Talham was seized with the idea of making an afternoon call, and waited on Tillizinni, to the detective’s embarrassment.
“Tillizinni,” he said, “one of the duties which civilisation imposes upon its products, is the obligation under which we all rest, to observe the social amenities.”
After which preamble he deigned to explain that he had accepted an invitation for himself and for the detective, to what he termed “a party.”
Tillizinni had visions of being called upon to sing, or do parlour tricks, and he hastily excused himself.
“You must come,” said Talham gravely. “I did perhaps overstep the conventions when, without consulting you, I accepted this invitation on your behalf. But I think you will enjoy yourself. Mrs. Smith is a lady of singular charm of manner, and has the gift which so few women, and indeed so few men, possess, of appreciating scientific endeavour at its true value.”
From which Tillizinni gathered that the lady had been engaged in impressing upon Talham what a fine fellow he was.
The detective hesitated. He knew he would be horribly bored, but it must be confessed he was possessed by a curiosity to know exactly how Talham would behave in that nebulous sphere which is called “society.”
Mrs. Smith had a little house in Bayswater. It was in one of those long roads which connect Bayswater with Mayfair, and where, at the Mayfair end, the houses grow narrower and narrower, crowding against one another as if in a panic lest they stray into the more unfashionable end of the street.
She was a woman who had a passion for parties, and was never quite so happy as when she was making two guests groan where one had groaned before.
Since her entertaining area was severely restricted, it is not to be wondered that her little social plot was somewhat overcrowded.
Habitués at Mrs. Smith’s “at homes” and functions were sufficiently well acquainted with the lay of the house to tuck themselves into odd corners and alcoves; but both Talham and his apprehensive companion found themselves a little cramped for room in the tiny hall where six men were endeavouring to find pegs for their coats at one and the same time.
The drawing-room was on the first floor, and although the stairs leading up to it were somewhat narrow, Mrs. Smith carried out the illusion of a Foreign Office reception by receiving her guests on the first landing with her back to the bathroom door, and handing them over, as they squeezed past, to an ill-fitted butler, who conducted them the three or four paces which separated the end of stairs from the beginning of drawing-room.
She boasted that she never forgot names, and was wont to cite herself and King Edward as twin souls in this respect.
Indeed, from time to time, she found many startling phases of resemblance between herself and various members of the Royal Family.
The tiny drawing-room was uncomfortably crowded.
Tillizinni found himself wondering, as he pushed his way through the press, by what extraordinary manœuvre Mrs. Smith held and attracted such a large and representative body of good-looking young men.
He had a lurking suspicion that as fast as they entered the drawing-room by the door they surreptitiously escaped through the window.
There was that air of unreality which is frequently to be found in the small drawing-rooms of the people bitten by the social bug.
“She called me Mr. Tinker,” said Talham’s voice in the other’s ear.
His words almost trembled with chagrin. Tillizinni tried to appease him.
“She called me Phillips,” he said with a smile; “though that is not my name as far as I know. You must allow for lapses in the memory of a hostess who probably entertains thousands of people in a year.”
Talham was silent, but he was very annoyed indeed.
The press was thickest at one end of the drawing-room, and to this the two made, following the instinct which invariably draws man to man--for men like men in crowds.
“What is the attraction?” grumbled Talham. “Is it not lamentable,” he went on without waiting for a reply, which, as a matter of fact, the detective was not prepared to offer, “that with all the joyous and bountiful gifts which nature has prepared and laid open for her children, men should be found who prefer the hot and fetid atmosphere of a drawing-room and the stimulations of artificial gaiety to that ante-chamber of heaven, the field? Does not the pettiness--the inconclusiveness--of it, strike you? Think of the futility of effort----”
He got so far and was warming to his subject, when the little crowd which stood between them and the attraction, thinned, as a sea-fret thins before a westerly wind, and Tillizinni saw, for the first time in his life, Yvonne Yale.
She was standing near the fireplace, listening to a short youth by her side, with some evidence of boredom.
Her hair, perfectly coiffeured, was a mass of golden brown. About this she wore a little bandeau of dull gold.
Tillizinni received the impression of observing a crowned queen--so proud and straight she stood, with a little tilt to her chin, and the merest hint of condescension in her eyes, as she talked to the voluble youth who hung upon her words.
Her gown, cut low at the neck, was very plain. It was of black velvet, close fitting. About her neck she had three strings of imitation pearls. Her arms, bare to the elbow, were white and beautifully shaped; her hands larger than one expected, but pretty. She had a plain gold bangle about her wrist--the only jewel she wore.
Tillizinni looked at Talham. He was staring at the girl, his lips parted, his eyes wide open, his head a little forward.
At any other moment he would have amused the other, but Tillizinni had seen that look before--that strange earnestness and intensity with which he confronted the problems of life.
He continued to look, and the girl must have subconsciously become aware of the unwinking gaze fixed upon her, for she turned her head and faced him.
For a moment they stood thus, looking one at the other; then Tillizinni saw a delicate pink creep into her face, and he caught Talham’s arm.
