She paused, and looked at him with depths of appeal in her blue eyes. “Peter, you do see how it was, don’t you?”
“It was the Annam Jewel that you gave me,” said Peter, “it wasn’t a copy.”
“I know. I know now, but I didn’t then. Mr. Hendebakker deceived me. I believe he really meant to change the stones—at least, I’m afraid that’s what he meant to do. Is it very uncharitable of me to think so?”
“I don’t think I should bother about that,” said Peter.
“No, but I do bother about my father. Oh, do you know, I never thought he would go without saying good-bye like that. It—it hurts rather. Has he really gone, Peter?”
“Yes, he’s really gone,” said Peter.
“Peter, you’re being maddening. Do talk to me. Do tell me about it. Can’t you see how much I want to know?”
“Well,” said Peter soberly, “what do you want to know, Sylvia?”
She put her hand on his arm.
“Why, the whole thing, of course—why you went there; how you got on; what you talked about. And—oh, Peter, did he give you the Jewel?”
Peter laughed.
“How can I keep my head when you ask me umpteen questions at once?” he said. “I went down there because he asked me to. We got on very well. We talked about China, and the United States.” He laughed again.
Sylvia shook his arm.
“You don’t tell me the only thing I want to know,” she said. “Did he give you the Jewel?”
“Why should he?” said Peter innocently.
Sylvia stamped her foot.
“You’re being horrible,” she said. “After all, I am his daughter. I don’t think you need be so secretive. He told me in his letter that he wasn’t taking the Jewel with him, and naturally I thought—”
“Yes, you thought—”
“I thought you might have it. Oh, Peter, have you—have you got it?”
Peter hesitated for just the fraction of a second. Then he said:
“No, I haven’t got it.”
“But he gave it you—I know he gave it you.”
He hesitated again.
“I don’t think I want to talk about the Jewel,” he said at last.
“But I do, Peter. It’s important, it really is. You see, I happen to know that Mr. Hendebakker would give a really fabulous sum for it. And if we could make a bargain with him …”
She broke off because of what she saw in Peter’s face. He turned very white, and said in a carefully restrained voice:
“Hendebakker will never have the Jewel. We won’t discuss it, if you don’t mind.”
Sylvia looked at him wide-eyed, and fell back a pace.
“Good gracious, how ridiculous you all are about the thing!” she said. “You’re as bad as my father; he wouldn’t discuss it either. Anyone would think—” she laughed a pretty little ringing laugh—“Peter, you look like thunder, and it’s not a bit becoming to you.”
She laughed again, kissed the tips of her fingers to him, and went across the room to where the butterfly orchids hovered above their turquoise jar. She pulled out one of the sprays and came back, a teasing smile on her face, sharp offence and determined curiosity in her mind.
“Do you like orchids?” She touched his hand with the spray.
“I don’t know,” said Peter. “Not very much. I like primroses better.”
He thought of the beech-wood; last year’s leaves with the primroses breaking through them; Rose Ellen with the tears raining down her face. Sylvia and her orchids seemed very remote.
“I adore them,” said Sylvia. “I like expensive things, you know. I’m a wicked, extravagant woman; I like things that other people haven’t got. That’s why I want the Jewel.”
Peter began to frown, but changed his mind. Instead, he looked into Sylvia’s blue eyes and laughed frankly.
“Pax,” he said. “I’m sorry I was cross just now. I felt cross. I really won’t talk about the Jewel—anything else you like, but not the Jewel.”
Sylvia curled herself up in a chair.
“Well, what shall we talk about?” she said. “It’s rather like a game, isn’t it? The forbidden word. Isn’t it a funny thing that as soon as you’re told you may talk about anything you like, you don’t want to talk about anything at all? I think you can do the talking. You haven’t really told me what you did whilst you were out of Town. By the way, weren’t you going to see the Gaisfords?”
“Yes, I lunched there,” said Peter.
“All that way for lunch?”
“I wanted to see Rose Ellen,” said Peter simply.
Sylvia looked at him over her spray of orchids. Her eyes narrowed a little, her lips smiled.
“She isn’t really related to you at all, is she?” she said.
“No.”
Peter had one elbow on the mantelshelf. He was not looking at Sylvia or thinking of Sylvia. He was thinking about Rose Ellen, who was really no relation. With his left hand he picked up a little jade fish, balancing it precariously upon two fingers. It was made of white mutton-fat jade, its eyes bulged, and it had three tails. Peter bent a gaze of frowning intensity upon the fish, and went on thinking about Rose Ellen.
“It was an odd thing, your mother adopting her like that.” Sylvia’s tone was a meditative one. “I suppose she never found out who her people were or anything?”
“No,” said Peter. She was his Rose Ellen, only his.
“It must be so strange not to have any relations,” said Sylvia, “especially for a girl. You see, it’s really bound to stand in the way of her marrying—I mean supposing some really dreadful relations were to turn up—one never knows, does one? You know, I thought of that the day you brought her here; and I felt sorry for her. She’s pretty too—I think she’s quite pretty. Don’t you?”
Peter dropped the jade fish into the bank of blue delphiniums which filled the hearth. He said, “Yes,” rather shortly as he stooped to pick it up.
