Billie knew all. And, terrible though the fact is as an indictment of the male sex, when a woman knows all, there is invariably trouble ahead for some man.
There was trouble ahead for Sam Marlowe. Billie, now in possession of the facts, had examined them and come to the conclusion that Sam had played a practical joke on her, and she was a girl who strongly disapproved of practical humor at her expense.
“That morning I met you at Sir Mallaby’s office, Mr. Peters,” she said in a frosty voice, “Mr. Marlowe had just finished telling me a long and convincing story to the effect that you were madly in love with a Miss Milliken, who had jilted you, and that this had driven you off your head, and that you spent your time going about with a pistol, trying to shoot every red-haired woman you saw, because you thought they were Miss Milliken. Naturally, when you came in and called me Miss Milliken, and brandished a revolver, I was very frightened. I thought it would be useless to tell you that I wasn’t Miss Milliken, so I tried to persuade you that I was, and hadn’t jilted you after all.”
“Good gracious!” said Mr. Peters, vastly relieved; and yet—for always there is bitter mixed with the sweet—a shade disappointed. “Then—er—you don’t love me after all?”
“No!” said Billie. “I am engaged to Bream Mortimer, and I love him and nobody else in the world!”
The last portion of her observation was intended for the consumption of Mr. Bennett, rather than that of Mr. Peters, and he consumed it joyfully. He folded Billie in his ample embrace.
“I always thought you had a grain of sense hidden away somewhere,” he said, paying her a striking tribute. “I hope now that we’ve heard the last of all this foolishness about that young hound Marlowe.”
“You certainly have! I don’t want ever to see him again! I hate him!”
“You couldn’t do better, my dear,” said Mr. Bennett, approvingly. “And now run away. Mr. Peters and I have some business to discuss.”
A quarter of an hour later, Webster, the valet, sunning himself in the stable-yard, was aware of the daughter of his employer approaching him.
“Webster,” said Billie. She was still pale. Her face was still hard, and her eyes still gleamed coldly.
“Miss?” said Webster politely, throwing away the cigarette with which he had been refreshing himself.
“Will you do something for me?”
“I should be more than delighted, miss.”
Billie whisked into view an envelope which had been concealed in the recesses of her dress.
“Do you know the country about here, well, Webster?”
“Within a certain radius, not unintimately, Miss. I have been for several enjoyable rambles since the fine weather set in.”
“Do you know the place where there is a road leading to Havant, and another to Cosham? It’s about a mile down….”
“I know the spot well, miss.”
“Well, straight in front of you when you get to the sign-post there is a little lane….”
“I know it, miss,” said Webster. “A delightfully romantic spot. What with the overhanging trees, the wealth of blackberry bushes, the varied wild-flowers….”
“Yes, never mind about the wild-flowers now. I want you after lunch to take this note to a gentleman you will find sitting on the gate at the bottom of the lane….”
“Sitting on the gate, miss. Yes, miss.”
“Or leaning against it. You can’t mistake him. He is rather tall and…. Oh, well, there isn’t likely to be anybody else there, so you can’t make a mistake. Give him this, will you?”
“Certainly, miss. Er—any message?”
“Any what?”
“Any verbal message, miss?”
“No, certainly not! You won’t forget, will you, Webster?”
“On no account whatever, miss. Shall I wait for an answer?”
“There won’t be any answer,” said Billie, setting her teeth for an instant. “Oh, Webster!”
“Miss?”
“I can rely on you to say nothing to anybody?”
“Most undoubtedly, miss. Most undoubtedly!”
“Does anybody know anything about a feller named S. Marlowe?” enquired Webster, entering the kitchen. “Don’t all speak at once! S. Marlowe. Ever heard of him?”
He paused for a reply, but nobody had any information to impart.