“Introduce me,” he muttered, “and apologise for my rudeness.”
Obeying rather the dictation of his inner self than any suggestion of his friend, Talham went towards her, his hand outstretched.
She held out her hand frankly with a little smile to Talham, and he took it. He held it, it seemed to Tillizinni, an unconscionable time. The responsibility of piloting Talham through the social maze was getting on the nerves of one who was famous throughout Europe for his freedom from nerve trouble.
“I am glad to see you again, Captain Talham,” she said with a dazzling smile which showed two rows of pearly teeth. “We do not often entertain such distinguished people.”
She said this with a gentle note of mockery, but as usual Talham took her very seriously.
“Whatever views you may hold regarding my friend,” he said gravely, “you must not think of regarding me as distinguished. I hope, Miss Yale, that you and I shall be great friends. I will have no artificial barriers erected which may separate to any extent two people anxious to grow in acquaintance.”
The girl looked puzzled. She had uttered the first conventional pleasantry which had come into her head. She never regarded Talham as distinguished. To her he was a man, who in the moment of her necessity, had rendered a kindly and a chivalrous service.
She turned hurriedly, it seemed to Tillizinni, to introduce her mother--a lady dressed in the abrupt fashion which was suggestive of conflicting bargain sales.
Mrs. Smith was engaged in the eternal quest for the missing segment. It was only a tiny segment that was required to make both ends of her circle meet. She speculated modestly on the Stock Exchange, and dreamt dreams of meeting a magnificent, kindly man who would give her the “tip” of her life.
Then she would buy shares. The market would undergo some extraordinary evolution, and the shares she bought at one pound, less fortunate people would want to buy at twenty-five shillings. Then she would sell, and she would be exactly five shillings per share to the good.
And if she had had five thousand shares, why then she would have one thousand two hundred and fifty pounds.
It was very simple.
On such day dreams as these, men grow rich, but they are usually the men who sell the shares to the dreamers.
But Talham was not to be detached. He made a little speech to the mother, and with deplorable sang froid, dismissed her from the circle. It was unpardonable, but it was very much Talham.
Tillizinni, watching the scene with his keen eyes, was chuckling and learning.
But the girl was undoubtedly puzzled. She could not understand whether Talham was serious, or whether his persistence was a form of humour which had just about then become popular owing to the success of a certain socialist dramatist, with whose name I will not sully these fair pages.
“I am sure I shall be delighted,” she murmured pleasantly.
He had invited her to a concert, and had in his magnetic, plausible way, persuaded her to go.
She altered her position, tapping her foot nervously--an infallible sign that she was embarrassed. She looked from Talham to the dark young man at her side.
Gregory de Costa owed his readmission to the Yale ménage to the admiration which Mrs. Smith had for his business acumen. There were some subjects which Yvonne did not regard as being worth a quarrel, and Gregory de Costa’s attendance was one of these.
He made up for homeliness of face in magnificence of attire. His dress suit was cut so well that he seemed, like another famous character, to have been melted and poured into it. In the breast of his shirt blazed a diamond, almost as big as a hickory nut. His links, when he raised his hand to caress his tiny moustache, radiated light. His bejewelled fingers reminded one irresistibly of the illuminations at Luna Park.
“Do you know Mr. de Costa?” asked the girl.
Talham bowed to the young man, and the young man bowed to him.
For some reason she did not introduce Tillizinni.
“I think I have met you before, Captain Talham,” said the young man.
“I do not think we have ever met you,” said Talham with deliberation.
“In our office?” suggested Mr. de Costa, an encouraging smile on his thick lips.
“We have never been into your office,” said Talham.
“I’m perfectly sure that I have seen you there,” persisted the other.
If he expected that Talham would be satisfied with an exchange of platitudinous pleasantries with the girl, and then withdraw, he was disappointed. If he imagined he could draw Talham to a discussion on so futile a question as his presence in an office at some remote period of his life, he was mad.
Talham had a weightier interest. The thought that he might be de trop never occurred to him, and if it had been suggested that his unconventional method of interesting others in his career and his aspirations was calculated rather to bore than to grip their imaginations, he would have smiled, pityingly.
He diagnosed the girl’s half-amused embarrassment as a natural nervousness in being suddenly confronted with a man of his attainments. By some extraordinary mental convolution which was peculiarly Talhamesque, he credited her with a full appreciation of his genius, a lurking suspicion of his identity, and a comfortable ignorance of the character of his adventures. Like the exigent little boy who demanded of the store-keeper two cents worth of hundreds and thousands--an infinitesimal candy, about the size of a pin’s head, variously coloured--Talham wanted her to pick him out all white.
“It is more than a pleasure to again meet you, Miss Yale,” he began, in his oratorical manner. “There are some events in life--some landmarks which rise above the dreary path that meanders across the plain of eternity--which stand out…”
He orated on without drawing breath, so to speak. For his imagery he ransacked forest and field and plain; the vegetable, mineral and animal kingdoms contributed to the illuminations of his argument; and the girl stood looking at him wonderingly, a little frightened, a little--a very little--amused, a little--more than a little--bored.
