CHAPTER XXVI

MR. BLATHERWICK AS ST. ANTHONY

“I am afraid,” Harcutt said, “that either the letter was a hoax, or the writer has thought better of the matter. It is half an hour past the time, and poor Mr. Blatherwick is still alone.”

Wolfenden glanced towards the distant table where his father’s secretary was already finishing his modest meal.

“Poor old Blatherwick!” he remarked; “I know he’s awfully relieved. He’s too nervous for this sort of thing; I believe he would have lost his head altogether if his mysterious correspondent had turned up.”

“I suppose,” Harcutt said, “that we may take it for granted that he is not in the room.”

“Every soul here,” Wolfenden answered, “is known to me either personally or by sight. The man with the dark moustache sitting by himself is a London solicitor who built himself a bungalow here four years ago, and comes down every other week for golf. The two men in the corner are land speculators from Norwich; and their neighbour is Captain Stoneham, who rides over from the barracks twice a week, also for golf.”

“It is rather a sell for us,” Harcutt remarked. “On the whole I am not sorry that I have to go back to town to-night. Great Scott! what a pretty girl!”

“Lean back, you idiot!” Wolfenden exclaimed softly; “don’t move if you can help it!”

Harcutt grasped the situation and obeyed at once. The portion of the dining-room in which they were sitting was little more than a recess, divided off from the main apartment by heavy curtains and seldom used except in the summer when visitors were plentiful. Mr. Blatherwick’s table was really within a few feet of theirs, but they themselves were hidden from it by a corner of the folding doors. They had chosen the position with care and apparently with success.

The girl who had entered the room stood for a moment looking round as though about to select a table. Harcutt’s exclamation was not without justification, for she was certainly pretty. She was neatly dressed in a grey walking suit, and a velvet Tam-o-shanter hat with a smart feather. Suddenly she saw Mr. Blatherwick and advanced towards him with outstretched hand and a charming smile.

“Why, my dear Mr. Blatherwick, what on earth are you doing here?” she exclaimed. “Have you left Lord Deringham?”

Mr. Blatherwick rose to his feet confused, and blushing to his spectacles; he greeted the young lady, however, with evident pleasure.

“No; that is, not yet,” he answered; “I am leaving this week. I did not know—I had no idea that you were in the vicinity! I am very pleased to see you.”

She looked at the empty place at his table.

“I was going to have some luncheon,” she said; “I have walked so much further than I intended and I am ravenously hungry. May I sit at your table?”

“With much pleasure,” Mr. Blatherwick assented. “I was expecting a—a—friend, but he is evidently not coming.”

“I will take his place then, if I may,” she said, seating herself in the chair which the waiter was holding for her, and raising her veil. “Will you order something for me? I am too hungry to mind what it is.”

Mr. Blatherwick gave a hesitating order, and the waiter departed. Miss Merton drew off her gloves and was perfectly at her ease.

“Now do tell me about the friend whom you were going to meet,” she said, smiling gaily at him, “I hope—you really must not tell me, Mr. Blatherwick, that it was a lady!”

Mr. Blatherwick coloured to the roots of his hair at the mere suggestion, and hastened to disclaim it.

“My—my dear Miss Merton!” he exclaimed, “I can assure you that it was not! I—I should not think of such a thing.”

She nodded, and began to break up her roll and eat it.

“I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Blatherwick,” she said; “I warn you that I was prepared to be very jealous. You used to tell me, you know, that I was the only girl with whom you cared to talk.”

“It is—quite true, quite true, Miss Merton,” he answered eagerly, dropping his voice a little and glancing uneasily over his shoulder. “I—I have missed you very much indeed; it has been very dull.”

Mr. Blatherwick sighed; he was rewarded by a very kind glance from a pair of very blue eyes. He fingered the wine list, and began to wonder whether she would care for champagne.

“Now tell me,” she said, “all the news. How are they all at Deringham Hall—the dear old Admiral and the Countess, and that remarkably silly young man, Lord Wolfenden?”

