Book One
How Some Passed Out of the Courts Forever
1: What’s in a Name?
“This,” said Fairie, “is too thick.”
It really was. From a leaden sky snow was beginning to fall. The draughts – for there is no wind in London, only draughts – caught and flung it insolently in the faces of passers-by. These received it, some dumbly, most with an ill grace, much as once lords and gentlemen-in-waiting endured the horseplay of the King’s fool – with crooked smiles. A veritable prince among jesters, the weather. Never had monarch’s fool so ample a licence.
From a club window Bill Fairie surveyed the scene gloomily. By his side his brother-in-law, Marlowe, busied himself with the delicate operation of piercing a slim cigar.
“Snow’s all right,” said the latter suddenly. “Very seasonable. It is this sort of weather, brother, that has made us Englishmen what we are.”
“I believe it is,” said Fairie. “Incidentally, d’you know we’ve had twenty minutes’ sunshine in the last thirteen days?”
Marlowe reached for a match with a frown.
“I can see you’ve been reading the papers,” he said.
“And that the average rainfall for March has already been exceeded, with another twenty-two days of the month to go?”
“Twenty-three,” corrected the other pleasantly. “Don’t you remember? ‘Thirty days hath September, April, June, and Nov–’”
“There are times,” said Fairie, “when I feel that I could offer you violence.”
“Not really,” said Marlowe. “Your better self—”
“At the present moment, for instance, I could witness your immersion in a horse-pond unmoved.”
Marlowe sat up and laid down his cigar.
“The existing climatic conditions make that remark peculiarly offensive,” he said. “You’ve made me feel cold all over. Only an old brandy…”
His companion grinned.
“You shall have one,” he said, beckoning to a waiter. “And now replace your cigar. It does much to relieve the monotony of your face.”
Bill Fairie was thirty-one. Nice-looking, cleanshaven, lazy-eyed, he strolled unconcernedly through life, to all appearances a leisured bachelor. Yet he adored his wife, with whom he had slipped into matrimony when he was twenty-eight. Between the two there existed a perfect understanding. Never far apart, they were seldom alone together, preferring to make two of a party. Their cousins, the Brokes – brother and sister – shared a house with them. The four pulled together excellently.
“Why don’t you and Betty clear out?” said Marlowe, after a pause. “Just now Biarritz—”
“Is probably rather colder than this, and gradually filling up with the sort of people one leaves England to avoid. Besides, we’re hanging on for the Grand National.”
“That, of course, settles it. Aintree ought to be rather nice if this weather goes on. Got your panama ready?”
Fairie leaned against the wall and regarded his brother-in-law.
“He would be humorous,” he said musingly. “I suppose it’s being so much with me. Well, well! As I was saying, we both want to see the race, if only because—”
“Give it a miss and clear out,” said Marlowe absently. “Pretty legs that kid’s got. Over there, getting out of the car.” He pointed across the street. “Awfully like Dolly Lair’s. By Jove,” he cried, springing to his feet, “if it isn’t her! And I knew her little ankles at thirty paces. I must go and tell her.”
The next moment he was gone. Fairie looked after him. Then:
“I don’t think this is quite decent,” he said. “However.” With that, he moved to another window, the better to observe what took place.
The car had stopped at a corner. For a moment the girl had been speaking with someone inside; now she turned to the chauffeur, clearly giving an order. The next second the great doors of an Insurance Office had swung to behind her. The car slipped away from the kerb into the line of traffic. Only a bulldog in a blue coat remained, a lead trailing from his collar. Seemingly, while the door was open, he had scrambled out of the car unnoticed. He had not seen his mistress pass through the tall doors, so now he stood bewildered, looking slowly about him, suddenly lost.
