swelling the veins, purpling the skin.
“He’s got dates and places, curse him! There was a lot of petrol from an aerodrome—he’s got that. And a biggish haul of butter from the docks. Two or three other big jobs. Says there are witnesses that can swear to me. But I don’t believe him. It’s three years ago—who’s going to take any notice of people swearing to where you were, and to what you said and did as long ago as that? If I pay, it will be because it doesn’t do you any good in business to have things said. And if I pay, I know damn well whose pocket the money’ll go into! Mr. Blackmailer Porlock— that’s who! And when I think about it, I tell you straight it makes me feel I’d rather swing for him!”
He was shouting again. Emily Tote said,
“Don’t talk so foolish, Albert.”
Chapter XIII
Gregory Porlock came into the billiard-room shepherding the Mastermans.
“Well, now, here we are. And I’m going to carry Moira off. Just finished a game? Who won?”
Moira Lane laughed.
“Oh, I’m not in Justin’s class—he’s way up, practically out of sight.”
“Ah, then he can take Masterman on, and Miss Masterman can see fair play. We’ll come back presently.”
He took her off to the study, a comfortable country room with book-lined walls, warmly coloured rugs, and deep brown leather chairs—a room that had been used and lived in. Granted that Gregory Porlock had taken the house furnished, he might be given the credit for his choice. He fitted the room too—fresh healthy skin, clear eyes, good country tweeds which had been worn in country weather. There was a tray of cocktails on the table, and he handed Moira one.
He said, “I’ve brought you here to ask you a question, you know.”
“Have you?” Nothing could have been more friendly than her voice. She sipped from her glass. “Sounds intriguing. What is it?”
He met her laughing eyes and said quite gravely,
“What do you make of me, Moira? What sort of man would you say I was?”
She didn’t look away, but she looked different. The smile was still in her eyes, but there was something else there too—something a little wary, a little on guard. She said in her pretty, light voice,
“A good fellow—a good friend—a charming host. Why?”
He nodded.
“Thank you, my dear. I think you meant that.”
She was sitting on the arm of one of the big chairs, leaning against the back, every line of the long figure graceful and easy. She took another sip from her glass and said,
“Of course I did.”
He went over to the fire and put a log of wood on it. When he turned round he had his charming smile again.
“Well, that being that, I can go on.”
“Go on?”
“Oh, yes—that was just a preliminary. The fact is—let me take your glass—well, the fact is, I’ve got something for you, and I wanted to feel sure of my ground before I gave it to you.”
“Something for me?” She laughed suddenly. “Greg, my sweet, how marvellous! Is it a present? Because I warn you I shall consider I’ve been lured here under false pretences if it isn’t. It will be a sort of breach of promise, because you’ve quite definitely raised my hopes.”
He laughed too.
“Have I? Then I shall have to do something about it. Or perhaps you will. We’ll see. Meanwhile, here it is.”
He took a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper from his pocket, laid it upon her knee, and went back to the hearth again. From a couple of yards away he watched her sit up straight and undo the wrappings. She had a laughing look, but at the first touch of the paper and what it held there was a faint instant check. Her hands stayed just as they were, measuring the weight of the parcel, feeling the shape of it through the thin paper. Something moved under her fingers like the links of a chain, and she knew.
Gregory Porlock saw her colour go, quite suddenly, as the flame goes when you blow a candle out. One moment it was there, bright and vivid. The next it
“He’s got dates and places, curse him! There was a lot of petrol from an aerodrome—he’s got that. And a biggish haul of butter from the docks. Two or three other big jobs. Says there are witnesses that can swear to me. But I don’t believe him. It’s three years ago—who’s going to take any notice of people swearing to where you were, and to what you said and did as long ago as that? If I pay, it will be because it doesn’t do you any good in business to have things said. And if I pay, I know damn well whose pocket the money’ll go into! Mr. Blackmailer Porlock— that’s who! And when I think about it, I tell you straight it makes me feel I’d rather swing for him!”
He was shouting again. Emily Tote said,
“Don’t talk so foolish, Albert.”
Chapter XIII
Gregory Porlock came into the billiard-room shepherding the Mastermans.
“Well, now, here we are. And I’m going to carry Moira off. Just finished a game? Who won?”
Moira Lane laughed.
“Oh, I’m not in Justin’s class—he’s way up, practically out of sight.”
“Ah, then he can take Masterman on, and Miss Masterman can see fair play. We’ll come back presently.”
He took her off to the study, a comfortable country room with book-lined walls, warmly coloured rugs, and deep brown leather chairs—a room that had been used and lived in. Granted that Gregory Porlock had taken the house furnished, he might be given the credit for his choice. He fitted the room too—fresh healthy skin, clear eyes, good country tweeds which had been worn in country weather. There was a tray of cocktails on the table, and he handed Moira one.
He said, “I’ve brought you here to ask you a question, you know.”
“Have you?” Nothing could have been more friendly than her voice. She sipped from her glass. “Sounds intriguing. What is it?”
He met her laughing eyes and said quite gravely,
“What do you make of me, Moira? What sort of man would you say I was?”
She didn’t look away, but she looked different. The smile was still in her eyes, but there was something else there too—something a little wary, a little on guard. She said in her pretty, light voice,
“A good fellow—a good friend—a charming host. Why?”
He nodded.
“Thank you, my dear. I think you meant that.”
She was sitting on the arm of one of the big chairs, leaning against the back, every line of the long figure graceful and easy. She took another sip from her glass and said,
“Of course I did.”
He went over to the fire and put a log of wood on it. When he turned round he had his charming smile again.
“Well, that being that, I can go on.”
“Go on?”
“Oh, yes—that was just a preliminary. The fact is—let me take your glass—well, the fact is, I’ve got something for you, and I wanted to feel sure of my ground before I gave it to you.”
“Something for me?” She laughed suddenly. “Greg, my sweet, how marvellous! Is it a present? Because I warn you I shall consider I’ve been lured here under false pretences if it isn’t. It will be a sort of breach of promise, because you’ve quite definitely raised my hopes.”
He laughed too.
“Have I? Then I shall have to do something about it. Or perhaps you will. We’ll see. Meanwhile, here it is.”
He took a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper from his pocket, laid it upon her knee, and went back to the hearth again. From a couple of yards away he watched her sit up straight and undo the wrappings. She had a laughing look, but at the first touch of the paper and what it held there was a faint instant check. Her hands stayed just as they were, measuring the weight of the parcel, feeling the shape of it through the thin paper. Something moved under her fingers like the links of a chain, and she knew.
Gregory Porlock saw her colour go, quite suddenly, as the flame goes when you blow a candle out. One moment it was there, bright and vivid. The next it
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