—that perhaps I could arrange to introduce him to you; that it would be an honour he would greatly appreciate, and all that sort of rot.”
The girl was sitting very still. “Yes,” she said, quietly, “and you—agreed.”
“Well, of course I did. Hang it, he’s quite a decent fellow. Bit Cityish to look at, and I shouldn’t think he knows which end of a horse goes first. But he’s got me out of the devil of a hole, Sybil, and the least you can do is to be moderately decent to the bird. I mean it’s not asking much, is it? I left the governor looking at him in the hall as if he was just going to tread on his face, and that long slab—your pal—is gazing at him through his eyeglasses as if he was mad.”
“He’s not my pal, Bill.” Sybil Daventry’s colour heightened a little.
“Well, you asked him here, anyway,” grunted the boy. Then with a sudden change of tone he turned to her appealingly. “Syb, old girl—for the Lord’s sake play the game. You know what the governor is, and if he hears about this show—especially as it’s—as it’s not the first time—there’ll be the deuce to pay. You know he said last time that if it happened again he’d turn me out of the house. And the old man is as stubborn as a mule. I only want you to be a bit decent to Perrison.”
She looked at him with a grave smile. “If Mr. Perrison is satisfied with my being decent to him, as you put it, I’m perfectly prepared to play the game. But——” She frowned and rose abruptly. “Come on, and I’ll have a look at him.”
In silence they went downstairs. Tea had just been brought in, and the house-party was slowly drifting into the hall. But Sybil barely noticed them; her eyes were fixed on the man talking to her father. Or rather, at the moment, her father was talking to the man, and his remark was painfully audible.
“There is a very good train back to London at seven-thirty, Mr.—ah—Mr.——”
Her brother stepped forward. “But I say, Dad,” he said, nervously, “I asked Perrison to stop the night. I’ve just asked Sybil, and she says she can fix him up somewhere.”
“How do you do, Mr. Perrison?” With a charming smile she held out her hand. “Of course you must stop the night.”
Then she moved away to the tea-table, feeling agreeably relieved; it was better than she had expected. The man was well-dressed; perhaps, to her critical eye, a little too well-dressed—but still quite presentable.
“You averted a catastrophe, Miss Daventry.” A lazy voice beside her interrupted her thoughts, and with a smile she turned to the speaker.
“Dad is most pestilentially rude at times, isn’t he? And Bill told me he left you staring at the poor man as if he was an insect.”
Archie Longworth laughed.
“He’d just contradicted your father flatly as you came downstairs. And on a matter concerning horses. However—the breeze has passed. But, tell me,” he stared at her gravely, “why the sudden invasion?”
Her eyebrows went up a little. “May I ask why not?” she said, coldly. “Surely my brother can invite a friend to the house if he wishes.”
“I stand corrected,” answered Longworth, quietly. “Has he known him long?”
“I haven’t an idea,” said the girl. “And after all, Mr. Longworth, I hadn’t known you very long when I asked you.”
And then, because she realised that there was a possibility of construing rather more into her words than she had intended, she turned abruptly to speak to another guest. So she failed to see the sudden inscrutable look that came into Archie Longworth’s keen blue eyes—the quick clenching of his powerful fists. But when a few minutes later she again turned to him, he was just his usual lazy self.
“Do you think your logic is very good?” he demanded. “You might have made a mistake as well.”
“You mean that you think my brother has?” she said, quickly.
“It is visible on the surface to the expert eye,” he returned, gravely. “But, in addition, I happen to have inside information.”
“Do you know Mr. Perrison, then?”
He nodded. “Yes, I have—er—met him before.”
“But he doesn’t know you,” cried the girl.
“No—at least—er—we’ll leave it at that. And I would be obliged, Miss Daventry, in case you happen to be speaking to him, if you would refrain from mentioning the fact that I know him.” He stared at her gravely.
“You’re very mysterious, Mr. Longworth,” said the girl, with an attempt at lightness.
“And if I may I will prolong my visit until our friend departs,” continued Longworth.
“Why, of course,” she said, bending over the tea-tray. “You weren’t thinking of going—going yet, were you?”
“I was thinking after lunch that I should have to go to-morrow,” he said, putting down his tea-cup.