Wolfenden received a kick under the table, and Harcutt’s face positively beamed with delight. Mr. Blatherwick, however, had almost forgotten their proximity. He had made up his mind to order champagne.

“The Ad—Ad—Admiral is well in health, but worse mentally,” he answered. “I am leaving for that very reason. I do not conceive that in fairness to myself I should continue to waste my time in work which can bring forth no fruit. I trust, Miss Merton, that you agree with me.”

“Perfectly,” she answered gravely.

“The Countess,” he continued, “is well, but much worried. There have been strange hap—hap—happenings at the Hall since you left. Lord Wolfenden is there. By the bye, Miss Merton,” he added, dropping his voice, “I do not—not—think that you used to consider Lord Wolfenden so very silly when you were at Deringham.”

“It was very dull sometimes—when you were busy, Mr. Blatherwick,” she answered, beginning her lunch. “I will confess to you that I did try to amuse myself a little with Lord Wolfenden. But he was altogether too rustic—too stupid! I like a man with brains!”

Harcutt produced a handkerchief and stuffed it to his mouth; his face was slowly becoming purple with suppressed laughter. Mr. Blatherwick ordered the champagne.

“I—I was very jealous of him,” he admitted almost in a whisper.

The blue eyes were raised again very eloquently to his.

“You had no cause,” she said gently; “and Mr. Blatherwick, haven’t you forgotten something?”

Mr. Blatherwick had sipped his glass of champagne, and answered without a stutter.

“I have not,” he said, “forgotten you!”

“You used to call me by my Christian name!”

“I should be delighted to call you Miss—Blanche for ever,” he said boldly. “May I?”

She laughed softly.

“Well, I don’t quite know about that,” she said; “you may for this morning, at least. It is so pleasant to see you again. How is the work getting on?”

He groaned.

“Don’t ask me, please; it is awful! I am truly glad that I am leaving—for many reasons!”

“Have you finished copying those awful details of the defective armour plates?” she asked, suddenly dropping her voice so that it barely reached the other side of the table.

“Only last night,” he answered; “it was very hard work, and so ridiculous! It went into the box with the rest of the finished work this morning.”

“Did the Admiral engage a new typewriter?” she inquired.

He shook his head.

“No; he says that he has nearly finished.”

“I am so glad,” she said. “You have had no temptation to flirt then with anybody else, have you?”

“To flirt—with anybody else! Oh! Miss—I mean Blanche. Do you think that I could do that?”

His little round face shone with sincerity and the heat of the unaccustomed wine. His eyes were watering a little, and his spectacles were dull. The girl looked at him in amusement.

“I am afraid,” she said, with a sigh, “that you used to flirt with me.”

“I can assure you, B—B—Blanche,” he declared earnestly, “that I never said a word to you which I—I did not hon—hon—honestly mean. Blanche, I should like to ask you something.”

“Not now,” she interrupted hastily. “Do you know, I fancy that we must be getting too confidential. That odious man with the eyeglass keeps staring at us. Tell me what you are going to do when you leave here. You can ask me—what you were going to, afterwards.”

Mr. Blatherwick grew eloquent and Blanche was sympathetic. It was quite half an hour before they rose and prepared to depart.

“I know you won’t mind,” Blanche said to him confidentially, “if I ask you to leave the hotel first; the people I am with are a little particular, and it would scarcely do, you see, for us to go out together.”

“Certainly,” he replied. “Would you l—like me to leave you here—would it be better?”

“You might walk to the door with me, please,” she said. “I am afraid you must be very disappointed that your friend did not come. Are you not?”

Mr. Blatherwick’s reply was almost incoherent in its excess of protestation. They walked down the room together. Harcutt and Wolfenden look at one another.

“Well,” the former exclaimed, drinking up his liqueur, “it is a sell!”

“Yes,” Wolfenden agreed thoughtfully, with his eyes fixed upon the two departing figures, “it is a sell!”