"Oh, drat the emerald!" she sniffed, with some pettishness. "Who cares about their nasty old emerald, anyway?
We'll find out about this girl, if you like. But, honestly, Hank, I'm beginning to think we must be wrong, after all. H'm! I'll bet she was a hussy, anyway… "
"She was calling Curt's name," her companion reminded her. He was determined not to lose his last ally. "She knew something that concerned him, don't you see? So if you want to help him, she'll be your first concern. It probably concerns the film; remember that my wench! Besides, have you forgotten another thing? Curt promised that chap Woodcock — definitely gave him his word — that he'd demonstrate by to-day there'd been a murder committed, or else force a bug-powder endorsement out of old Warpus."
She put her hand to her forehead. "Oh, I say, but I'd forgotten all about that awful little man! Oh, Hank, this is dreadful! And when I think of my poor Curt languishing behind prison bars, sitting there forlornly with his poor head in his hands…" A sob caught her throat; she choked, and the tears overflowed here eyes. "Oh, it's awful, awful, awful!"
"Well, my God! don't cry about it!" said Morgan, waving his arms desperately. He peered round to make sure there was nobody in sight. "Look here. I didn't know you felt like that about it. Listen! Stop yowling, will you? It's all right. You heard what the skipper said. We'll go right down and get him out—"
"Oh, I w-wouldn't g-get him out f-for anything!" she gulped, forlornly, over the handkerchief she was jabbing at the corners of her eyes. Her breast heaved jerkily. "He — h-he'd only d-do some perfectly m-mad thing straightaway and g-get p-put right — right b-back in again. But, oh, d-dear! when I think of the p-poor d-darling l-languish-ing, p-positively — l-languishing — in — in a — foul d-dun— bubuloo!" choked Peggy, and burst into a spasm of weeping.
These, reader, are the times that try men's souls: when tears flow by reason of some inexplicable logic that escapes you, and all you can do is to pat her shoulder whilst desperately wondering what is wrong. He tried remonstrance — an error. He pointed out that it was not as though Warren had been shoved in the Bastille, never again to see the light of day; adding that the maniac was quite comfortable there and had been promised a specially cooked capon for his dinner. She said she wondered how Morgan thought the poor boy would have the heart to eat it. She said he was a cruel, callous beast ever to think of such a thing; and went off the deep end again. After this crushing retort, all he could think of was to rush her to the bar for a couple o!' stiff drinks as quickly as possible.
That her tears were dried was due to a new cause for worry, which he saw presented itself to her as soon as they entered the bar.
The bar (quaintly called smoking-room) was a spacious oak-panelled cathedral at the rear of B deck, full of stale smoke and a damp alcoholic fragrance. There were tables in alcoves of deep leather lounges, and a number of gaunt electric fans depending from the pastoral-painted ceiling. Except for one customer, who stood at the bar counter with his back towards them, it was deserted. Sunlight streamed through windows of coloured mosaic glass swaying gently on the floor; only peaceful creakings of woodwork and the drowsy murmur of the wake disturbed its cathedral hush.
Peggy saw the one customer, and stiffened. Then she began to advance stealthily. The customer was a short, stocky man with a fringe of black hair round his bald head, and the arms and shoulders of a wrestler. He was just raising his glass to his lips when he seemed warned by some telepathic power. But before he could turn Peggy had pounced.
"Ah!" she said, dramatically. She paused. She drew back as though she could not believe her eyes. "Tiens, tno'n oncle! Qu'est-ce que je vois? Ah, mon Dieu, qu'est-ce que je vois, alors?"
She folded her arms.
The other started guiltily. He turned round and peered lip at her over the rim of his glass. He had a reddish face, a large mouth, and an enormous curled grey-streaked moustache. Morgan observed that the moment Peggy fell into the Gallic tongue her gestures corresponded. She became a whirlwind of rattling syllables. She rapidly smacked her hands together under the other's nose.
"Eh bien, eh bien! Encore tu bois! Toujours tu bois! Ah, zut, alors!" She became cutting. "Tu m'a donne votre parole d'honneur, comme un soldat de la France! Et qu'est-ce que je trouve? Un soldat de la France, hein! Non!" She drew back witheringly. "Je te vois en buvant le gin!"
This, unquestionably, was Uncle Jules sneaking out with the laudable purpose of knocking off a quick one before his niece caught him. A spasm contorted his face. Lifting his powerful shoulders, he spread out his arms with a gesture of extraordinary agony.
"Mais, cherie!" he protested in long-drawn, agonised insistence like a steamer's fog-horn. "Mais, che-e-riii-e! C'est un tres, tres, tres petit verre, tu sais! Regards-toi, cherie! Regards!! C'est une pauvre, miserable boule, tu sais. Je suis enrhume, cherie—he coughed hollowly, his; hand at his chest—"et ce soir—" 1
"Tu paries! Toi," she announced, pointing her finger at him and speaking in measured tones, "toi, je t'appelle degoutant!"
This seemed to crush Uncle Jules, who relapsed into a gloomy frame of mind. Morgan was introduced to him, and he followed them to a table while Morgan ordered ! two double-whiskies and a milk-and-soda. Uncles Jules appealed in vain. He said he had never had so bad a cold in his life, coughing hideously by way of demonstration, and said that if nothing were done about it he would probably be speechless by five o'clock. Peggy made the obvious retort. She also adduced examples from a long list of Uncle Jules past colds, including the time in Buffalo when he had I been brought back to the hotel in an ash-cart.
He brightened a little, however, as he described the preparations for the performance that night. Preparations marched, he said, on a scale superb. Three hand-trucks had been provided to convey his fifty-eight separate marionettes (housed in a cabin of their own adjoining his, although they were not sea-sick, happy gosses) together with all the vast machinery of his theatre, to the hall of concert.
The three costumes, one in which he spoke the prologue, and two for his extras, the French and Moorish warrior, were now being given a stroke of the iron; the piano and violin for off-stage music were installed behind the scenes us the theatre was set up in the hall of concert. A hall of concert magnificent, situated on B deck, but with a back-stage staircase leading up from the dressing-room on C deck. Which reminded him that, while investigating the dressing-room, he and his assistant, Abdul, had met M. and Mme. Perrigord.
"A husband and his wife," pursued Uncle Jules, excitedly, "very charming, very intelligent, of whom the cabin finds itself near by. Listen, my dear! It is he who has written of me those pieces so magnificent which I do not understand. One thousand thunders, but I am enchanted! Yes, yes, my dear. Among us we have arranged the order of the performance. Good! Also we have met a Dr. Keel, a medicine Scottish, who will make recitations. Good! All is arranged. Two professors of a university who voyage shall shall be our warriors; M. Furioso Camposozzi at the piano and M. Ivan Slifovitz at the violin have arranged for accompanying my sitting with music of the chamber which I do not understand, see you? but, ah, my dear, what a triumph of intelligence. For me, I shall be superb? I—"