Marlowe appeared upon the scene hurriedly; it had taken a few seconds to find his coat and hat. From the club window his brother-in-law watched him amusedly. Quickly he glanced round for the car, by this time out of sight. Seeing it nowhere, he scanned the pavement carefully on either side. Fruitlessly, of course. So, by a process of exhaustion, he came to the buildings. It seemed certain that one of them must contain the lady. The question was, which had that honour. After a critical survey, he rejected the Insurance Office, naturally enough, for a doorway which admitted – so ran the superscription – to some temporary Exhibition of Water-Colours. After a moment’s hesitation he passed in.
A slow smile spread over Fairie’s countenance. This was an opportunity not to be missed, and it had stopped snowing. Besides, the bulldog, poor fellow, was getting worried…
A minute later he crossed the street and picked up the trailing lead. The animal blinked up at him curiously.
“Lad,” said Fairie, “be of good cheer. She of the pretty legs will come again. We’re going to wait for her, and I simply love your coat.”
Thus addressed the bulldog regarded his friend with big eyes, snuffling inquisitively. Fairie smiled back, stooping to stroke the broad brown head. With a sigh of relief the bulldog accepted the situation.
The pair had not long to wait. In fact, they were still regarding one another, when my lady emerged from the building as suddenly as she bad entered it. Very smart, if you please, in her fine mink coat, which swathed her from neck to knee in an odour of luxury. From knee to ankle she went naked, as women do, unless a rose-coloured lustre may be accounted clothes. Her hair was hidden under a small blue hat, but gaiety danced in her eyes for the world to see and be glad of, and on her lips hung a smile no winter could take away. As though to mock the rough weather, her slight patent-leather slippers made light of the dripping steps: the huddles of snow could not muster refulgence like theirs.
As the bulldog surged forward, an exclamation of surprise broke from his mistress’ lips. Fairie raised his hat.
“You are careless, you know,” he said, with a smile. “It’s one thing to leave your sponge in the bathroom, but it’s quite another to leave your bulldog on the pavement.”
“But how – I don’t understand,” said the girl, her voice full of laughter. “I didn’t leave him.”
“Oh, but you did,” said Fairie. “I saw you. And he’s very upset about it. You should have heard him sigh just now.”
My lady bent over the bulldog.
“Peter, dear, you know I didn’t mean to,” she said. “But why did Peter get out of the car? Oh, naughty Peter.”
The familiar expression of reproof appeared to afford its target immense gratification. He wagged all his hindquarters and squirmed with delight, snuffling furiously.
“I’m forgiven, you see,” said his mistress, looking up at Fairie.
“I think he’s very tolerant,” said the latter. “I wouldn’t have forgiven you so easily.”
“Ah, but then he’s got a nice nature” – with a mischievous glance.
“Ungenerous,” said Fairie aggrievedly. “The remark, I mean. Not the look. I loved that.”
The girl smiled. Then:
“It was splendid of you to take care of him. I’m awfully grateful. And now…”
She put out a hand for the lead. Fairie looked at her.
“Er – Peter and I were just going to have some tea,” he said. “Over the way there. At Rumpelmayer’s.”
“Were you, though?”
“Fact,” said Fairie, with an anxious glance at the entrance to the Water-Colours. “We were wondering if – er – if you’d join us.”
My lady raised her eyebrows ever so slightly.
“If you can get Peter across the street without breaking the lead,” she said slowly, “you can have tea together.”
“And you’ll join us?”
The girl hesitated. Then:
“And I’ll join you,” she added, with a faint smile.
“Done,” said Fairie, turning towards the kerb.
Directly he felt the strain on his collar, Peter looked up at his mistress. Clearly she was not proposing to move. Enough. Without giving an inch, he screwed his head round and gave Fairie an apologetic look. The strain continuing, the look became one of surprised protest. Another moment and the brown eyes turned contemptuously away. You would have sworn the dog had shrugged his broad shoulders.
“Oh, Peter!” said Fairie reproachfully.
A grunt of disgust and indignation answered him. The girl looked on amusedly.
“The silent knight,” said Fairie, loosening the lead for a moment. “What’s his horse-power?”
“I’m not sure. But he’s pulling very well this afternoon, isn’t he?”
Fairie nodded.
“An obstinate fellow,” he said musingly.
