CHAPTER XII.

THE LURID PAST OF JNO. PETERS

“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!”

“Well?”

“Sam, a man at the club showed me a new grip the other day. Instead of

overlapping the little finger of the right hand.... Oh, by the way,

Sam.”

“Yes?”

“I should lock up the office to-day if I were you, or anxious clients

will be coming in and asking for advice, and you’ll find yourself in

difficulties. I shall be gone, and Peters is away on his holiday. You’d

better lock the outer door.”

“All right,” said Sam absently. He was finding Widgery stiff reading.

He had just got to the bit about Raptu Haeredis, which—as of course you

know, is a writ for taking away an heir holding in socage.

Sir Mallaby looked at his watch.

“Well, I’ll have to be going. See you later, Sam.”

“Good-bye.”

Sir Mallaby went out, and Sam, placing both elbows on the desk and

twining his fingers in his hair, returned with a frown of consternation

to his grappling with Widgery. For perhaps ten minutes the struggle was

an even one, then gradually Widgery got the upper hand. Sam’s mind,

numbed by constant batterings against the stony ramparts of legal

phraseology, weakened, faltered, and dropped away; and a moment later

his thoughts, as so often happened when he was alone, darted off and

began to circle round the image of Billie Bennett.

Since they had last met, at Sir Mallaby’s dinner-table, Sam had told

himself perhaps a hundred times that he cared nothing about Billie,

that she had gone out of his life and was dead to him; but

unfortunately he did not believe it. A man takes a deal of convincing

on a point like this, and Sam had never succeeded in convincing himself

for more than two minutes at a time. It was useless to pretend that he

did not still love Billie more than ever, because he knew he did; and

now, as the truth swept over him for the hundred and first time, he

groaned hollowly and gave himself up to the grey despair which is the

almost inseparable companion of young men in his position.

So engrossed was he in his meditation that he did not hear the light

footstep in the outer office, and it was only when it was followed by a

tap on the door of the inner office that he awoke with a start to the

fact that clients were in his midst. He wished that he had taken his

father’s advice and locked up the office. Probably this was some

frightful bore who wanted to make his infernal will or something, and

Sam had neither the ability nor the inclination to assist him.

Was it too late to escape? Perhaps if he did not answer the knock, the

blighter might think there was nobody at home. But suppose he opened

the door and peeped in? A spasm of Napoleonic strategy seized Sam. He

dropped silently to the floor and concealed himself under the desk.

Napoleon was always doing that sort of thing.

There was another tap. Then, as he had anticipated, the door opened.

Sam, crouched like a hare in its form, held his breath. It seemed to

him that he was going to bring this delicate operation off with

success. He felt he had acted just as Napoleon would have done in a

similar crisis. And so, no doubt, he had to a certain extent; only

Napoleon would have seen to it that his boots and about eighteen inches

of trousered legs were not sticking out, plainly visible to all who

entered.

“Good morning,” said a voice.

Sam thrilled from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. It was

the voice which had been ringing in his ears through all his waking

hours.

“Are you busy, Mr. Marlowe?” asked Billie, addressing the boots.

Sam wriggled out from under the desk like a disconcerted tortoise.

“Dropped my pen,” he mumbled, as he rose to the surface.

He pulled himself together with an effort that was like a physical

exercise. He stared at Billie dumbly. Then, recovering speech, he

invited her to sit down, and seated himself at the desk.

“Dropped my pen!” he gurgled again.

“Yes?” said Billie.

“Fountain-pen,” babbled Sam, “with a broad nib.”

“Yes?”

“A broad _gold_ nib,” went on Sam, with the painful exactitude which

comes only from embarrassment or the early stages of intoxication.

“Really?” said Billie, and Sam blinked and told himself resolutely that

this would not do. He was not appearing to advantage. It suddenly

occurred to him that his hair was standing on end as the result of his

struggle with Widgery. He smoothed it down hastily, and felt a trifle

more composed. The old fighting spirit of the Marlowes now began to

assert itself to some extent. He must make an effort to appear as

little of a fool as possible in this girl’s eyes. And what eyes they

were! Golly! Like stars! Like two bright planets in....

However, that was neither here nor there. He pulled down his waistcoat

and became cold and business-like,—the dry young lawyer.

