“No,” said Jill doubtfully.
“New York’s a large place. By the way,” he went on, “to return once more to the interesting subject of my lodger, does your uncle sleep here at nights, do you know?”
Jill looked at him gratefully. He was no blunderer. Her desire to avoid Freddie Rooke was, he gave her tacitly to understand, her business, and he did not propose to intrude on it. She liked him for dismissing the subject so easily.
“No, I think he told me he doesn’t.”
“Well, that’s something, isn’t it! I call that darned nice of him! I wonder if I could drop back here somewhere about eleven o’clock. Are the festivities likely to be over by then? If I know Mrs Peagrim, she will insist on going off to one of the hotels to dance directly after dinner. She’s a confirmed trotter.”
“I don’t know how to apologize,” began Jill remorsefully.
“Please don’t. It’s absolutely all right.” His eye wandered to the mantelpiece, as it had done once or twice during the conversation. In her hurry Jill had replaced the snapshot with its back to the room, and Wally had the fidgety air of a man whose most cherished possession is maltreated. He got up now and, walking across, turned the photograph round. He stood for a moment, looking at it.
Jill had forgotten the snapshot. Curiosity returned to her.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
Wally turned.
“Oh, did you see this?”
“I was looking at it just before you nearly frightened me to death by appearing so unexpectedly.”
“Freddie Rooke sold it to me fourteen years ago.”
“Fourteen years ago!”
“Next July,” added Wally. “I gave him five shillings for it.”
“Five shillings! The little brute!” cried Jill indignantly “It must have been all the money you had in the world!”
“A trifle more, as a matter of fact. All the money I had in the world was three-and-six. But by a merciful dispensation of Providence the curate had called that morning and left a money-box for subscriptions to the village organ-fund — It’s wonderful what you can do with a turn for crime and the small blade of a pocket-knife! I don’t think I have ever made money quicker!” He looked at the photograph again. “Not that it seemed quick at the moment. I died at least a dozen agonizing deaths in the few minutes I was operating. Have you ever noticed how slowly time goes when you are coaxing a shilling and a sixpence out of somebody’s money-box? Centuries! But I was forgetting. Of course you’ve had no experience.”
“You poor thing!”
“It was worth it.”
“And you’ve had it ever since!”
“I wouldn’t part with it for all Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim’s millions,” said Wally with sudden and startling vehemence, “if she offered me them.” He paused. “She hasn’t, as a matter of fact.”
There was a silence. Jill looked at Wally furtively, as he returned to his seat. She was seeing him with new eyes. It was as if this trifling incident had removed some sort of a veil. He had suddenly become more alive. For an instant she had seen right into him, to the hidden deeps of his soul. She felt shy and embarrassed.
“Pat died,” she said, at length. She felt the necessity of saying something.
“I liked Pat.”
“He picked up some poison, poor darling — How long ago those days seem, don’t they!”
“They are always pretty vivid to me. I wonder who has that old house of yours now.”
“I heard the other day,” said Jill more easily. The odd sensation of embarrassment was passing. “Some people called — what was the name?— Debenham, I think.”
Silence fell again. It was broken by the front-door bell, like an alarm-clock that shatters a dream.
Wally got up.
“Your uncle,” he said.
“You aren’t going to open the door?”
“That was the scheme.”
“But he’ll get such a shock when he sees you.”
“He must look on it in the light of rent. I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a little passing amusement from this business.”
He left the room. Jill heard the front door open. She waited breathlessly. Pity for Uncle Chris struggled with the sterner feeling that it served him right.