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Page 32
Her eyes were eyes that looked straight and challenged. They
could thaw to the satin blue of the Mediterranean Sea, where it
purrs about the little villages of Southern France; but they did
not thaw for everybody. She looked what she was--a girl of
action; a girl whom life had made both reckless and wary--wary of
friendly advances, reckless when there was a venture afoot.
Her eyes, as they met R. Jones' now, were cold and challenging.
She, too, had learned the trick of swift diagnosis of character,
and what she saw of R. Jones in that first glance did not impress
her favorably.
"You wished to see me on business?"
"Yes," said R. Jones. "Yes. . . . Miss Valentine, may I begin by
begging you to realize that I have no intention of insulting
you?"
Joan's eyebrows rose. For an instant she did her visitor the
injustice of suspecting that he had been dining too well.
"I don't understand."
"Let me explain: I have come here," R. Jones went on, getting
more gentlemanly every moment, "on a very distasteful errand, to
oblige a friend. Will you bear in mind that whatever I say is
said entirely on his behalf?"
By this time Joan had abandoned the idea that this stout person
was a life-insurance tout, and was inclining to the view that he
was collecting funds for a charity.
"I came here at the request of the Honorable Frederick
Threepwood."
"I don't quite understand."
"You never met him, Miss Valentine; but when you were in the
chorus at the Piccadilly Theatre, I believe, he wrote you some
very foolish letters. Possibly you have forgotten them?"
"I certainly have."
"You have probably destroyed them---eh?"
"Certainly! I never keep letters. Why do you ask?"
"Well, you see, Miss Valentine, the Honorable Frederick
Threepwood is about to be married; and he thought that possibly,
on the whole, it would be better that the letters--and
poetry--which he wrote you were nonexistent."
Not all R. Jones' gentlemanliness--and during this speech he
diffused it like a powerful scent in waves about him--could hide
the unpleasant meaning of the words.
"He was afraid I might try to blackmail him?" said Joan, with
formidable calm.
R. Jones raised and waved a fat hand deprecatingly.
"My dear Miss Valentine!"
Joan rose and R. Jones followed her example. The interview was
plainly at an end.
"Please tell Mr. Threepwood to make his mind quite easy. He is in
no danger."
"Exactly--exactly; precisely! I assured Threepwood that my visit
here would be a mere formality. I was quite sure you had no
intention whatever of worrying him. I may tell him definitely,
then, that you have destroyed the letters?"
"Yes. Good-evening."
"Good-evening, Miss Valentine."
The closing of the door behind him left him in total darkness,
but he hardly liked to return and ask Joan to reopen it in order
to light him on his way. He was glad to be out of her presence.
He was used to being looked at in an unfriendly way by his
fellows, but there had been something in Joan's eyes that had
curiously discomfited him.
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