“But for a grubby little scarab!”
“You don’t understand how father loves his scarabs. Since he retired from business, he has been simply wrapped up in them. You know collectors are like that. You read in the papers about men giving all sorts of money for funny things.”
Outside the door R. Jones, his ear close to the panel, drank in all these things greedily. He would have been willing to remain in that attitude indefinitely in return for this kind of special information; but just as Aline said these words a door opened on the floor above, and somebody came out, whistling, and began to descend the stairs.
R. Jones stood not on the order of his going. He was down in the hall and fumbling with the handle of the front door with an agility of which few casual observers of his dimensions would have deemed him capable. The next moment he was out in the street, walking calmly toward Leicester Square, pondering over what he had heard.
Much of R. Jones’ substantial annual income was derived from pondering over what he had heard.
In the room Joan was looking at Aline with the distended eyes of one who sees visions or has inspirations. She got up. There are occasions when one must speak standing.
“Then you mean to say that your father would really give five thousand dollars to anyone who got this thing back for him?”
“I am sure he would. But who could do it?”
“I could,” said Joan. “And what is more, I’m going to!”
Aline stared at her helplessly. In their schooldays, Joan had always swept her off her feet. Then, she had always had the feeling that with Joan nothing was impossible. Heroine worship, like hero worship, dies hard. She looked at Joan now with the stricken sensation of one who has inadvertently set powerful machinery in motion.
“But, Joan!” It was all she could say.
“My dear child, it’s perfectly simple. This earl of yours has taken the thing off to his castle, like a brigand. You say you are going down there on Friday for a visit. All you have to do is to take me along with you, and sit back and watch me get busy.”
“But, Joan!”
“Where’s the difficulty?”
“I don’t see how I could take you down very well.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“But what is your objection?”
“Well–don’t you see?–if you went down there as a friend of mine and were caught stealing the scarab, there would be just the trouble father wants to avoid–about my engagement, you see, and so on.”
It was an aspect of the matter that had escaped Joan. She frowned thoughtfully.
“I see. Yes, there is that; but there must be a way.”
“You mustn’t, Joan–really! don’t think any more about it.”
“Not think any more about it! My child, do you even faintly realize what five thousand dollars–or a quarter of five thousand dollars–means to me? I would do anything for it–anything! And there’s the fun of it. I don’t suppose you can realize that, either. I want a change. I’ve been grubbing away here on nothing a week for years, and it’s time I had a vacation. There must be a way by which you could get me down–Why, of course! Why didn’t I think of it before! You shall take me on Friday as your lady’s maid!”
“But, Joan, I couldn’t!”
“Why not?”
“I–I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, well!”
Joan advanced on her where she sat and grasped her firmly by the shoulders. Her face was inflexible.
“Aline, my pet, it’s no good arguing. You might just as well argue with a wolf on the trail of a fat Russian peasant. I need that money. I need it in my business. I need it worse than anybody has ever needed anything. And I’m going to have it! From now on, until further notice, I am your lady’s maid. You can give your present one a holiday.”
Aline met her eyes waveringly. The spirit of the old schooldays, when nothing was impossible where Joan was concerned, had her in its grip. Moreover, the excitement of the scheme began to attract her.