Chapter TWENTY-FOUR: Mr. Wilmot’s Profession

Andy waited whilst the girl impressed upon Scottie for the twentieth time the necessity for dressing his hand twice a day and drilled into him the medicinal value in an array of lotions, powders, and ointments, and then he walked back with her to her lodgings.

He was absurdly happy to see her again, even to meet her under these somewhat compromising circumstances, and happiness made him silent. She thought he was offended with her, and was disappointed.

“Andrew,” she said, speaking for the first time since they had left the house, “I did it because I thought you would want me to do it.”

“Did what?” he said with a start, emerging from his dreams. “Oh, looking after Scottie? I think it was most noble of you, Stella. I realise that I am being feeble-minded in believing all that Scottie says, and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred his story of the murderous gamekeeper would be bunkum. Somehow, though I know he would lie to me, I am pretty certain that he would not lie to you. I am going down to Beverley Green again,” he said. “The gamekeeper gives me an excuse.”

“Do you want an excuse?” she asked, looking up at him, and dropping her eyes almost as quickly.

“No,” he said slowly, after a pause, “I don’t think I do.”

“Come down to-night,” she said, and instantly regretted her impulsiveness.

“I was thinking of doing that,” said Andy, “but it had occurred to me that it would look less—er——”

She flushed.

“You mean if we went back together after going away the same day?” she said quietly. “It is curious how things like that occur to men before they occur to women. I suppose I have no sense of propriety. Now you must wait here, Andrew, whilst I pack my bag—which you can carry.”

He walked up and down outside the little house where she had taken lodgings, peace in his heart and a glowing sense of triumph that his greatest successes had never brought to him.

Something of the same happiness possessed Stella Nelson as she packed her suit-case in frantic haste, for fear she should keep him waiting too long. There was a bill to be settled with her landlady, and Stella fretted whilst that good woman went in search of change. It was five minutes before she came back, and Stella, not waiting to count the silver she had given her, picked up her case and walked out of the house.

She looked up and down the street in dismay. Andy had disappeared. She waited ten minutes before she despatched a boy in search of a cab, and when the cab came and she had put her baggage inside she could have wept.

* * * * *

Andy, pacing the pavement before the house, was so completely absorbed in his thoughts that the impression he received of his surrounding was of the faintest. On the opposite side of the street was a high wall, behind which the glass skylight of a workshop showed. It was evidently part of one of the shops in the High Street, the back of which he could see from where he stood. In the wall was a small door, and he was looking abstractedly at this when it opened and a man came out, followed by a bareheaded woman. She was smartly dressed, and they stood for a moment in consultation before, with a little nod, she went back, closing the door behind her, and the man set off at a smart pace towards the main road.

Andrew’s interest was an idle one. He would have watched two sparrows fighting with a concern as great. It was not until the man, reaching the corner, turned to beckon something (a cab, thought Andy) that all his senses were awake. It was Arthur Wilmot! Never before had he seen that young man in town, and, though he had set enquiries on foot, he had not discovered the mysterious business which brought Arthur so regularly to the city. He looked round, hoping to see the girl, but he knew that she could not have finished her packing. It was an opportunity too good to be lost, and, although it was a wrench, he turned reluctantly and crossed the road as Wilmot jumped into the car he had summoned. Stella would understand. He would explain to her to-morrow. Such a chance might not occur again, he thought. Nevertheless, Andrew wished Arthur Wilmot at the bottom of the sea.

He called a taxi to him as the car drove off.

“Follow that car,” he said.

* * * * *

Stella’s home-coming had been a disappointing experience. She was glad to be back at Beverley Green, almost as glad as Kenneth Nelson was to see her. He fussed around her, took her to the studio to show her a new picture, and produced a glowing record of the new cook’s economy and efficiency, and yet she felt dispirited and amazingly lonely. The note which she found waiting for her from Arthur Wilmot, and which she read without realising that he was the writer, neither added to nor relieved her gloom.

“Now tell me all about what you have been doing,” said Kenneth, beaming. “People have been enquiring about you, but I told them you had gone in for an extra nursing course. By the way, what made you take it up again, my dear? I suppose you were bored, and I don’t wonder. Did you see our mutual friend Macleod?”

“I saw him for a moment,” she said briefly.

