He rang the bell violently, and presently there entered a grave, thin, intellectual man who looked like a duke, only more respectable. This was Webster, Mr. Bennett’s English valet.
“Is that Mr. Mortimer?” he barked, as the door opened.
“No, sir. It is I—Webster.” Not even the annoyance of being summoned like this from an absorbing game of penny nap in the housekeeper’s room had the power to make the valet careless of his grammar. “I fancied that I heard your bell ring, sir.”
“I wonder you could hear anything with that infernal noise going on,” snapped Mr. Bennett, “Is Mr. Mortimer playing that—that damned gas-engine in the drawing-room?”
“Yes, sir. Tosti’s Goodbye. A charming air, sir.”
“Charming air be—! Tell him to stop it.”
“Very good, sir.”
The valet withdrew like a duke leaving the royal presence, not actually walking backwards, but giving the impression of doing so. Mr. Bennett lay in bed and fumed. Presently the valet returned. The music still continued to roll about the room.
“I am sorry to have to inform you, sir,” said Webster, “that Mr. Mortimer declines to accede to your request.”
“Oh, he said that, did he!”
“That is the gist of his remarks, sir.”
“Did you tell him I was trying to get to sleep?”
“Yes, sir. I understood him to reply that he should worry and get a pain in the neck.”
“Go down again and say that I insist on his stopping the thing. It’s an outrage.”
“Very good, sir.”
In a few minutes, Webster, like the dove despatched from the Ark, was back again.
“I fear my mission has been fruitless, sir. Mr. Mortimer appears adamant on the point at issue.”
“You gave him my message?”
“Verbatim, sir. In reply Mr. Mortimer desired me to tell you that, if you did not like it, you could do the other thing. I quote the exact words, sir.”
“He did, did he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good! Webster!”
“Sir?”
“When is the next train to London?”
“I will ascertain, sir. Cook, I believe has a time-table.”
“Go and see, then. I want to know. And send Miss Wilhelmina to me,”
“Very good, sir.”
Somewhat consoled by the thought that he was taking definite action, Mr. Bennett lay back and waited for Billie.
“I want you to go to London,” he said, when she appeared.
“To London? Why?”
“I’ll tell you why,” said Mr. Bennett vehemently. “Because of that pest Mortimer. I must have legal advice. I want you to go and see Sir Mallaby Marlowe. Here’s his address. Tell him the whole story. Tell him that this man is annoying me in every possible way and ask if he can’t be stopped. If you can’t see Sir Mallaby himself, see someone else in the firm. Go up to-night, so that you can see him first thing in the morning. You can stop the night at the Savoy. I’ve sent Webster to look out a train.”
“There’s a splendid train in about an hour. I’ll take that.”
“It’s giving you a lot of trouble,” said Mr. Bennett with belated consideration.
“Oh no!” said Billie. “I’m only too glad to be able to do something for you, father dear. This noise is a terrible nuisance, isn’t it.”
“You’re a good girl,” said Mr. Bennett.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“That’s right!” said Sir Mallaby Marlowe. “Work while you’re young, Sam, work while you’re young.” He regarded his son’s bent head with affectionate approval. “What’s the book to-day?”
“Widgery on Nisi prius Evidence,” said Sam, without looking up.
“Capital!” said Sir Mallaby. “Highly improving and as interesting as a novel—some novels. There’s a splendid bit on, I think, page two hundred and fifty-four where the hero finds out all about Copyhold and Customary Estates. It’s a wonderfully powerful situation. It appears—but I won’t spoil it for you. Mind you don’t skip to see how it all comes out in the end!” Sir Mallaby suspended conversation while he addressed an imaginary ball with the mashie which he had taken out of his golf-bag. For this was the day when he went down to Walton Heath for his weekly foursome with three old friends. His tubby form was clad in tweed of a violent nature, with knickerbockers and stockings. “Sam!”