Miss Million's Maid Part 26

"Not anny night. Can't I come round and dhry those tears for her pretty maid?" demanded the voice that I now heard to be Irish with a difference from the softly persuasive accent of the Honourable Jim.

It went on: "Sure, I can see from here the lovely gyrull you must be, from your attractive voice! Where'r' ye speakin' from? Will I call on ye this afternoon, or will ye come round to----"

I broke in with severity:

"Do you mind telling me your other name?"

"Christian names already? With all the pleasure in life, dear," came back the eager answer. "Here's a health to those that love me, and me name's Julian!"

With another gasp I hung up the receiver, cutting off this other, this unknown "J. Burke," whom I had evoked in my flurry and the anxiety that caused the addresses in the telephone book to dance before my eyes.

I got the number of the Honourable James Burke, and found myself speaking, I suppose, to somebody in the Jermyn Street hairdresser's shop, above which, as I'd heard from Mr. Brace, the Honourable Jim lived in a single room.

"No, Madam, I am afraid he is not in," was the answer here. "I am afraid I couldn't tell you, Madam. I don't know at all. Will you leave any message?"

"No, thank you."

It didn't seem worth while, for, as Mr. Brace said, he's never there.

He's always to be found in some expensive haunt.

Next I rang up the abode in Mount Street of the cobra-woman, the cla.s.sic dancer, Lady Golightly-Long. Her maid informed me, rebukefully, that her ladyship wasn't up yet; her ladyship wasn't awake. I left a message, and the maid will ring me up here.... There may be something to hope for from that, but I shall have to wait. I seem to have waited years!

Now, in desperation, I have got on to Lord Fourcastles's house.

"No; his lordship has not been at home for several days."

I suppose this is the man speaking.

"No. I couldn't say where his lordship is likely to be found, I'm sure."

Oh, these people! These friends of the Honourable Jim's, who all seem to share his habit of melting into some landscape where they are not to be found! Never mind any of them, though. The question is, Miss Million!

Where have they put her, among them? What have they done with my child-heiress of a mistress?

I had hoped to receive some explanation of the mystery by this morning's post. Nothing! Nothing but a sheaf of circulars and advertis.e.m.e.nts and catalogues for Miss Million, and one grey note for Miss Million's maid.

It was addressed to "Miss Smith."

I sighed, half-resentfully, as I tore it open. Under any other circ.u.mstances it would have marked such a red-letter day in my life.

I knew what it was. The first love-letter I had ever received. Of course, from Mr. Reginald Brace. He writes from what used to be "Next Door," in Putney, S.W. He says:

"MY DEAR MISS LOVELACE:--I wanted to put 'Beatrice,' since I know that is your beautiful name, but I did not wish to offend you. I am afraid that I was much too precipitate to-night when I told you of the feeling I have had for you ever since I first saw you. As I told you, I know this is the greatest presumption on my part. Had it not been for the very exceptional circ.u.mstances I should not have ventured to say anything at all----"

Oh, dear! I wish this didn't remind me of the Honourable Jim's remark, "Curious idea, to put in a deaf-and-dumb chap as manager of a bank!" For he is really so good and straight and frank. I call this such a nice letter. Oh, dear, what am I to say to it?

"But as it is" (he goes on) "I could do nothing but take my chance and beg you to consider if you could possibly care for me a little. May I say that I adore you, and that the rest of my life should be given up to doing anything in the world to secure your happiness? Had I a sister----"

Good heavens! His non-existent sister is cropping up again!

"Had I a sister or a mother living, they would come over at once to wait on you; but I am a man literally alone in the world. I live with an old uncle who is practically an invalid.

I hope you will not mind my calling upon you to-morrow, about lunch-time, when I hope so much that you in your sweetness and kindness may find it in your heart to give me another answer to the one I had to hear to-night.

"Yours ever devotedly, "REGINALD BRACE."

Yes! A charming letter, I call it. I do, indeed. And he--the writer of it--is charming--that is, he's good, and "white," as men call it, which is so much more, so much better than being "charming," which, I suppose, people can't help, any more than they can help having cornc.o.c.kle-blue eyes with black lashes--or whatever kind of eyes they may happen to possess.

Mr. Brace's own eyes are very pleasant. So honest. It was horrid of me to be ruffled and snappy to him when he came last night; cattish of me to begin thinking of him as a Puritan and a prude and a prig. He's nothing of the sort. It was only kind of him to come and try to warn me.

And, as it turns out, Mr. Brace was perfectly right about all these people being no fit companions for a young and inexperienced girl....

Which reminds me! Only a few days ago I was considering this Mr. Brace as a possible suitor for Million herself! Why, I'd quite forgotten that.

And now here he is lavishing offers of a life's devotion upon me, Miss Million's maid.

I suppose I ought to be fearfully flattered. There's something in Shakespeare about going down on one's knees and thanking Heaven fasting for a good man's love. (I'm sure he is that.) And so I should be feeling most frightfully pleased and proud, if only I'd time!

This morning I can think of nothing. Not even of my first proposal and love-letter. Only of Miss Million, whom I last saw at half-past eleven or so last night, sitting in her "cerise evenin'--one with the spangles"--at a Thousand-and-One supper-table, with a crowd of rowdy people, and having pink flowers stuck in her hair by an over-excited-looking young man!

Million, of whom I can find no further trace! Now, what is the next----

"Prrrring-g!"

Ah, the telephone bell again. The message from Lady Golightly-Long.

She is speaking herself, in a deep, drawly voice. She tells me that she knows nothing of Miss Million's movements.

"I left her there. I left them all there, at the Thousand and One," she drawls. "I was the first to leave. Miss Million was there, with Lord Fourcastles and the rest of them when I left.... What?... The time? Oh, I never know times. It wasn't very late. Early, I mean. I left her there."

And she rings off. So that's drawn a blank. Well, now what am I to do next?

I think I'd better go round to the club itself and make inquiries there about the missing heiress!

I have just come back from making inquiries at the Thousand and One Club.

The place looked strangely tawdry and make-believe this morning. Rather like ballroom finery of the night before, seen in daylight. I interviewed a sallow-faced attendant in the vestibule, whence I had got those glimpses of the larking and frolicking in the supper-room last night.

Miss Million? He didn't know anything about a lady of that name. With Miss Vi Va.s.sity's party, had she been? Miss Vi Va.s.sity always had a rare lot of friends with her. He'd seen her, of course, Miss Vi Va.s.sity, all right. Several young ladies with her.

"But a small, dark-haired young lady, in a bright cerise dress, with spangles on it?" I urged. "She was sitting--I'll show you her place at the table. There! Don't you remember?"

The sallow-faced attendant couldn't say he did. There was always a rare lot of bright-coloured frocks about. He beckoned to a waiter, who came up, glancing at me almost suspiciously out of his sunken eyes.

"Young lady in a bright, cherry-coloured frock, sitting at Miss Vi Va.s.sity's table? Yes! Now he came to go back in his mind, he had seemed to notice the young lady. She'd seemed a bit out of it at first. Would that be the one?"

"Yes, yes," eagerly from me. "That would probably be Miss Million!"

"Afterwards," said the waiter, "she seemed to be having a good deal o'

conversation with that young Lord Fo'castles, as they call him."

"Ah, yes," I said, thinking again of the glimpse I'd had of the rowdy, foolish-faced young man with the eyegla.s.s, who had been grabbing pink flowers off the table and therewith scufflingly decorating Million's little dark head.