“People have stopped talking about poor Merrivan,” Mr. Nelson rattled on, “and I must say it is a relief. Arthur Wilmot is selling the house—there was no will, by the way. A curious fellow, Wilmot. He glares at me every time I meet him, as though he had any cause for offence, by gad! He’s a lucky fellow I didn’t meet him the night that infernal reporter——”

She listened without hearing. Beverley Green would be very different without Andy. She could not realise what it would be like, and yet she had spent nearly three years in the village before she had known him. But she was only a child then (she was immeasurably superior to those adolescent days), a woman now. Andy was necessary.

She almost wished, she thought whimsically, that she had asked Scottie to come down and commit a burglary—just a little burglary, where nothing really valuable was stolen, but which would necessitate the permanent return of Andrew Macleod. She made a mental calculation; if every house in the Green was burgled, he would only be there three months, supposing there was a sufficient interval between each crime, and probably Scottie would be bored too. But Scottie was reformed. She had a little warm feeling of satisfaction at the thought that she had been responsible for his reformation.

At one time she had hated Andy. She recalled this period with satisfaction, and strove again, without success, to remember just how she felt. Andy was not coming back. He had thought things out whilst she was in the house, and he had decided to break off the friendship then and there. It had been cruel of him to go away without a word—moral cowardice on his part.

“I am going over to the Sheppards to play bridge. Will you come? They’ll be delighted if you will,” said Nelson.

She shook her head.

“No, thank you, father, but please go.”

She was glad to be alone in her present mood. Of course, Andy had not believed Scottie’s story. All the time, when he was being so pleasant to her, he was secretly disapproving, and had seized the moment of her departure to run away. She couldn’t imagine Andy running away from anything. It was inconsistent with her knowledge of him. But, then, she had made so many mistakes about men. Take Arthur Wilmot, for example; her error there had been disastrous. She wished she could hate Andy again. After all, she had only helped Scottie because she thought she was helping him. The acquaintance, the friendship, could not end this way. She would write to him.

She had got as far as “Dear Dr. Macleod” when the maid came through to open the door. Stella had not heard the faint tinkle of the bell, and then she looked up into the smiling face of Andy, and, regardless of the maid, who was hurrying to obliterate herself, ran at him and caught him by the arms.

“You did come? You are a brute, Andy! Why did you leave me?”

“I’m all you say and worse, but I’ve come with the loveliest story—something that will amuse you, Stella.”

Evidently it appealed to Andy. His laughter filled the room.

“I don’t want to be amused,” she said obstinately. “I want to be mollified. I was just writing you a terrible letter. No, you can’t see it!”

But he snatched up the paper.

“Dear Dr. Macleod,” he mimicked. “I should have answered you with even greater dignity.”

“Tell me all the amusing news. I am glad to see you,” she breathed. “Why did you leave me, Andy?”

“Because I saw Arthur Wilmot behaving as mysteriously as a stage criminal. I just had to find out what this secret business of his was. Do you know Flora?”

“Flora?” She frowned. “Flora who?”

“Have you never heard of Flora? I thought her name was famous amongst women.”

“I know Flora the milliner,” she said.

He nodded.

“Flora the milliner,” he said solemnly, “is Arthur Wilmot!”

She gasped.

“Arthur Wilmot! Oh, that’s too ridiculous. Arthur doesn’t know anything about hats.”

“On the contrary, he is an authority,” he chuckled. “A little time ago I went into his house, saw a woman’s hat in course of making lying on the table, and drew the worst possible conclusions. That is Arthur’s secret. He is a man milliner; he is, in fact, Flora. He has three stores in town, and I followed him from one to the other. Apparently he always goes round in the evening to check the takings. Of course, there is no reason in the world why he shouldn’t be a milliner.”

“Wait,” she said, and went to her desk.

She returned with a letter.

“This was waiting for me when I got back,” she said.

It was a stiff little note, in which Mr. Arthur Wilmot presented his compliments to Miss Nelson and requested her to furnish his lawyer with particulars of any financial transactions she may have had with the late Mr. Darius Merrivan.

Andy read it through.

“As Scottie says, ‘What a lady!’” he said vulgarly.

They saw Arthur Wilmot the next morning at the golf club, and he greeted them with a haughty little bow.

“Good morning, Arthur,” said Stella sweetly. “I had your note.”

He went very red.

“Perhaps you would discuss it with Vetch,” he said gruffly as he began to move off to the first tee.

“Oh, Flora!” murmured the girl in a low voice, but not so low that Mr. Arthur Wilmot did not hear her.

He played a bad game for the rest of the day.