Red aces — Inside the Classic

a young man need be, or can be without losing his head about his face. He had called at the Leffingham that evening especially to see Rufus and confide his worries. And his worries were enormous. He looked haggard and ill; Mr. Machfield thought it possible that he had not been sleeping very well. In this surmise he was right.

“It’s about Margot…” began the young man.

Mr. Machfield smiled.

He had met Margot, had entertained the young people to dinner at his flat, and twice had invited them to a theatre party.

“We’ve had a row, Rufus. It began a week ago. For a long time her reticence has been bothering me. Why the devil couldn’t she tell me what she did for a living? I wouldn’t say this to a living soul but you--it is horribly disloyal to her, and yet it isn’t. I know that she has no money of her own, and yet she lives at the rate of a thousand a year. She says that she is secretary to a business man, but the office where she works is in her own name. And she isn’t there more than a few days a week and then only for a few hours.”

Mr. Machfield considered the matter.

“She won’t tell you any more than that?”

Kenneth looked round the smoke-room. Except for a servant counting the cigars in a small mahogany cabinet, they were alone. He lowered his voice.

“She’ll never tell me any more… I’ve seen the man,” he said. “Margot meets him surreptitiously!”

Mr. Machfield looked at him dubiously.

“Oh… what sort of a man?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, he’s elderly. It was queer how I came to see them at all. I was taking a ride round the country on Sunday morning. Margot told me that she couldn’t come to us--I asked her to lunch with us at Marlow--because she was going out of London. I went through Burnham and stopped to explore a little wood. As a matter of fact, I saw two animals fighting--I think they were stoats--and I went after them----”

“Stoats can be dangerous,” began Mr. Machfield. “I remember once----”

“Anyway I went after them with my camera. I’m rather keen on wild life photographs. And then I saw two people, a man and a girl, walking slowly away from me. The man had his arm round the girl’s shoulder. It rather made a picture--they stood in a patch of sunlight and with the trees as a background--well, it was rather an idyllic sort of picture. I put up my camera. Just as I pressed the button the man looked over his shoulder, and then the girl turned. It was Margot!”

He dabbed his brow with a handkerchief. Rufus was slightly amused to see anybody so agitated over so trifling a matter.

Kenneth swallowed his drink; his hand trembled.

“He was elderly--fifty… not bad looking. God! I could have killed them both! Margot was coolness itself, though she changed colour. But she didn’t attempt to introduce me or offer any kind of explanation.”

“Her father----” began Rufus.

“She has no father--no relations except her mother, who is an invalid and lives in Florence--at least I thought so,” snapped Kenneth.

The young man heaved a deep sigh.

“Nothing--just said: ‘How queer meeting you!’ talked about the beautiful day, and when I asked her what it all meant and what this man was to her--he had walked on and left us alone--she flatly refused to say anything. Just turned on her heel and went after him.”

“Extraordinary!” said Mr. Machfield. “You have seen her since?”

Kenneth nodded grimly.

“That same night she came to Marlow to see me. She begged me to trust her--she was really wonderful. It was terribly surprising to see her there at all. When I came down into the dining-room and found her there, I was knocked out--the servant didn’t say who she was and I kept her waiting.”

“Well?” asked his companion, when he paused.

“Well,” said Kenneth awkwardly, “one _has_ to trust people one loves. She said that he was a relation--she never told me that she had one until then.”

“Except her mother who lives in Florence--that costs money, especially an invalid mother,” mused Rufus, fingering his long, clean-shaven upper lip. “What is the trouble now? You’ve quarrelled?”

Kenneth took a letter out of his pocket and passed it across to his friend, and Mr. Machfield opened and read it.

“Dear Kenneth: I’m not seeing you any more. I’m broken-hearted to tell you this. Please don’t try to see me--please! M.”

“When did this come?”