Once more the girl put out her hand.
“Try ‘determined,’” she said. “Goodbye.”
Fairie shook his head.
“No,” he said simply. “Obstinate. That’s the difference between us. I am determined. And now let’s go and have tea. If you stand here any longer, Miss Dorothy Lair, you will catch cold.”
With that he picked Peter up in his arms, settling him on his back like a baby, paused on the kerb for a break in the stream of taxis, and then walked easily across the broad street. After a moment the girl followed him. As she stepped on to the pavement:
“I didn’t know I knew you,” she said coldly.
Fairie set down his charge and looked at her.
“I don’t think you do,” said he, “or you wouldn’t have spoken like that. And now goodbye.”
So saying, he held out the lead. She took it hesitatingly.
“Don’t you want—”
“To give you tea? My dear, I should have loved to. So long, Peter.”
He raised his hat and turned on his heel.
“I say,” said the girl suddenly.
“Yes?”
“I know you don’t forgive people easily, but as we did arrange – I mean, I shouldn’t like to disappoint Peter.”
“I’m not at all sure,” said Fairie, “that I don’t adore you.”
“Thanks very much,” said Dolly, with a little laugh. “And now, please, how did you know my name?”
Marlowe emerged from the Exhibition of Water-Colours looking inexpressibly bored. Instead of the attractive Dolly, he had lighted upon an old friend of his father’s, who had been abroad for three years – an encounter which, for all his cunning, had cost him ten slow-going minutes.
He crossed the street moodily, reflecting upon his infamous luck. Of course, the delay had spoiled any chance he had had of catching Miss Lair. Listlessly he began to make his way up the pavement, looking idly into the shop-windows. Looking idly…
The sudden spectacle of Dolly and his brother-in-law engaged in obviously light-hearted converse over a dainty tea, behind the plate-glass of Rumpelmayer’s, filled him with an emotion too deep for words. For a moment he stood as if rooted to the spot. Then:
“Hullo, old chap,” said a soft voice.
His sister, Elizabeth Fairie.
Marlowe turned to her.
“Look at him,” he said, pointing a shaking finger at the unconscious delinquent. “Look at the brute.”
“Where? Who?” said his sister calmly. “Oh, it’s Bill. And Dolly Lair. She’s a dear kid. I wish they’d look round.”
“So do I,” said Marlowe grimly.
Within, the pair were holding high festival.
“If you’d only said you were Mr Fairie,” Dolly was saying.
“What’s in a name?” replied her companion. “The Doll by any other name would smell as sweet.”
“Will you be serious?” said Dolly, bubbling with laughter.
Fairie regarded her.
“How you dare have a mouth like that, beats me,” he said. “Hullo! There’s Betty. Oh, and Marlowe, too. Now, isn’t that nice?”
Coolly he beckoned them to come in. With a smile Elizabeth turned to comply with the request. Marlowe took off his hat with awful deliberation. His brother-in-law nodded genially, and Dolly bowed.
“How strange he looks!” she said.
“Always like that when he’s been looking at pictures,” Fairie explained. “He’s been to some exhibition or other this afternoon.”
“I never knew he cared about art” – surprisedly.
“Practically all he lives for,” said Fairie, rising. “And here’s my helpmeet. I suppose I must get her a chair.”
Elizabeth Fairie was a great beauty. More than that. There was an exquisite charm about her that was irresistible. Talk with her once, and you would remember it for all time. You might forget the big brown eyes after a while, but never the soft light glowing behind them, forget the proud curve of the mouth, but never the faint smile playing about it. The odds are, you would remember all four, probably with a sigh. The easy grace of her movements, her speech, her manners generally, was remarkable. With it all, she was perfectly natural. Sporting, too, and always ready for anything. She sat a horse better than most women sit a sofa, had no nerves, and usually wore a little air of amused gravity, which argued a strong sense of humour.
“Well, children,” said Betty.
“Child yourself,” said her husband. “You see in us a man and woman of the world.”