Sylvia’s temper had been rising steadily. An odd antagonism seemed to be growing between them. She began to break the white butterflies from her spray, but still she smiled.
“Peter, how monosyllabic you are. You forget you were to do the talking.”
Peter put the jade fish back upon its carved ebony stand.
“I didn’t like what you were saying very much,” he said bluntly.
“My dear Peter, what was I saying? Anyone would think you were in love with the girl.”
Peter looked her full in the face, and said:
“I am.” Then he went on speaking quickly and with great simplicity. “That’s why I didn’t like what you said—about her getting married, and not having any real relations. You see, it doesn’t matter at all—it simply doesn’t matter.”
“You’re in love with her,” said Sylvia. She spoke mechanically. She was suddenly so angry that she repeated her last words, hardly knowing what she said. How dared Peter Waring stand there and tell her he was in love with another woman? She stripped the orchid spray of its last blossom, and let it drop.
“Yes,” said Peter. “I wanted to tell you, Sylvia, because we’ve been pretty good friends. I think I’ve always cared for Rose Ellen; but I only knew it yesterday. It’s odd how those things happen, isn’t it?”
“Very odd,” said Sylvia. She got up as she spoke. “Very odd indeed. No wonder you didn’t want to talk about the Jewel.” She laughed—it is easy to laugh if you’re angry. “A man in love has only one topic of conversation. What a good thing I happened to strike it!”
Peter looked rather puzzled.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m boring you. I thought you would be interested.”
Her smile flashed out, her brilliant, elusive smile.
“But of course I’m interested,” she said.
CHAPTER XXVIII
“I do not like Sylvia Moreland so well as I did, Virgilio,” said Anita Hendebakker.
She stood in the middle of the room, looking at her
husband’s back as he sat bent forward over a writing-table. She threw him a glance, half pettish, half startled.
Hendebakker grunted. After a moment he swung round in his chair, pen in hand.
“I didn’t just get that,” he said.
Anita tapped with her foot. She wore an odd, sheath-like garment of heavy gold tissue embroidered in a design of black lilies. A rope of pearls fell to her knee.
“I say, Virgilio, that I do not any more like Sylvia Moreland as once I thought I did.”
“Well,” said Hendebakker, “that’s bad news for Sylvia, I guess.”
The carnation deepened in Anita’s cheeks.
“It is bad news for me,” she said, “and you know, very well you know, Virgilio, why it is that I like her not any more. It is because I think—yes, well, I think that it is you who like her too much.”
“And what makes you think that?” said Hendebakker, smiling pleasantly.
Anita retreated a step or two.
“It is no use you to look at me like that. When I am angry I am not frightened; no, not even when you smile.” Her bosom heaved, her colour came and went, her eyes confessed the fear that she denied. “It is too much Sylvia with you, I tell you. You go out, and I do not know where you go; but I suspect. She comes here, and you send me from the room that you may talk with her. She calls you on the telephone, and, if I answer, it is you she asks for; and while you speak to her, again I am sent away. I say, Virgilio, that I bear it no longer.”
Hendebakker got up. As he came across the room towards her she retreated until at last she could go no farther. She stood against the wall, her head thrown back, her eyes wide and dark. He spoke gently.
“You won’t bear it?”
She breathed a trembling “No.”
“Well, now, what will you do?”
Anita went on looking at him. All at once he put a hand on her shoulder.
“Say, Anita,” he said, “d’you ever think? If you do, right here’s the time when it’s going to be useful to you. Five years ago now, in New York—you do some thinking about that.”
Anita stared.
“Five years ago, in New York, what were you?”
He shot the words at her with a sudden violence which was terrifying. “How’d it suit you to go back? Think you’d enjoy it now? If you’re a fool, I reckon you’re not such a fool as that. I reckon you know when you’re well off.”
The colour died out of her face. She closed her eyes. Hendebakker put his arm round her, and half lifted, half guided her to a chair. Then he took her hand and patted it.
“You’re a mighty pretty woman, Anita,” he said, “and you’ve done pretty well for yourself. When you want to think, you think about that. Quit thinking about my business. You’ll be liable to get wrinkles if you don’t, and I’d hate to have you lose your looks. Sylvia Moreland is business. You freeze on to that.”
The large dark eyes opened, gazed at him. She lifted her hand timidly and caught the lapel of his coat.
“Business?” she breathed.
Hendebakker nodded.
“Never mix business with pleasure,” he said. “That’s been my motto right along. You freeze on to business, and business’ll freeze on to you. That’s what I’ve done, and that’s why we’re staying at The Luxe with money to burn. The man that mixes up business with pleasure is going to come a most almighty smash. I’m not such a blame’ fool; and you ought to know better than to think I am. The amount I love Sylvia Moreland needn’t keep you awake at night, Anita, and that’s a fact.”
“How do I know that you speak the truth?” said Anita. “Perhaps you do, perhaps you do not. Who knows with a man?”
Hendebakker laughed.
“If you can’t know, you can guess,” he said. He kissed her. “You quit being jealous; it don’t suit you; and what’s more, it don’t suit me.”
Anita threw her arms about his neck with a sob.
