Geoffrey swallowed his piece of cake, and bent forward.
“Aren’t you engaged to this man Bevan?”
Maud avoided his eye. She was aware that the crisis had arrived, and that her whole future hung on her next words.
And then Fate came to her rescue. Before she could speak, there was an interruption.
“Pardon me,” said a voice. “One moment!”
So intent had Maud and her companion been on their own affairs that neither of them observed the entrance of a third party. This was a young man with mouse-coloured hair and a freckled, badly-shaven face which seemed undecided whether to be furtive or impudent. He had small eyes, and his costume was a blend of the flashy and the shabby. He wore a bowler hat, tilted a little rakishly to one side, and carried a small bag, which he rested on the table between them.
“Sorry to intrude, miss.” He bowed gallantly to Maud, “but I want to have a few words with Mr. Spenser Gray here.”
Maud, looking across at Geoffrey, was surprised to see that his florid face had lost much of its colour. His mouth was open, and his eyes had taken a glassy expression.
“I think you have made a mistake,” she said coldly. She disliked the young man at sight. “This is Mr. Raymond.”
Geoffrey found speech.
“Of course I’m Mr. Raymond!” he cried angrily. “What do you mean by coming and annoying us like this?”
The young man was not discomposed. He appeared to be used to being unpopular. He proceeded as though there had been no interruption. He produced a dingy card.
“Glance at that,” he said. “Messrs. Willoughby and Son, Solicitors. I’m son. The guv’nor put this little matter into my hands. I’ve been looking for you for days, Mr. Gray, to hand you this paper.” He opened the bag like a conjurer performing a trick, and brought out a stiff document of legal aspect. “You’re a witness, miss, that I’ve served the papers. You know what this is, of course?” he said to Geoffrey. “Action for breach of promise of marriage. Our client, Miss Yvonne Sinclair, of the Regal Theatre, is suing you for ten thousand pounds. And, if you ask me,” said the young man with genial candour, dropping the professional manner, “I don’t mind telling you, I think it’s a walk-over! It’s the best little action for breach we’ve handled for years.” He became professional again. “Your lawyers will no doubt communicate with us in due course. And, if you take my advice,” he concluded, with another of his swift changes of manner, “you’ll get ’em to settle out of court, for, between me and you and the lamp-post, you haven’t an earthly!”
Geoffrey had started to his feet. He was puffing with outraged innocence.
“What the devil do you mean by this?” he demanded. “Can’t you see you’ve made a mistake? My name is not Gray. This lady has told you that I am Geoffrey Raymond!”
“Makes it all the worse for you,” said the young man imperturbably, “making advances to our client under an assumed name. We’ve got letters and witnesses and the whole bag of tricks. And how about this photo?” He dived into the bag again. “Do you recognize that, miss?”
Maud looked at the photograph. It was unmistakably Geoffrey. And it had evidently been taken recently, for it showed the later Geoffrey, the man of substance. It was a full-length photograph and across the stout legs was written in a flowing hand the legend, “To Babe from her little Pootles”. Maud gave a shudder and handed it back to the young man, just as Geoffrey, reaching across the table, made a grab for it.
“I recognize it,” she said.
Mr. Willoughby junior packed the photograph away in his bag, and turned to go.
“That’s all for today, then, I think,” he said, affably.
He bowed again in his courtly way, tilted the hat a little more to the left, and, having greeted one of the distressed gentlewomen who loitered limply in his path with a polite “If you please, Mabel!” which drew upon him a freezing stare of which he seemed oblivious, he passed out, leaving behind him strained silence.