“As bad as that?” said Betty, raising her eyebrows. “Anyway, you looked very sweet. What were you discussing so cheerfully?”
“Agriculture, if you must know,” said Fairie. “Yes, some further tea, please. I suppose Pip’s coming.”
“I expect so. He seems rather bored with you about something.”
“Dear, dear,” said her husband composedly. “But here he is. Now mark how a soft answer shall turn away his wrath.” He turned to greet the gentleman in question. “Hullo, old chap. How are the Water-Colours? Any gems?”
“I will deal with you,” said Marlowe, “at some future time.” Here he drew up a chair. “Probably on a dark night, when there is no moon. I ought to have warned you about him,” he added, turning to Dolly. “His sheepish exterior conceals a wolfish heart.”
“How awful!” said Dolly.
“Yes,” replied Marlowe with unction. “Beneath a thin veneer of—”
“Oh, look,” said his sister. “It’s beginning to snow again.”
“Hush,” said her husband. “Wherever were you brought up? Never direct attention to indecency.”
“Idiot,” said Betty. “All the same—”
“It is my firm belief,” said Marlowe, “that there is a curse upon this unhappy land.”
“I agree, brother,” said Fairie. “This weather is, as it were, a foul plague. Presently we shall have frogs. Stacks of them.”
“Yes, and then blains,” said Marlowe.
“How many frogs go to the stack?” said Miss Lair. “A hundred and forty-four,” said Fairie. “Don’t you know your tables? One man one vote, four votes one gallon.”
Dolly broke into silvery laughter.
“Don’t encourage the fool, dear,” said Betty. “If you knew him as well as I do—”
“Let me put it like this,” said her husband. “To know me is to love me. How terse! But to the weather. Pip says we ought to clear out.”
“Leave England?”
“Certainly,” said Marlowe. “Give the ’orse-race a miss and leave England. England,” he added ecstatically, “this precious stone set in the silver sea (Bacon).” With a rapturous wave of the hand he indicated the scene outside – the dark, wet street crowded with scurrying traffic, uncertain gusts driving the fine snow hither and thither, what dull daylight there was, failing… Could he have seen it, old John of Gaunt would have turned his face to the wall.
For a moment they all sat silent. Then:
“Have another éclaire, Peter?” said Fairie.
“You haven’t been giving him éclaires?” cried Dolly, horrified.
“This,” said Fairie, “will make his fourth.”
“No, no! He mustn’t have it, Mr Fairie. He’ll be awfully ill as it is. Three éclaires. Oh, Peter!”
The latter seemed greatly moved by their attention. After sneezing twice, he sat quivering with expectation, looking from one to the other eloquently. His mistress gave him a piece of bread-and-butter. Nothing could have been more elegant than his acceptance of the morsel, unless it were his almost simultaneous expulsion of it as unworthy.
“You see,” said Dolly. “You’ve spoiled him. Ah! Naughty dog!”
“Don’t misjudge him,” said Fairie. “Perhaps he’s giving up butter in Lent.”
“Of course,” said Betty, who was still regarding the whirling snow, “of course, I know it’s rotten stopping here, but even if we decide to give up the Grand National, where are we to go?”
“Where indeed?” said her husband. “Ireland is priest-ridden, Heidelberg’s full of smells. There’s really only Bruges left.”
“What about Rome?” said Marlowe.
His sister shook her head pensively.
“No,” she said. “And Biarritz appears to be like this. The Ludlows are back already, and they only went there last week. Jean says they never went outside the hotel for three days.”
“Which, as is usual in these cases,” said Fairie, “reduces us to the Riviera.”
“Unless you go to Rih,” said Dolly suddenly. “It’s only four days, and you’d love it. Both of you.”
“Oh, Bill,” said Betty. “That’s an idea.”
“Yes,” said Dolly, waxing enthusiastic, “and it’ll be priceless just now. The flowers’ll be so lovely. What with the bougainvilleas and jackaranda trees—”
“I beg your pardon,” said Fairie.
