Green money, p.12
Green Money, page 12
George was surprised; he was also embarrassed; he did not know what to say.
“I should welcome it,” said Mr. Millar earnestly. “Don’t hesitate on my account. Fix it up and let me know, or give me his address and I’ll fix it. Have anybody you like.”
“It isn’t that I don’t trust you,” George declared. And this was true, for now he had reversed his opinion of Mr. Millar. The man was obviously sincere. Besides, if he was willing to allow an expert to look into the late Mr. Green’s financial affairs, everything must be perfectly straight and above-board.
George felt more of a fool than ever. It just showed that it was no use trying to do anything unless you knew the ropes.
“Think it over,” Mr. Millar said.
“Of course I trust you,” said George. “It was only that I didn’t understand, and I felt that I ought to be doing something about it—taking an interest in it. Five hundred pounds is a lot to get for doing nothing at all.”
“Think it over and let me know,” said Mr. Millar, smiling kindly. “And now, what about a spot of Stilton to fill the corners? The Stilton is marvellous here.”
They ordered Stilton and biscuits and, like magic, these comestibles appeared before them.
“No time wasted,” Mr. Millar pointed out as he dug and scooped for a generous portion of cheese. “The people who come here have no time to waste. Time’s money to them. I’ve got to rush back to see a man at two o’clock. I’m glad we’ve had this chat—cleared the air, hasn’t it?”
George was glad also, and said so. “It was awfully good of you to take the trouble,” he declared. “I mean I was rather—er—worried. I felt I wasn’t pulling my weight.”
“There may be plenty of opportunity for you to pull your weight. When we’re all dead and gone you’ll still be here. If Miss Green marries with the consent of her trustees, the trust ends, of course; but if she marries without their approval the money is held in trust for her children, and if she doesn’t marry—”
“I don’t think that’s likely,” George said.
Mr. Millar looked a little taken aback.
“Most girls marry,” George pointed out, “’specially if they’re as pretty as she is.”
“Pretty, is she?”
“Yes,” said George.
Mr. Millar looked at his watch. “Four more minutes,” he said. “Just enough time to settle up the matter of this holiday. It’s a good idea, and I’m glad you spoke to me about it.”
“I just thought,” began George in a deprecating manner.
“Of course, of course,” agreed Mr. Millar. “Good idea of yours. The girl would be all the better for a little change after her father’s death and all that. As a matter of fact, Miss Wilson might have thought of it if she’d been worth her salt.”
“She’s rather—er—old-fashioned,” George said.
“Old-fashioned, is she? Well, I’ll send her a note and tell her to fix it. I suppose she can do that, eh?”
“I suppose so.”
“You’re doubtful,” Mr. Millar declared. He was extraordinarily quick. “Wait a minute. I’ve got an idea. I’m going down to Bournemouth to-morrow—must have a bit of a holiday. How would it do if they came to Bournemouth—eh? I could keep my eye on them and see that they were comfortable. I could fix up rooms for them at my hotel.”
George saw at once that this was an excellent plan. It would do Elma no end of good to get away from Highmoor House, and, if she were under the eye of her elderly trustee, she could come to no harm. George would get the responsibility of Elma off his shoulders and would be able to breathe freely for a bit.
“It’s splendid, sir,” he said enthusiastically. “I couldn’t have thought of anything better.”
“I’ll do that, then,” said Mr. Millar, nodding. “I’ll fix it all up and write to Miss Wilson. To tell you the truth, it will be a bit of a bore. . . . I really feel I need a complete rest. But still. . . I’d do a good deal for poor old Green.”
“It is good of you,” George said. “It’s a great relief to my mind. The fact is, Miss Wilson doesn’t—isn’t—I mean she—”
“Hasn’t much control over the girl, I suppose?” suggested Mr. Millar, smiling.
“Not as much as she think she has, anyhow,” replied George, somewhat cryptically. “I mean, Elma doesn’t always—well, it’s rather difficult to explain.”