“But why so soon?” she asked, and her voice was low. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
“In the course of a life that has taken me into every corner of the globe,” he answered, slowly, “I have never dreamed that I could be so utterly and perfectly happy as I have been here. It has opened my mind to a vista of the Things that Might Be—if the Things that Had Been were different. But as you grow older, Sybil, you will learn one bitter truth: no human being can ever be exactly what he seems. Masks? just masks! And underneath—God and that being alone know.”
He rose abruptly, and she watched him bending over Lady Granton with his habitual lazy grace. The indolent smile was round his lips—the irrepressible twinkle was in his eyes. But for the first time he had called her Sybil; for the first time—she knew. The vague forebodings conjured up by his words were swamped by that one outstanding fact; she knew. And nothing else mattered.
II
 
It was not until Perrison joined her in the conservatory after dinner that she found herself called on to play the part set her by her brother.
She had gone there—though nothing would have induced her to admit the fact—in the hope that someone else would follow: the man with the lazy blue eyes and the eyeglass. And then instead of him had come Perrison, with a shade too much deference in his manner, and a shade too little control of the smirk on his face. With a sudden sick feeling she realised at that moment exactly where she stood. Under a debt of obligation to this man—under the necessity of a tête-à-tête with him, one, moreover, when, if she was to help Bill, she must endeavour to be extra nice.
For a while the conversation was commonplace, while she feverishly longed for someone to come in and relieve the tension. But Bridge was in progress, and there was Snooker in the billiard-room, and at length she resigned herself to the inevitable. Presumably she would have to thank him for his kindness to Bill; after all he undoubtedly had been very good to her brother.
“Bill has told me, Mr. Perrison, how kind you’ve been in the way you’ve helped him in this—this unfortunate affair.” She plunged valiantly, and gave a sigh of relief as she cleared the first fence.
Perrison waved a deprecating hand. “Don’t mention it, Miss Daventry, don’t mention it. But—er—of course, something will have to be done, and—well, there’s no good mincing matters—done very soon.”
The girl’s face grew a little white, but her voice was quite steady.
“But he told me that you had arranged things with these people. Please smoke, if you want to.”
Perrison bowed his thanks and carefully selected a cigarette. The moment for which he had been playing had now arrived, in circumstances even more favourable than he had dared to hope.
“Up to a point that is quite true,” he remarked, quietly. “Messrs. Smith and Co. have many ramifications of business—money-lending being only one of the irons they have in the fire. And because I have had many dealings with the firm professionally—over the sale of precious stones, I may say, which is my own particular line of work—they were disposed to take a lenient view about the question of the loan. Not press for payment, and perhaps—though I can’t promise this—even be content with a little less interest. But—er—Miss Daventry, it’s the other thing where the trouble is going to occur.”
The girl stared at him with dilated eyes. “What other thing, Mr. Perrison?”
“Hasn’t your brother told you?” said Perrison, surprised. “Oh, well, perhaps I—er—shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Go on, please.” Her voice was low. “What is this other thing?”
For a moment he hesitated—a well-simulated hesitation. Then he shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“Well—if you insist. As a matter of fact, your brother didn’t tell me about it, and I only found it out in the course of my conversation with one of the Smith partners. Apparently some weeks ago he bought some distinctly valuable jewellery—a pearl-necklace, to be exact—from a certain firm. At least, when I say he bought it—he did not pay for it. He gave your father’s name as a reference, and the firm considered it satisfactory. It was worth about eight hundred pounds, this necklace, and your very stupid brother, instead of giving it to the lady whom, presumably, he had got it for, became worse than stupid. He became criminal.”
“What do you mean?” The girl was looking at him terrified.
“He pawned this necklace which he hadn’t paid for, Miss Daventry, which is, I regret to say, a criminal offence. And the trouble of the situation is that the firm he bought the pearls from has just found it out. He pawned it at a place which is one of the ramifications of Smith and Co., who gave him, I believe, a very good price for it—over five hundred pounds. The firm, in the course of business, two or three days ago—and this is the incredibly unfortunate part of it—happened to show this self-same necklace, while they were selling other things, to the man it had originally come from. Of course, being pawned, it wasn’t for sale—but the man recognised it at once. And then the fat was in the fire.”
“Do you mean to say,” whispered the girl, “that—that they might send him to prison?”