“Jackaranda.”
“Hush,” said Fairie. “Not before the dog.”
“Fool,” said his wife. “Go on, Dolly.”
“Oh, and the great blue sky and the hot sun and the lizards and bullock-cars—”
“The fauna!” said Fairie excitedly.
“Will you be quiet?” said Betty.
“And the dear warm slopes and cobbled roads and everything…”
Dolly stopped suddenly and looked round. Then:
“I was very happy there,” she said simply.
The others looked at her.
“You darling,” said Betty with a swift smile.
“I agree,” said Fairie. “But about this sun – hot sun. Is there any question about that?”
“I don’t think so,” said Dolly, a little flushed. “Somehow, it’s just there – day after day.”
“Give me strength,” said Fairie brokenly. “Day after day?”
Dolly nodded amusedly.
“All day long,” she said.
With infinite care Bill Fairie pushed back his plate. Then he turned to his wife.
“My dear,” he said, “much as I would like to witness the hustle for the Blue Riband of the steeplechase world (sic), I feel that this phenomenon should not be missed.”
Thoughtfully Betty regarded him.
“I was wondering,” she said, “whether I’d take Falcon.”
Now Falcon was Mrs Fairie’s maid.
An hour later the two passages had been booked. Also, a cable had been sent engaging rooms at an hotel – the hotel, according to Cockspur Street: they should know there. Bill and his wife were to sail in four days’ time. So easily, sometimes, may strange steps be taken. Creatures of Impulse, the Fairies.
Impulse is a queer counsellor, too little honoured. There are those who will ever rank him close after Gluttony and Sloth, counting him one of the Vices. Such are the regular-lived. And very nice, too; only… Habit digs deep grooves sometimes, almost graves, for his creatures. Others soberly suspect his advice, as a matter of course assuming it to be evil, until deep reflection suggests the contrary. And even then they are not quite comfortable. “Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?” But it is too late then, for the counsel of Impulse must be followed amain, or the charm of it is withered. So that only the reckless and irresponsible – undeserving heretics who make few plans, neither abide by those they make – may know the fresh air of excitement short notice lends to an affair; the spice, very tasty, with which sudden resolve garnishes a holiday.
The Fairies leaving together, it was for Marlowe to see Dolly home – naturally. And before home, to Bond Street to choose some gloves. Whilst they were in the taxi:
“What I want to know,” said Marlowe, “is how you and that serpent got into touch.”
“Ah,” said Dolly.
Her companion sighed.
“You know,” he said, “I believe your life is one long series of indiscretions.”
“Doubtless,” coolly replied Miss Lair. “But what were you doing at the Water-Colours?”
“I went to look for a picture which wasn’t there.”
“How tiresome for him!” she murmured.
“Yes, wasn’t it? Such a sweet picture, too. The softest colouring. However, I found it in the end.”
“But I thought you said—”
“It wasn’t there? Nor it was, Dolly. When I struck it, it was having tea with the serpent.”
“O-o-h,” said Dolly. “Then that was how—”
“Precisely. You see,” and Marlowe explained.
“The one redeeming feature about the whole affair,” he concluded, “is that you have persuaded Bill to leave the country.”
Dolly gave a little laugh. Then:
“I think Betty’s very fortunate,” she said.
For a moment Marlowe sat silent. Then:
“You’re right,” he said quietly, staring out of the window. “She is. Bill’s one of the best, straightest, kindest—”
“Dear old Pip,” said Dolly, slipping a warm arm through his. “But I wasn’t thinking of her husband.”
At eleven o’clock the next morning Bill Fairie entered the library, an open letter in his hand.
“I have here–” he began.
“Hush,” said Betty. “If you talk, I can’t hear. Will you say that again, please?”
She was at the telephone, very intense, very adorable. Kneeling sideways upon a chair, she leaned far over the writing-table, propping herself upon her elbows, one white hand holding the receiver, the other’s fingers about the mouthpiece. One little slipper had fallen off while she was talking, and now and again a pale pride of silk stocking would thrust out and down over the edge of the chair, till the toes of a shapely foot touched the ground there to grope vainly for the elusive foot-gear.