But apparently there was no need to explain. Mr. Millar shook his head and laughed and called for the bill.
“I know,” he declared. “Girls will be girls. I’ve got one of my own, so I’m pretty knowledgeable about girls. I bet you know a bit about them, too,” he added with a sly glance at his companion.
“Perhaps—a little,” agreed George, laughing.
“My girl will be at Bournemouth, too,” said Mr. Millar, “so they’ll be able to play about together. Yes, that’s the thing: I shall hand her over to Pauline. Does she play tennis?”
“I don’t know,” said George; but somehow or other he felt pretty sure that Elma Green did not play tennis, for he could not see her dashing about a tennis court in drill shorts.
CHAPTER XVI
Various Kinds of Mystery
Mr. Millar hurried away to keep his appointment and left George standing in the street. There was no need for George to hurry—he had plenty of time to catch his train home—so he found his way into the Strand and dawdled along, gazing into the shop windows and incidentally causing a good deal of obstruction to the other pedestrians. He did not come often to this part of London, and, when he did, it was usually on some business for his father, and he was in a hurry to get it over and return to the more interesting and (to George) more glamorous West End. But to-day he had no business and there was no hurry, so he strolled. Presently he passed a shop which displayed in its window a large assortment of curious objects for the deception and annoyance of the king’s lieges: stink bombs and plate-lifters and hideous masks and false hair and other necessities for that curse of civilization—the practical joker. George paused and looked in. A tall, lanky man with a sad face was standing in the doorway of the shop and, when he saw George was interested, he took a strip of paper out of his pocket and tore it into small pieces.
“See that?” he inquired.
George nodded.
The man put the pieces in his hand, raised his hand to his lips and breathed on them. Then he opened his hand and showed George the strip of paper whole once more.
“I say!” George exclaimed.
The man smiled sadly. “Plenty more inside,” he declared.
George followed him into the shop.
“Ever done any conjuring?” inquired the man, opening a large drawer and taking out various little boxes and mirrors and handkerchiefs and rolls of coloured paper.
“No,” said George; “but the fact is, we’re going to have some children to tea—girls, you know. Do you think girls like conjuring?”
“Everybody does,” replied the man mournfully. “Girls and boys and men and women—they all like it. Conjuring always goes down well, especially if you can do a little practice beforehand. Though, as a matter of fact, these things don’t need much practice. Fool-proof, that’s what they are.”
“They ought to suit me down to the ground,” said George a trifle bitterly.
“Somebody been having you on?” inquired the lanky man sympathetically. “Been sold a pup, have you?”
“Not exactly,” replied George. “I’ve been having myself on—if you know what I mean.”
“Nothing like a few conjuring tricks to raise the spirits,” said the man, still in the same mournful tone. “I do them myself when I feel a bit down in the mouth. Here’s a nice one now,” he continued, pointing to a little wooden box. “Take it up and look at it. Nicely made, isn’t it? Nothing odd about it, is there?”
“No,” said George. “It’s just an ordinary little stud-box.”
“Just an ordinary little stud-box,” agreed the man. “Now, then, you put a coin in it—any coin will do—thank you, sir. I shut the box—so—and place it on the table, and cover it with my handkerchief—so. Now, sir, if you’ll just remove the handkerchief and open the box. . . . Thank you, sir.”
“It’s gone!” said George in amazement.
“Why, so it has!” said the man sadly. “Your half-crown’s vanished. Never mind, I think I can find it for you. It’s here, I think,” he added, slipping a somewhat grimy but flexible, long-fingered hand inside the opening of George’s waistcoat. “Yes, here it is, large as life. . . . That’s the right coin, isn’t it?”
“If you can teach me to do that . . .” exclaimed George.
“There’s no teaching necessary,” declared the man, and he proceeded to disclose the secrets of the box, and several other equally intriguing mysteries which required different and equally intriguing apparatus for their demonstration, and presently George might have been seen issuing from the little shop with a brown paper parcel under his arm.