“Er—how do you do, Miss Bennett?” he said with a question in his voice,

raising his eyebrows in a professional way. He modelled this

performance on that of lawyers he had seen on the stage, and wished he

had some snuff to take or something to tap against his front teeth.

“Miss Bennett, I believe?”

The effect of the question upon Billie was disastrous. She had come to

this office with beating heart, prepared to end all misunderstandings,

to sob on her soul-mate’s shoulder and generally make everything up;

but at this inane exhibition the fighting spirit of the Bennetts—which

was fully as militant as that of the Marlowes—became roused. She told

herself that she had been mistaken in supposing that she still loved

this man. She was a proud girl and refused to admit herself capable of

loving any man who looked at her as if she was something that the cat

had brought in. She drew herself up stiffly.

“Yes,” she replied. “How clever of you to remember me.”

“I have a good memory.”

“How nice! So have I!”

There was a pause, during which Billie allowed her gaze to travel

casually about the room. Sam occupied the intermission by staring

furtively at her profile. He was by now in a thoroughly overwrought

condition, and the thumping of his heart sounded to him as if workmen

were mending the street outside. How beautiful she looked, with that

red hair peeping out beneath her hat and.... However!

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked in the sort of voice

Widgery might have used. Sam always pictured Widgery as a small man

with bushy eyebrows, a thin face, and a voice like a rusty file.

“Well, I really wanted to see Sir Mallaby.”

“My father has been called away on important business to Walton Heath.

Cannot I act as his substitute?”

“Do you know anything about the law?”

“Do I know anything about the law!” echoed Sam, amazed. “Do I know——!

Why, I was reading my Widgery on Nisi Prius Evidence when you came in.”

“Oh, were you?” said Billie, interested. “Do you always read on the

floor?”

“I told you I dropped my pen,” said Sam coldly.

“And of course you couldn’t read without that! Well, as a matter of

fact, this has nothing to do with Nisi—what you said.”

“I have not specialised exclusively on Nisi Prius Evidence. I know the

law in all its branches.”

“Then what would you do if a man insisted on playing the orchestrion

when you wanted to get to sleep?”

“The orchestrion?”

“Yes.”

“The orchestrion, eh? Ah! H’m!” said Sam.

“You still haven’t made it quite clear,” said Billie.

“I was thinking.”

“Oh, if you want to _think!_”

“Tell me the facts,” said Sam.

“Well, Mr. Mortimer and my father have taken a house together in the

country....”

“I knew that.”

“_What_ a memory you have!” said Billie kindly. “Well, for some reason

or other they have quarrelled, and now Mr. Mortimer is doing everything

he can to make father uncomfortable. Yesterday afternoon father wanted

to sleep, and Mr. Mortimer started this orchestrion just to annoy him.”

“I think—I’m not quite sure—I think that’s a tort,” said Sam.

“A what?”

“Either a tort or a malfeasance.”

“Why, you do know something about it after all!” cried Billie, startled

into a sort of friendliness in spite of herself. And at the words and

the sight of her quick smile Sam’s professional composure reeled on its

foundations. He had half risen, with the purpose of springing up and

babbling of the passion that consumed him, when the chill reflection

came to him that this girl had once said that she considered him

ridiculous. If he let himself go, would she not continue to think him

ridiculous? He sagged back into his seat; and at that moment there came

another tap on the door which, opening, revealed the sinister face of

the holiday-making Peters.

“Good morning, Mr. Samuel,” said Jno. Peters. “Good morning, Miss

Milliken. Oh!”

He vanished as abruptly as he had appeared. He perceived that what he

had taken at first glance for the stenographer was a client, and that

the junior partner was engaged on a business conference. He left behind

him a momentary silence.

“What a horrible-looking man!” said Billie, breaking it with a little

gasp. Jno. Peters often affected the opposite sex like that at first

sight.

“I beg your pardon?” said Sam absently.

“What a dreadful-looking man! He quite frightened me!”

For some moments Sam sat without speaking. If this had not been one of

his Napoleonic mornings, no doubt the sudden arrival of his old friend,

Mr. Peters, whom he had imagined at his home in Putney packing for his

trip to America, would have suggested nothing to him. As it was, it

suggested a great deal. He had had a brain-wave, and for fully a minute

he sat tingling under its impact. He was not a young man who often had

brain-waves, and, when they came, they made him rather dizzy.