The conversation proceeded.
“Yes, will you send… No, no. As well as the other pairs. Then I can see if I like them… That’s right. Five o’clock will do. Yes. Goodbye.” As she hung up the receiver:
“What assignation is this?” said Fairie.
“Shoes for Rih, old chap. What were you going to say?”
Her husband displayed the letter.
“From Robin,” he said laconically. “Listen.
Dear Brother
Thank you for your letter. I pass over the fact that so much of it as is legible appears to be couched in studiedly offensive terms. Were your intellect less stunted, I would give you a short but telling word-picture of the malignant weather which has prevailed here for the last six days. But it is, as you know, one of my rules never to cast pearls before swine. The fact that my sister, but for whose importunity I should not have made one of this ill-starred house-party, has contracted an appalling and, if I may believe her, most painful cold, affords me some little consolation. At the same time, the mental and physical discomfort which I myself have suffered, owing to continuous rain and an incredibly low temperature, has, I feel, done much to undermine a constitution more or less sound, perhaps, but never robust. Under these circumstances it will not surprise you to learn that we are curtailing a visit which we should never have paid. In short, the snow-ploughs have been ordered, the coroner has been informed, and I have already decided what is the least I can give the second footman. We shall make King’s Cross tomorrow at six-fifteen. You had better be there with the car, as William is stupid about luggage and it is well-known that two fools are better than one.
Robin.
Betty threw back her head and laughed.
“They seem to have had rather a doing,” she said. “Back tonight, too. Well, they’ll hate it here, won’t they?”
With a shudder, she glanced out at the driving rain.
“They won’t stick it for half a week,” said Bill. “Robin’s evidently fed right up, and, according to him, Fay’s got one of the colds. I bet you they come with us.”
“To Rih?” said Betty, coming across to the fire.
“Every time,” said her husband. “You see.”
Here a servant entered with a telegram. Fairie opened it unconcernedly. Then:
“No answer,” he said. “At least not now. How very untoward,” he added musingly.
“What’s the matter?” said Betty from the club-kerb, where she was sitting with her feet in the grate.
Her husband handed her the flimsy sheet.
“Peter ill all night long,” she murmured.
“Yes,” said Bill. “Poor old Peter! Must have picked up something, I suppose. That’s the worst of these well-bred—”
“Nonsense,” said his wife. “It’s the éclaires you gave him, of course. And poor Dolly’s been up with him all night. She must be wild with you to trouble to send a wire.”
“I don’t see why she should be wild with me. The dog shouldn’t have eaten them. Supposing you went to the Billows’ and ate a lot of boiled mutton and—”
“That’s enough,” said Betty. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Do?” said Bill, lighting a cigarette. “What d’you expect me to do? Take the animal some grapes?”
“You’d better ring her up.”
“And get told off properly? Not much. No,” he added airily. “I shall compose a discreet wire, indicative at once of my esteem, anxiety, and remorse. Tears will start to the eyes of all who see it.”
“Dear fool,” said his wife, putting up her face to be kissed. “I do love you so. And now I must go and get ready. I ordered the car for half-past.”
“Wearing apparel?” said Bill.
Betty nodded.
“Just a few things, you know. Summer things. Don’t forget you’ve got to get—”
“Chorus,” said her husband. “He forgot to get what he’d got to get together to get to Rih. Pom.”
“Idiot,” said Betty. “Some tennis-balls, I was going to say. And, if you’re going to get any clothes, do see about them today. You know what it is if you leave everything till the last minute.” And she moved towards the door.
“All right, m’dear. Let’s see. What do I want? Gent’s half hose, fancy neck-wear, flannel trouserings – which reminds me…”
But Betty had gone.
For the next two hours Fairie busied himself with correspondence. A large estate in the country took some managing and a lot of time. Also he was a vigilant and conscientious trustee. For a man of leisure, he worked unusually hard. Indeed, his labour was worth a good six hundred a year. More than that, really, for no one else would have done the work so well.
