'Let me understand. Would you propose to die to-morrow?'

'I'd propose to begin. This show's got to be worked artistic. I can't drop down dead as if I'd had a fit. Maybe some keen-nosed relative might start sniffing. Might want a coroner's inquest or something of that. Holy Paul! Where'd I be if they started a post mortem? I'd have to quit being dead so that I could start explaining. This job'll have to be done in a workmanlike manner; my professional reputation is at stake. To-morrow I begin by sending you a message.'

'A message?--of what nature?'

'Why, I go to an hotel, just well enough not to be refused admission, and ill enough to take to my bed directly I'm inside. If they turn shirty, and remark that that hotel is not a hospital, I'll tell them that I'm the Marquis of Twickenham. I shan't choose too swell a place, so that they may be proud of having the Marquis of Twickenham on the premises, if it's only to die there. There'll be a pretty bill for the estate to pay: because a funeral at an hotel comes dear. Then I send you a message: a note, say--"Dear Smith"----'

'Don't call me Smith.'

'No? Then what'll I call you? Brown?'

'I suppose this introducing myself is part of the farce. If you do write such a note, call me Douglas.'

'That's all?'

'My name is Douglas Howarth. You are sure you have never heard that name before?'

'Might have. I'll say, "Dear Douglas Howarth, I have returned to die.

Come and smooth my pillow at the end. So that I may die grasping friendship's hand. Your long lost Twickenham."'

'A note of that kind would hardly be in keeping with the supposed writer's well-known character.'

'No? Then what price this? "Dear Doug, I'm dying. If you have a moment to spare you might look in. Twick."'

'That's better. Oddly enough he used to call me "Doug," and sign himself "Twick."'

'That's so? Why shouldn't he have done? You hurry to my suffering side, bringing with you five hundred pounds in notes, which you slip into my clammy palm.'

'I should prefer to give you the thousand pounds afterwards.'

'I shouldn't. Half first, then the rest. If you don't bring five hundred when you come--I'll recover.'

This was spoken with an accent which suggested varied possibilities.

Before I left the York Hotel the whole business was cut and dried.

From one point of view my success was altogether beyond my antic.i.p.ations. Yet I was not feeling quite at my ease. There was a diabolical fertility of invention about the man which recalled Twickenham each moment more and more. The whole spirit with which the idea was taken up reminded me of him. He planned everything; filled in all the details, arranged, so far as I could see, for every eventuality. I was conscious, all the while, that the scheme was entirely after the man's heart. Its daring; the brazen impudence which would be required to successfully carry it out; entire absence of anything approaching nervousness; complete callousness;--these were the requisites which Mr. Montagu Babbacombe possessed in a degree which would have seemed unique had they not reminded me forcibly of somebody else. The whimsical character of the feat he was about to attempt just fitted in with his humour, as I had foreseen.

'You know, Mr. Smith--I beg your pardon--Mr. Howarth--I shall play this game for all I'm worth: right to the limit. All I'm wondering is if it shall be a lingering death-bed, punctuated with bursts of agony, or a foreshadowing of the perfect peace that'll soon be coming. How long will I take in dying?'

'I should suggest not too long.'

'You would suggest that. Am I to do much talking?'

'As little as you possibly can.'

'Then it's not to be a story-book death-bed, with me shedding forgiveness on all those I've parted from?'

'I think not.'

'That's hard on me. I suppose I may draw a few tears from those who, in silence, stand sorrowing round?'

'Not too many.'

'Perhaps you're right. I'm a whale on tears. If I once started on the handle I might pump the well right dry. There's one remark I'd like to make, Mr. Howarth, before we part.'

'That is?'

'It's this. That I'm calculating on agitating your bosom, sir. When you see me lying there, stricken down in the prime of my life and manly beauty, you'll think of the days, so near and yet so far, when we used to play together in my mother's old backyard.

Naturally your feelings will be moved, and you'll do a howl; no silent weep, but a regular screech; to the extent of damping at least two pocket-handkerchiefs. If you don't, I'll be hurt: and when I'm hurt I've an unfortunate habit of saying so. How'll you like it if, just as I'm running down for ever, and yours is the only dry eye in the room, I look up with the observation, "Mr. Howarth, how about that grief of yours?"'

It was remarks of this kind which filled me with a vague sense of disquiet as to the kind of proceedings which Mr. Babbacombe might be meditating. However I comforted myself with the reflection--if comfort it could be called--that whatever happened, or in what spirit soever he might choose to comport himself, things could hardly be worse than they were.

CHAPTER VI

A MESSAGE FROM THE MARQUIS

The 'message' came on the Monday as I was at lunch. Violet and I were alone together. I had spent the morning in doing two things--getting the five hundred pounds which would keep Mr. Montagu Babbacombe from a premature recovery, and putting my papers in order. I hardly know which I found the more difficult.

I had to lie to get the money. I had reached such a stage in my resources that to have told the truth would have been a fatal bar. I could hardly say that I shortly expected to receive news of the Marquis of Twickenham's death. That would have been to occasion inquiries of, under the circ.u.mstances, a highly inconvenient nature.

Besides, after all, Mr. Babbacombe might play me false. That was always more than possible. So I manufactured another tale instead. By dint of it, I succeeded, with great difficulty, and on the most outrageous terms, in extracting another five hundred out of Abrams. I wanted him to make it six; for this was likely to be an occasion on which a little spare cash might come in useful: but the brute declined.

There was not much time, when I returned from Abrams, to look into my papers. Yet it was essential that, at the earliest possible moment, I should have some notion of how I stood. To be frank, for some time past I had shirked inquiry; having only too good reason to feel convinced that if a statement of my financial position was made out it would be clearly shown that I had been insolvent for longer than I cared to think. In such a case it had seemed to me that at any rate partial ignorance was bliss. That this was cowardice, and, possibly, something worse, I was aware. In desperate positions one does curious things. I was just able to arrive at a glimmering of the fact that unless, in Mr. Micawber's phrase, something 'turned up' soon, worse than pecuniary ruin was in store for me, when lunch was served. At lunch the news that something was likely to 'turn up' came.

Violet was not in the best of spirits. I learned that Lady Desmond, on her part, had not been allowing the gra.s.s to grow under her feet. She had been paying the child a visit. Vi did not admit it at once, but when I taxed her with her obvious discomposure--having reasons of my own for wishing to know what was at the back of it--she let it out. It seemed that the old lady had said some very frank things--in the way old ladies can. Vi had suffered; was suffering still. She had arrived at a decision, with which she had sped the parting guest.

'I am quite resolved that--unless something happens which will not happen--all shall be over between Reggie and myself. I will not have such things said to me. I am going to write a formal note to say that I will not see him again: and you must take me away somewhere so that he cannot see me.'

'Take you away?'

I perceived that Lady Desmond had been very plain.

'Abroad; to some place as far off as you possibly can. She says that the Marquis of Twickenham is alive; and as you say so too----'

'Violet!'

'I say that the best thing you can do is to emigrate, at once. I'll keep house for you until you are in a position to offer Edith a home.'

'You march.'

'If you had heard Lady Desmond you would be of opinion that it is necessary I should. It seems to me that both Reggie and you are wasting your lives--not in pursuit of a chimera, but waiting till a chimera comes to you.'

'Is that Lady Desmond?'

'Lady Desmond said nothing half so civil; either of you or me. She is--she's a nice old lady.'