“Ah, I have been jealous,” she breathed. “I have suffered. I have waked in the night. I have said, ‘If he loves me no more, my life is over.’ Is it that you love me no more, Virgilio?”
“No, it isn’t, and you know it isn’t,” said Hendebakker, laughing again. “But don’t you start interfering in my business deals, or there’ll be bad trouble. I don’t take that from anyone. So you quit and be a good girl.”
As he bent to kiss her the telephone bell rang sharply. He pushed Anita back into her chair, and went over to the writing-table.
“Hullo,” he said, “hullo,” and heard Sylvia Moreland’s voice saying:
“Oh, is that you? I’ve rung up.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Anita. Her large, lustrous eyes were watching him; her hands played with her pearls. With a shrug of the shoulders he turned back to the telephone.
“I reckon you have. It’s Hendebakker speaking.”
“Yes; I’ve rung up to say I’ll do it—I mean I’ll do what you asked me to do this afternoon.” There was a note of defiance in Sylvia’s tones.
“That’s sensible of you,” he said, and heard her laugh, a hard, angry little laugh. She went on speaking at once.
“He’s been here. He’s only just gone. I’ll do anything you want me to.”
“Good! Did you fix anything up?”
“No. I thought it would be better if it looked like a sudden impulse, as if I had just thought of asking him to go.”
“Can you get him later?”
“Yes. I’ve found out that he will be at his club this evening. I can ring him up there about ten o’clock. I know just what to say.”
“You’re sure he’ll come?”
Sylvia laughed again.
“Oh yes, he’ll come,” she said. “Chivalry’s his strong suit, you know—and I’m going to be in horrible trouble. He’ll never let me trek off to Wimbledon all by myself to see a monster of a man who’s blackmailing me.”
“Oh, that’s the stunt, is it?”
“Don’t you think it’s a good one? I thought it was.” There was that odd mingling of triumph and nervousness in her voice.
“I think you’re a real good liar,” said Hendebakker admiringly, “real smart. I wouldn’t presume to offer any suggestions. You have him there at ten-thirty, and I’ll take off my hat to you. Now, you listen a minute. At ten minutes to ten there’ll be an ordinary taxi waiting at your corner. The driver will be one of my men. Just to make sure, you ask him his name. If he says Robinson, that’s right. He’ll take your orders until you get to Keith Lodge.”
“And then?” There was more nervousness than triumph now.
“Now, don’t you get rattled. This is a plain business deal. We come to terms, and all go home again to bed.”
“And if he won’t?”
“He will,” said Hendebakker cheerfully. “Don’t you fret about that—he will. In the seclusion of that rural retreat we shall come to terms.”
“But if you don’t?”
Hendebakker hung up the receiver and rang off. Anita was still watching him.
“To whom did you talk, Virgilio?”
“I talked to Sylvia Moreland.”
“Ah yes, something told me so—something here.” She laid her hand upon her bosom.
“Well, it told you right. You’re getting smart, Anita.”
He came quite close to her, bent down, kissed her—and then, with his face quite near to hers, he said with a sudden drop in his voice:
“Don’t you be too smart, Anita. It don’t pay.”
CHAPTER XXIX
Peter was writing letters at his club when Sylvia rang up. Mrs. Jones had mended his dinner jacket rather under protest. She sniffed when she took it from him, and sniffed again when she brought it back neatly brushed and with the burst seam repaired. Both sniffs accused Peter of midnight roystering, and intimated, without the actual use of words, that Mrs. Jones didn’t hold with such goings on.
Peter went to the telephone rather resignedly. He was in the middle of a letter to his partner, and had no w
ish to be interrupted. He wished he had not told Sylvia that he was spending the evening at the club. Later on he was to wish it again, and a good deal more fervently.
“Oh, Peter, is that you?” said Sylvia’s voice; and Peter said that it was. “Oh, I’m so glad, so thankful you’re there still. Peter …” Her voice choked for a moment. “I—I’m in the most dreadful trouble.”
Peter very nearly said, “Again?” but restrained himself, and tried to infuse a proper amount of sympathy into his “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“I can’t tell you on the telephone, but my affairs have come to a crisis.”
“What? Since I saw you?”
“Yes, I was frightened then, but I’ve had a most dreadful letter since, and—and a telephone call. Peter, isn’t it what they call blackmail when someone says you must go and see them and pay up at once or they’ll do perfectly dreadful things to you?”
“It might be,” said Peter guardedly. “Is anyone doing that to you?”
“Oh yes.” There were tears in Sylvia’s voice. “Peter, he says I must come and see him tonight, or—or he’ll do the most dreadful things. And, oh, Peter, I’m afraid to go by myself.”
“You mustn’t dream of going.” Peter was very emphatic.
“I must. I must go. I don’t want to, but I can’t help myself. But I don’t want to go alone. I don’t think I can face it. And you said—you said you’d help me. Oh, Peter, will you come with me? Will you?”
“Look here, Sylvia, there can’t be all this urgency. I’ll come round tomorrow and go into it with you. It’s perfectly ridiculous your thinking of going to see anyone at this hour of night.”
The Annam Jewel Page 18