“Unless something is done very quickly, Miss Daventry, the matter will certainly come into the law courts. Messrs. Gross and Sons”—a faint noise from the darkness at the end of the conservatory made him swing round suddenly, but everything was silent again—“Messrs. Gross and Sons are very difficult people in many ways. They are the people it came from originally, I may tell you. And firms, somewhat naturally, differ, like human beings. Some are disposed to be lenient—others are not. I’m sorry to say Gross and Sons are one of those who are not.”
“But couldn’t you see them, or something, and explain?”
“My dear Miss Daventry,” said Perrison, gently, “I must ask you to be reasonable. What can I explain? Your brother wanted money, and he adopted a criminal method of getting it. That I am afraid—ugly as it sounds—is all there is to it.”
“Then, Mr. Perrison—can nothing be done?” She bent forward eagerly, her hands clasped, her lips slightly parted; and once again came that faint noise from the end of the conservatory.
But Mr. Perrison was too engrossed to heed it this time; the nearness, the appeal of this girl, who from the time he had first seen her six months previously at a theatre had dominated his life, was making his senses swim. And with it the veneer began to drop; the hairy heel began to show, though he made a tremendous endeavour to keep himself in check.
“There is one thing,” he said, hoarsely. “And I hope you will understand that I should not have been so precipitate—except for the urgency of your brother’s case. If I go to Messrs. Gross and say to them that a prosecution by them would affect me personally, I think I could persuade them to take no further steps.”
Wonder was beginning to dawn in the girl’s eyes. “Affect you personally?” she repeated.
“If, for instance, I could tell them that for family reasons—urgent, strong family reasons—they would be doing me a great service by letting matters drop, I think they would do it.”
She rose suddenly—wonder replaced by horror. She had just realised his full meaning.
“What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Perrison?” she said, haughtily.
And then the heel appeared in all its hairiness. “If I may tell them,” he leered, “that I am going to marry into the family I’ll guarantee they will do nothing more.”
“Marry you?” The biting scorn in her tone changed the leer to a snarl.
“Yes—marry me, or see your brother jugged. Money won’t save him—so there’s no good going to your father. Money will square up the Smith show—it won’t square the other.” And then his tone changed. “Why not, little girl? I’m mad about you; have been ever since I saw you at a theatre six months ago. I’m pretty well off even for these days, and——” He came towards her, his arms outstretched, while she backed away from him, white as a sheet. Her hands were clenched, and it was just as she had retreated as far as she could, and the man was almost on her, that she saw red. One hand went up; hit him—hit the brute—was her only coherent thought. And the man, realising it, paused—an ugly look in his eyes.
Then occurred the interruption. A strangled snort, as of a sleeper awakening, came from behind some palms, followed by the creaking of a chair. With a stifled curse Perrison fell back and the girl’s hand dropped to her side as the branches parted and Archie Longworth, rubbing his eyes, stepped into the light.
“Lord save us, Miss Daventry, I’ve been asleep,” he said, stifling a yawn. “I knew I oughtn’t to have had a third glass of port. Deuced bad for the liver, but very pleasant for all that, isn’t it, Mr.—Mr. Perrison?”
He smiled engagingly at the scowling Perrison, and adjusted his eyeglass.
“You sleep very silently, Mr. Longworth,” snarled that worthy.
“Yes—used to win prizes for it at an infant school. Most valuable asset in class. If one snores it disconcerts the lecturer.”
Perrison swung round on his heel. “I would like an answer to my suggestion by to-morrow, Miss Daventry,” he said, softly. “Perhaps I might have the pleasure of a walk where people don’t sleep off the effects of dinner.”
With a slight bow he left the conservatory, and the girl sat down weakly.
“Pleasant type of bird, isn’t he?” drawled Longworth, watching Perrison’s retreating back.
“He’s a brute—an utter brute,” whispered the girl, shakily.
“I thought the interview would leave you with that impression,” agreed the man.
She sat up quickly. “Did you hear what was said?”
“Every word. That’s why I was there.” He smiled at her calmly.
“Then why didn’t you come out sooner?” she cried, indignantly.
“I wanted to hear what he had to say, and at the same time I didn’t want you to biff him on the jaw—which from your attitude I gathered you were on the point of doing.”
“Why not? ............