“Been hunting about for you,” he explained as he sat down. “Couldn’t make out where you’d got to.”
He turned to Joan.
“Dropped across this evening on important business. Fact is, I’ve lost my invitation-card and the book of words. Didn’t read it carefully when it came. So thought I’d drop over and hear what’s what. Programme, I mean, and all that sort of thing, so there’ll be no hitch.”
Una leaned over and selected a fresh cigarette from the box.
“You’re hopeless, Foxy,” she pronounced. “One of these memory courses is what you need badly. Why not treat the thing as a practical joke instead of in earnest? Then you’d have no difficulty. Jokes are the only things you ever seem to take seriously.”
“Epigrams went completely out before you were born, Una,” Foxy retorted. “Don’t drag ’em from their graves at this hour of the century. And don’t interrupt Joan in her instructions to the guest of the evening. Don’t you see she’s saying ’em over nervously to herself for fear she forgets ’em?”
“There’s a bit too much of the harassed nursemaid about you, Foxy, with all your ‘don’ts,’” Joan broke in. “Now take your stylus and tablets and jot this down carefully, for I won’t repeat it under a shilling a page. Here’s the programme. Ten p.m.: Arrival of distinguished guests. (They’re all distinguished, except you, Foxy.) Brilliant and animated conversation by those who can manage it; the rest can listen intelligently. (You may try listening, Foxy, if it isn’t too much of a strain.) The cloak-room, picture-gallery, museum, and poultry-yard will be thrown open for inspection by the public absolutely free of charge. It won’t cost you a cent. Bridge-tables will be provided for the curiosities who don’t dance. Dancing will begin straightway and will be continued up to 11.45, when the judges will take their seats. As soon as they are comfortable, the march-past will start. All guests must present themselves at this without fail, Foxy. At five minutes to twelve the identity of the prize-winners will be disclosed. When midnight strikes, all guests will remove their masks, even at the cost of shocking the company in some cases. Dancing will then be resumed and will continue into the dewy dawn. And that’s how it will take place according to plan.”
“There’s just one point,” said Foxy, hesitatingly. “Are the prizes portable things, or shall I have to hire a van to take mine away with me?”
“I shouldn’t worry a bit about that, Foxy,” said Una, comfortingly. “We’ve decided to keep the prizes in the family, you see. Joan gets one, because it will be her birthday. I get the other for the best female costume. Cecil, Maurice, and Michael are going to toss odd-man-out for the two men’s prizes. So you can come as a Teddy Bear without pockets if you like. It won’t be of any consequence. You’ll have nothing to carry away.”
“Can’t say fairer than that,” Foxy admitted. “Always liked that plain, straightforward way of doing things myself.”
A recollection of his talk with Sir Clinton passed across Cecil Chacewater’s mind, and without reflection he communicated it to the others:
“By the way, Sir Clinton seemed a trifle worried over this affair. He pointed out to me that some scallywag might creep in amongst the guests and play Old Harry in the museum if he got the chance.”
Just at this moment, Maurice Chacewater passed along the alley in the winter-garden from which the nook opened.
“Maurice!” Joan called to her brother. “Come here for a moment, please.”
Maurice turned back and entered the recess. He seemed tired; and there was a certain hesitancy in his manner as though he were not quite sure of himself. His sister made a gesture inviting him to sit down, but he appeared disinclined to stay.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked, with a weary air.
“Cecil’s been suggesting that it’s hardly safe to leave the collections open to-morrow night, in case a stranger got in with a mask on. Hadn’t we better have someone to stay in the museum and look after them?”
“Cecil needn’t worry his head,” Maurice returned, ignoring his brother. “I’m putting one of the keepers on to watch the museum.”
He turned on his heel and went off along the corridor. Foxy gazed after him with a peculiar expression on his face.
“Maurice looks a bit done-up, doesn’t he?” he finally said, turning back towards the group about him. “He hasn’t been quite all right for a while. Seems almost as if he expected a thunderbolt to strike him any minute, doesn’t he? A bit white about the gills and holding himself in all the time.”
Before anyone could reply to this, Joan rose and beckoned to Michael.
“Come along, Michael. I’ll play you a hundred up, if you like. There’ll be no one in the billiard-room.”
Michael Clifton rose eagerly from his chair and followed her out. Foxy looked after them.
“As an old friend of the family, merely wanting to know, are those two engaged or not? They go on as if they were and as if they weren’t. It’s most confusing to plain fellows like me.”
“I doubt if they know themselves,” said Una, “so I’d advise you not to waste too much brain-matter over it, Foxy. What do boys of your age know about such things?”
“Not much, not much, I admit. Cupid seems to pass me by on his rounds. Perhaps it’s the red hair. Or maybe the freckles. Or because I’m not the strong, talkative sort like Michael. Or just Fate, or something.”
“I expect it’s just Something, as you say,” Una confirmed in a sympathetic tone. “That seems, somehow, to explain everything, doesn’t it?”
“As it were, yes,” retorted Foxy. “But don’t let the fact that you’ve ensnared Cecil—poor chap—lead you into putting on expert airs with me. Betrays inexperience at once, that. Only the very young do it.”
His face lighted up.
“I’ve just thought of something. What a joke! Suppose we took the Chief Constable’s tip and engineered a sham robbery to-morrow night? Priceless, what? Carry it through in real good style. Make Maurice sit up for a day or two, eh? Do his liver good if he’d something to worry about.”
Cecil’s face showed indecision.
“I shouldn’t mind giving Maurice a twinge or two just to teach him manners,” he confessed. “But I don’t see much in the notion as it stands, Foxy. Maurice is posting a keeper in the museum, you know; and that complicates things a bit. The keeper would spot any of us tampering with things. He knows us all as well as his own brother.”
“Not in fancy dress, with a mask on, dear boy. Don’t forget that part of it.
Fancy me in fancy dress,
Fancy me as Good Queen Bess!”
he hummed softly. “Only I don’t think I’ll come as Good Queen Bess, after all.”
Cecil knitted his brows slightly and seemed to be considering Foxy’s idea.
“I wouldn’t mind giving Maurice a start,” he admitted half-reluctantly. “And your notion might be good enough if one could work it out properly. Question is, can you? Suppose you suddenly make a grab for some of the stuff. The keeper’ll be down on you like a shot. He’ll yell for help; and you’ll be pinched for a cert. before you could get away. There doesn’t seem to be anything in it, Foxy.”
“Hold on for a minute. I’ll see my way through it.”
Foxy took a cigarette, lighted it, and seemed to cogitate deeply over the first few puffs.
“I’ve got it!” he announced. “It’s dead easy. Suppose one of us grabs the keeper while the other helps himself to the till? We could easily knock out the keeper between us and get off all right without an alarm being raised.”
Cecil shook his head.
“No, I draw the line at using a sand-bag or a knuckle-duster on our own keeper. That’s barred, Foxy. Think again.”