He paused for an instant, his face darkening a little. The only flaw in his contentment was the lurking feeling that a shade more energy on his part during the initial bargaining might have resulted in his nephew closing for fifty quid, instead of sticking out, as he had done, for ten down and a further ninety on the completion of the deal. But a man about to collect fifteen hundred can afford to be spacious, and he had brightened again when he resumed his remarks.
"I'm telling her ladyship that I had the good luck to catch Mr. Rossiter on the eve of his departure for France, and that he'll be delighted to stop off at the castle tomorrow on his way to Dover and substantiate my claim. You'll be seeing him about lunch time. So there you are. All nice and smooth, I call it."
Lord Shortlands did not reply. He turned and started to totter home. Mervyn Spink wheeled his motorcycle beside him.
"Beautiful evening, m'lord," he said deferentially. They had passed through the gates. "Weather keeps up nicely, m'lord."
He contemplated his companion's face with all the pleasure he had known he was going to feel at the sight of it. Lord Shortlands was looking like Stanwood Cobbold on the morning after. Transferring his gaze to the local flora and fauna, Mervyn Spink felt more uplifted than ever. He drew satisfaction from the lilac bush that blossomed to the left and from the bird with the red beak which had settled on a tree to the right. And perhaps the best proof of his exalted frame of mind is that he found something exhilarating even in the appearance of Cosmo Blair, the playwright, who came towards them at the moment, smoking a cigarette. For this gifted man, though the author of half a dozen dramas which had brought him pots of money both in England and in the United States, was in no sense an eyeful. The normal eye, resting upon Cosmo Blair, was apt to blink and turn away.
Successful playwrights as a class are slender. Vertically there may be quite a lot, though not more than their admirers desire, of George S. Kaufman and, in a greater degree, of Robert E. Sherwood, but you can hardly see them sideways. Cosmo Blair struck a new note by being short and tubby. Lord Shortlands had called him a potbellied perisher; and though the fifth earl was prejudiced, his young guest having an annoying habit of addressing him as "My dear Shortlands" and contradicting every second thing he said, it must be admitted that there was something in the charge.
He scanned the pair through a glistening eyeglass.
"Ah, my dear Shortlands."
Lord Shortlands uttered a sound like a cinnamon bear with a bone in its throat.
"Ah, Spink."
"Good evening, sir."
"Been out for a ride?"
"Yes, sir."
"Nice evening."
"Extremely, sir."
"Oh, by the way, Spmk," said Cosmo Blair.
He, too, was feeling serene and contented. There had been crumpets for tea, dripping with butter, as he liked them, and after tea he had read his second act again to Clare. Her outspoken admiration had been very pleasant to him, inducing a sensation of benevolence towards his fellows, and this benevolence had been increased by the beauty of the spring evening. He looked at Mervyn Spink and was glad that it was within his power to do him a kindness.
"By the way, Spink, you remember asking me the other day to do something for that nephew of yours, the actor? Roland Winter, didn't you say his name was?"
"Roland Winter, yes, sir."
"Is he fixed up just now?"
"No, sir. He is at present at liberty."
"Well, I've got something for him in this thing I'm writing. It's an odd thing, my dear Shortlands," said Cosmo Blair, drawing at his cigarette, "how one forgets people. This nephew of our good friend Spink. I've been trying ever since he spoke to me to think why the name Roland Winter was familiar, and I only remembered this afternoon. I had him in a show of mine last year, and he was quite—"
He had been about to say "good," but the word changed on his lips to a startled exclamation. The motorcycle had fallen from Mervyn Spink's nerveless fingers with a crash.
"You know my nephew, sir?"
"Oh, rather. Tall, thin chap with a slight squint and a funny-shaped mouth. Red hair hasn't he got? Yes, now I recall it, red hair. Well, tell him to go and see Charlie Cockburn at the St. George's. I'll drop Charlie a line."
Cosmo Blair went on his way, conscious of a good deed done, and Lord Shortlands uttered an explosive "Ha!"
"Now how about it, you Spink?" he cried exultantly.
Mervyn Spink did not speak. His face was very sad.
"If this blighter Blair knows your blighted nephew so well," proceeded Lord Shortlands, elaborating his point and making it clear to the meanest intelligence, "how the dickens do you propose to introduce him into the place as this blighted Rossiter? You're pipped, Spink. Your whole vile scheme strikes a snag."
Mervyn Spink did not deign to reply. Sombrely he picked up the motorcycle, sombrely mounted it, sombrely opened the throttle and rode off in the direction of the village.
His heart, so light before, was heavy now. He looked at the blue skies and fleecy clouds and took an instant dislike to them. He resented the presence of the fluttering butterflies. The fields of wheat jarred upon his eye. There are few things which more speedily modify the Pippa Passes outlook on life of a butler who has been congratulating himself on having formulated a cast-iron scheme for putting large sums of money in his pocket than the discovery that that scheme, through the most capricious and unforeseeable of chances, has come unstuck.
"Hell!" mused Mervyn Spink, brooding darkly.
At the post office he alighted and dispatched a telegram to his nephew, briefly canceling all arrangements; then rode sombrely back to the castle and sought refuge in the seclusion of his pantry.
He had been sitting there for some little time, feeling with the poet that of all sad words of tongue or pen the saddest are these—It might have been, when the bell of Lady Adela's room rang.
Bells must be answered, though the heart is aching.
"M'lady?"
"Oh, Spink, Mr. Cobbold has arrived. Will you go and see that he has everything he wants."
"Very good, m'lady."
"Did you find Mr. Rossiter?"
"No, m'lady. I regret to say that the gentleman is not at the moment in London."
"But you will be able to get in touch with him?"
"No doubt, m'lady."
Mervyn Spink departed on his errand. He experienced no soaring of the spirits at the prospect of renewing his acquaintance with one with whom his relations had once been cordial. During their association in Mr. Ellery Cobbold's palatial home at Great Neck he had found Stanwood a pleasant and congenial companion, practically a buddy; for Stanwood, a gregarious soul, had often dropped in on him for a drink and a chat and on several occasions they had attended prize fights together.
But as he approached the Blue Room his heart was still heavy.
11
In the Blue Room, Mike, dressed and ready for dinner, was thoroughly approving of his quarters. To Lord Shortlands, that modern Prisoner of Chillon, everything connected with Beevor Castle might be the abomination of desolation, but to Mike, coming to it with a fresh eye, the Blue Room seemed about as satisfactory a Blue Room as a man could wish for.
Its windows, as his hostess had stated, looked out upon the rose garden and beyond it on a pleasing panorama of woods and fields, rooks cawing in the former, rabbits moving briskly to and fro in the latter, and its interior was comfortable, even luxurious. He particularly like the easy chair. Too often in