It was past one o’clock before he laid down his pen. Suddenly he remembered the telegram. Quickly he reached for a form and wrote a reply. Then he crossed to the fireplace and rang the bell. To the footman who answered it:
“I shall be in to lunch,” he said. “And let that wire go at once. Perhaps it had better be telephoned.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And tell William to come upstairs. I want to see him about my clothes.”
The telegram was very short. It ran:
“Bowed with grief.”
By the time he had been to his tailor’s, purchased two dozen tennis-balls, and bought twice as much hosiery as he had intended, Fairie was getting cold. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to go to the Club. There would be vast fires there, at any rate: once warm, gentle exercise about the billiard-table for, say, half an hour… Clearly the idea was a good one. He quickened his steps.
As he passed into the Club, the clock of St James’s Palace proclaimed the hour. Four o’clock. Five minutes later he was in an easy chair before the smoking-room fire.
Suddenly the door opened, and Marlowe came in – excitedly rather. For a moment he looked round; then he saw Fairie and came to his side.
“Well?” said the latter expectantly. “Let’s have it.”
“You shall,” said Marlowe, drawing up a chair. “What about a hundred and thirty-five pounds in one afternoon, my son?”
“Rot,” said Fairie.
But he sat up. There was that in the other’s face which there was no mistaking.
“Fact,” said Marlowe, leaning forward to ring the bell. “Of course, I know it’s only dross, still… Have a ninepenny drink?”
His brother-in-law regarded him.
“Is this the confidence trick?” he said.
“Two winners,” said Marlowe. “One at seven, the other at twenty. Thanks very much. Twenty. Think of it.”
Fairie groaned.
“And you had–” he began.
“A fiver to win on both. Five times twenty-seven equals one-three-five. Am I right, sir?
“Good Heavens!” said Fairie. “How did you spot them?”
“Old Long gave me them.”
“Jerry Long?” cried Fairie. “Well, why the blazes didn’t he let me know?”
“I don’t know,” said Marlowe. “I tried to ring you up twice, as a matter of fact, but I couldn’t get on. Anyway, he sent me a wire from Cheltenham this morning, just giving the names. Where’s a paper?”
He rose and crossed to a table, returning a moment later with an evening paper. Quickly he turned to the ‘stop-press.’ Then:
“Here you are,” he said. “‘2.30 Cheltenham, Peterill.’”
“Peterill!” gasped Fairie. “Peterill!”
“Yes,” said Marlowe. “Queer name, isn’t it? I’ve never heard—”
“One moment,” said Fairie wildly. “Don’t say the other was All Night.”
“That’s right,” said his brother-in-law. “But—”
“‘Peterill, All Night, Long,’” quoted Fairie, his voice broken with emotion. “What have I done to deserve this? Who am I, to be singled out to be the sport of—”
“What on earth’s the matter with you?” said Marlowe.
“Go,” said the other, covering his eyes with his hand. “Go, fat-head. Leave me alone. Pay for the drinks and go. I have been mocked, cozened, bewrayed.”
“Drugged, you mean,” said Marlowe coolly.
Fairie sat up and looked at him. Then:
“No,” he said. “Not drugged, bewitched.” Here he took a deep breath. “Yes,” he added gravely, “bewitched. What you have just witnessed, brother, was a brain-storm. The air, however, is now clear again. Allow me to congratulate you upon your ill-gotten gains, and – oblige me by never referring to them again.”
“The man’s mad,” said Marlowe. “This Rih stunt has deranged what little—”
“Listen,” said Fairie. “I’m going to tell you a story, a good story, a true story. But, mark you, it’s my tale – my own. Will you promise to respect my ownership, and never to tell it yourself?”
“All right,” said Marlowe. “Go on.”
“Thank you,” said Fairie. “You see, I’ve bought the copyright. It cost me a hundred and thirty-five pounds.”
Then he told him.