As for Gregory de Costa--he stood stolidly by, taking no part in the conversation, twirling his moustache with a determined and an injured air.
From sheer humanity, Tillizinni set himself the task of diverting Talham’s attention. He felt that his action was invested with that heroism which one reads about in books of travel, when a devoted servant sets himself the thankless task of attracting the attention of a tiger, feeding upon his fellow creature, to his plump and trembling self.
Tillizinni succeeded, however, in giving the girl an opportunity for escape; but he drew down upon himself all the heavy weapons in Talham’s arsenal. It was absolutely necessary for him to seek out Mrs. Smith and pay her that little attention which is due from a guest to his hostess.
Fortunately Mrs. Smith came to the rescue. She was engaged in that process which is described in the society columns as “mixing up her guests.” In other words, she was making her slow way through the crowded little room, giving a nod here, a smile there, some comment--generally misplaced--elsewhere. She left behind her a trail of bachelors, who had, in acknowledging her tender inquiries after their wives, inferentially admitted such possessions.
She found Talham, and from the manner in which she pounced upon him and led him forth, Tillizinni gathered that the object of her search had been accomplished.
She was Yvonne Yale’s stepmother, being the second wife of the gallant colonel who had long since passed over to the majority. Mrs. Smith’s poetical way of putting it, was that he had taken his sword to heaven; but as to this, it is impossible to speak with authority.
She was one of those women who have a den--half study, half boudoir, all roll-top desks and Liberty knick-knacks. She prided herself upon being a thorough business woman, with a head for figures, which meant periodical disputes between her and her broker, which induced piles of tragic correspondence between herself and her bank, and explained to a very large extent the domestic cataclysms which were of such frequent occurrence in her household.
To this den she led Talham, and in the hour he spent with her he learnt as much of her private history, and much more of her financial standing, than she knew herself.
He came back and rescued Tillizinni at a period where he was bored to the point of tears. Talham was very important and very mysterious. He plunged into the crowd again to find Yvonne Yale. She may have seen him coming; at any rate Tillizinni saw her look helplessly round, then face him with a scared look.
“Must you really go, Captain Talham?”
Talham said that he really must go; he said why he had to go, what he had to do--the hours of anxious work which lay ahead of him--and he hinted of the destinies of people which would be affected by any longer abstention from their interest. He spoke of generations yet unborn whose fates were trembling in the balance; he laid down the well-worn thesis that social obligations should be subservient to stern economic realities.
If she thought she had seen the last of him after he had so unmistakably expressed his intention of retiring, she was mistaken. She did not know Talham. She felt foolish and resented the cause. People at whom speeches are made in public invariably feel foolish.
Yet for all the exhaustive character of his farewell, Talham remembered on his way home several things he had intended to say, and was half inclined to go back to say them. All the way to the hotel he could think of nothing else but her wonderful eyes, her refinement, her glorious voice.
She was, he then told me, the daughter of an army officer who had died suddenly a few years before, leaving the second wife and his daughter the most meagre of incomes. This was the text on which he delivered an address, dealing with the duty of the state and the grudging gratitude of the nation. So far as Tillizinni was able to trace, Yvonne’s father was a colonel of infantry, who had spent some twenty years in various parts of the globe, missing active service the whole of his life, and finishing up with the command of a militia depôt. Under these circumstances, Talham’s heroics about the “children of England’s battle-scarred defenders” were beside the point.
“Mrs. Yale,” he said impressively, “was a wonderful woman, a splendid woman, a business woman. I can only hope that Yvonne inherits her splendid qualities.”
When Talham ordered his world to his own satisfaction, he was not above adjusting the laws of progeniture. Mrs. Smith had sought his advice as to her investments. Talham had fallen for it.
It is a subtle form of flattery employed by dowagers, who could not hint at the physical attractions of their middle-aged and bald-headed admirers, and still retain their self-respect; and who found in this oblique tribute to their business capacities an effective and profitable substitute.
But Talham was not middle-aged, and the poison of the flattery had eaten deeper into his system.
“I am transferring five thousand shares in the Mount Li Exploration Syndicate,” he said.
Tillizinni was not easily moved, but now he gasped.
“The Mount Li----?” he asked incredulously.
“The Mount Li Exploration Syndicate,” said Talham firmly.
“But there isn’t such a company,” protested the other.
Talham looked at him a little sadly.
“It is one of the things I have overlooked,” he said. “One of the essentials of our communal life. It did not, I confess, occur to me until that extraordinary woman was discussing such things as shares and bonds, that I realised in a flash that it was impossible for me to help her because no such shares stood in my name. Have not,” he asked impressively, “the great events of history which have transformed the world, been born in a moment’s inspiration? Even as I sat there, in the excellently appointed study--I must make a note, by the way, of the furnishing of that apartment: I should like an office arranged on similar lines--the Mount Li Exploration came into existence.”
“In other words,” said Tillizinni with a helpless smile, “you created the company in order to give her shares!”
“I created the company,” agreed the tall man, gravely.