He had lost his train, of course; but there was another in half an hour—a slow one which stopped at every station and was therefore fairly empty. George was able to obtain a compartment to himself. He sat down and thought about his day. The brown paper parcel lay beside him on the seat, and he looked at it with affection. It would be tremendous fun to show those tricks to Dan’s friends—it would be the making of the party. He would practise them, and practise the “patter,” which was obviously an important part of the effects. He would get Paddy to help him.
It might be thought that now, when he was actually on his way home in the train, George’s adventures were over for the day; but such was not the case. There was another adventure waiting for George, an adventure of the mind, and a very curious one.
George sat in the empty compartment listening to the rattle of the wheels and thinking about the conjuring tricks and Dan’s party and staring unseeingly at an advertisement of a Life Assurance Company on the opposite wall of the compartment: “Insure Your Life,” it said. “The Beta Gamma Assurance Company is Safe and Sure.” And beneath, in smaller letters, it pointed out the peculiar advantages offered by the Beta Gamma to those who insured with them.
George gazed at this notice for some time without seeing it at all, and then, somehow, the information penetrated to his brain, and there was a sudden quite audible click—and George remembered.
“Crikey!” he exclaimed, almost leaping to his feet in his excitement. “Oh, crikey! That’s what I’ve been crying to remember all day . . .”
The point which George had remembered so suddenly was that Mr. Green had insured his life for £20,000. He had told George so, and also told him that the purpose of this insurance was to cover Death Duties. George remembered the whole thing clearly now. He remembered it so clearly that it seemed incredible that he had not remembered it before. He remembered it so clearly that there was no possible doubt whatever in his mind.
“Crikey!” he said again, in awful consternation (and it was a mercy that there were no other travellers in the compartment, for they might have received the impression that there was a lunatic at large). “Then, why did Millar have to sell out all these shares? He didn’t have to, of course! . . . Oh, my giddy aunt!” said George, running his fingers through his hair so that it stood straight on end. “I knew there was something I ought to remember. . . . I must write to him at once.”
He must write at once—that was his thought—but, unfortunately, he could not write till he got home, and the wretched train seemed to be dawdling on purpose to annoy George and torture him beyond endurance, and the sickening taxi (which he was forced to take at Winthorpe station, because obviously it was quite impossible to wait ten minutes for the bus) was so old and decrepit that it crawled up every hill like a steam roller in low gear, so that when George did at last arrive at Swan House he presented to his fond parents the appearance of a man distraught.
They left their dinner on the table and followed him to his study, where he was already setting out paper and searching feverishly for ink; and they hovered round him asking anxious questions and gradually becoming acquainted with all the facts of the case.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” George kept saying; “but I must write first. He needn’t sell out the things, don’t you see. . . . If I get him in time—he needn’t sell them out. I knew there was something I had to remember. . . . Where the devil is my pen?”
“Extremely interesting,” Mr. Ferrier said. “Extremely interesting. The workings of the subconscious are wrapt in mystery.”
“Dinner—” began Paddy doubtfully.
“Oh, dinner!” exclaimed George with scorn, and then he added, more kindly: “Afterwards, Paddy, afterwards . . .”
George could neither rest nor eat until he had completed his letter to Mr. Millar and had addressed it to his London office (since he did not know the name of the Bournemouth hotel), and had gone out and posted it in the pillar-box in the Winthorpe road. He felt better then, and was quite oblivious of the fact that the pillarbox had been cleared for the day and that his letter would lie there for nearly twenty hours before proceeding a step farther on its journey. In George’s mind—as in the minds of many who are not in the habit of regular correspondence on important business matters—a letter posted was a letter well on its way, and when George heard the gentle thud of his letter falling into the box he breathed a sigh of relief. Mr. Millar would get the letter, and he would put everything right; everything was as good as put right already.
