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Page 16
"And now that the announcement of my engagement is out she's
certain to get busy. Probably she has been waiting for something
of the sort. Don't you see that all the cards are in her hands?
We couldn't afford to let the thing come into court. That poetry
would dish my marriage for a certainty. I'd have to emigrate or
something! Goodness knows what would happen at home! My old
gov'nor would murder me! So you see what a frightful hole I'm in,
don't you, Dickie, old man?"
"And what do you want me to do?"
"Why, to get hold of this girl and get back the letters--don't
you see? I can't do it myself, cooped up miles away in the
country. And besides, I shouldn't know how to handle a thing
like that. It needs a chappie with a lot of sense and a
persuasive sort of way with him."
"Thanks for the compliment, Freddie; but I should imagine that
something a little more solid than a persuasive way would be
required in a case like this. You said something a while ago
about five hundred pounds?"
"Here it is, old man--in notes. I brought it on purpose. Will you
really take the thing on? Do you think you can work it for five
hundred?"
"I can have a try."
Freddie rose, with an expression approximating to happiness on
his face. Some men have the power of inspiring confidence in some
of their fellows, though they fill others with distrust. Scotland
Yard might look askance at R. Jones, but to Freddie he was all
that was helpful and reliable. He shook R. Jones' hand several
times in his emotion.
"That's absolutely topping of you, old man!" he said. "Then I'll
leave the whole thing to you. Write me the moment you have done
anything, won't you? Good-by, old top, and thanks ever so much!"
The door closed. R. Jones remained where he sat, his fingers
straying luxuriously among the crackling paper. A feeling of
complete happiness warmed R. Jones' bosom. He was uncertain
whether or not his mission would be successful; and to be
truthful he was not letting that worry him much. What he was
certain of was the fact that the heavens had opened unexpectedly
and dropped five hundred pounds into his lap.
CHAPTER III
The Earl of Emsworth stood in the doorway of the Senior
Conservative Club's vast diningroom, and beamed with a vague
sweetness on the two hundred or so Senior Conservatives who, with
much clattering of knives and forks, were keeping body and soul
together by means of the coffee-room luncheon. He might have been
posing for a statue of Amiability. His pale blue eyes shone with
a friendly light through their protecting glasses; the smile of a
man at peace with all men curved his weak mouth; his bald head,
reflecting the sunlight, seemed almost to wear a halo.
Nobody appeared to notice him. He so seldom came to London these
days that he was practically a stranger in the club; and in any
case your Senior Conservative, when at lunch, has little leisure
for observing anything not immediately on the table in front of
him. To attract attention in the dining-room of the Senior
Conservative Club between the hours of one and two-thirty, you
have to be a mutton chop--not an earl.
It is possible that, lacking the initiative to make his way down
the long aisle and find a table for himself, he might have stood
there indefinitely, but for the restless activity of Adams, the
head steward. It was Adams' mission in life to flit to and fro,
hauling would-be lunchers to their destinations, as a St. Bernard
dog hauls travelers out of Alpine snowdrifts. He sighted Lord
Emsworth and secured him with a genteel pounce.
"A table, your lordship? This way, your lordship." Adams
remembered him, of course. Adams remembered everybody.
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