The letter was a curious one, for George had written it in haste and excitement, half off his own bat and half to the dictation of his father, who had been anxious to be of service in the matter. The two styles did not blend very well, and indeed no attempt had been made to blend them; but, in spite of this, the letter was perfectly clear and Mr. Millar, when eventually he received it, was too upset by the news it contained to notice the peculiar mixture of language in which it was couched.
CHAPTER XVII
Breathing Space
On Wednesday George went for a long walk with Nadia to refresh himself after the troubles and trials of his visit to London, but on Thursday he rode over early to Highmoor House. He had promised to ride with Elma on Thursday morning, and the promise must be kept. He was not particularly keen to ride with Elma, because he had not yet made up his mind about her: at one moment he decided that she really was very sweet indeed, and that the man who married her would be an extremely lucky fellow, but the next moment some inner voice would whisper to him, “Yes, but could she ever develop into a real companion? Remember, it’s for your whole life!”
It was the thought of marriage as a “life sentence” that frightened George. Life seemed so long; it stretched before him into eternity. He could not believe that there was anybody in the world with whom he could live forever and not become bored. He was not bored with Paddy, of course; but, then, Paddy was at least twenty different people. She was a different person every hour, and you never knew which person she would be next. You might be annoyed with Paddy, you might even dislike her—George was aware that some of her neighbours disliked Paddy a good deal—but you couldn’t possible be bored with her. . . .
Oh, well, thought George, I must just be very careful with Elma until I can make up my mind whether I love her or not . . . and he rode on with a little frown between his eyes.
He rode across the moor and up the hill to the stable gate; but when he reached the big stone entrance it was Miss Wilson who was waiting there for him, and Elma was not to be seen. George hesitated for a moment. He did not like Miss Wilson. For one thing, she made him feel a fool and, for another, she was so terribly pedantic and old maidish that he was frightened to open his mouth in her presence in case of shocking her. He hesitated and then rode on, because, of course, there was no escape; and as he went forward he seemed to see her in a different light. There was something rather pathetic in the droop of her shoulders as she leant against the gatepost. She was old, and miserably thin; she was a dried-up slip of a woman who had obviously never known what it was to enjoy herself and have a good time. Poor wretch, thought George commiseratingly, as he drew up his horse beside her and looked down into her pinched sallow face.
“Good-morning, Mr. Ferrier,” she said. “I wished to speak to you for a few moments.”
George dismounted and shook her by the hand. “Of course,” he said. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it? Is Elma ready?”
“Elma is not riding this morning,” said Miss Wilson dryly.
“Not ill, I hope?”
“No, she is perfectly well, I am glad to say.”
“Splendid,” said George, a trifle too heartily.
There was a little silence.
“The fact is,” said Miss Wilson, “Elma has deceived me. I was not aware that you and she were riding alone together every morning before breakfast. The early morning is not my best time—to tell you the truth, I do not feel at my best until the day is well advanced—and Elma has taken advantage of this unfortunate weakness.”
George was taken aback. “Oh!” he said feebly.
“You were not aware of this deception?”
“No,” said George. “I never thought about it. But, as a matter of fact, Elma is perfectly safe with me. I mean, I know all about horses. It’s my job.”
“You do not understand,” said Miss Wilson. “I consider it unsuitable for Elma to ride alone with a young man. I was under the impression that the groom was accompanying you; and, indeed, I was stretching a point in allowing her to go at all.”
“Oh, I say!” exclaimed George. “That’s very old fashioned, isn’t it? Carruthers is a decent fellow, but we don’t want him tagging along.”
“Carruthers knew that I expected him to go with you.”
“I told him he needn’t come.”
“He should have informed me,” she declared. “He deliberately deceived me. I cannot understand it at all.” George was annoyed. “I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss,” he said. “After all, I’m Elma’s trustee.” And it seemed to him, as he made this point, that he was forever trying to impress this point upon people, and that people forever refused to take this point into their minds and keep it there.