“Who is he?” asked Billie. “He seemed to know you? And who,” she

demanded after a slight pause, “is Miss Milliken?”

Sam drew a deep breath.

“It’s rather a sad story,” he said. “His name is John Peters. He used

to be clerk here.”

“But he isn’t any longer?”

“No.” Sam shook his head. “We had to get rid of him.”

“I don’t wonder. A man looking like that....”

“It wasn’t that so much,” said Sam. “The thing that annoyed father was

that he tried to shoot Miss Milliken.”

Billie uttered a cry of horror.

“He tried to shoot Miss Milliken!”

“He _did_ shoot her—the third time,” said Sam, warming to his work.

“Only in the arm, fortunately,” he added. “But my father is rather a

stern disciplinarian and he had to go. I mean, we couldn’t keep him

after that.”

“Good gracious!”

“She used to be my father’s stenographer, and she was thrown a good

deal with Peters. It was quite natural that he should fall in love with

her. She was a beautiful girl, with rather your own shade of hair.

Peters is a man of volcanic passions, and, when, after she had given

him to understand that his love was returned, she informed him one day

that she was engaged to a fellow at Ealing West, he went right off his

onion—I mean, he became completely distraught. I must say that he

concealed it very effectively at first. We had no inkling of his

condition till he came in with the pistol. And, after that ... well, as

I say, we had to dismiss him. A great pity, for he was a good clerk.

Still, it wouldn’t do. It wasn’t only that he tried to shoot Miss

Milliken. The thing became an obsession with him, and we found that he

had a fixed idea that every red-haired woman who came into the office

was the girl who had deceived him. You can see how awkward that made

it. Red hair is so fashionable now-a-days.”

“My hair is red!” whispered Billie pallidly.

“Yes, I noticed it myself. I told you it was much the same shade as

Miss Milliken’s. It’s rather fortunate that I happened to be here with

you when he came.”

“But he may be lurking out there still!”

“I expect he is,” said Sam carelessly. “Yes, I suppose he is. Would you

like me to go and send him away? All right.”

“But—but is it safe?”

Sam uttered a light laugh.

“I don’t mind taking a risk or two for your sake,” he said, and

sauntered from the room, closing the door behind him. Billie followed

him with worshipping eyes.

Jno. Peters rose politely from the chair in which he had seated himself

for the more comfortable perusal of the copy of _Home Whispers_ which

he had brought with him to refresh his mind in the event of the firm

being too busy to see him immediately. He was particularly interested

in the series of chats with Young Mothers.

“Hullo, Peters,” said Sam. “Want anything?”

“Very sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Samuel. I just looked in to say

good-bye. I sail on Saturday, and my time will be pretty fully taken up

all the week. I have to go down to the country to get some final

instructions from the client whose important papers I am taking over.

I’m sorry to have missed your father, Mr. Samuel.”

“Yes, this is his golf day. I’ll tell him you looked in.”

“Is there anything I can do before I go?”

“Do?”

“Well—”—Jno. Peters coughed tactfully—“I see that you are engaged with

a client, Mr. Samuel, and I was wondering if any little point of law

had arisen with which you did not feel yourself quite capable of

coping, in which case I might perhaps be of assistance.”

“Oh, that lady,” said Sam. “That was Miss Milliken’s sister.”

“Indeed? I didn’t know Miss Milliken had a sister.”

“No?” said Sam.

“She is not very like her in appearance.”

“No. This one is the beauty of the family, I believe. A very bright,

intelligent girl. I was telling her about your revolver just before you

came in, and she was most interested. It’s a pity you haven’t got it

with you now, to show to her.”

“Oh, but I have it! I have, Mr. Samuel!” said Peters, opening a small

handbag and taking out a hymn-book, half a pound of mixed chocolates, a

tongue sandwich, and the pistol, in the order named. “I was on my way

to the Rupert Street range for a little practice. I should be glad to

show it to her.”

“Well, wait here a minute or two,” said Sam. “I’ll have finished

talking business in a moment.”

He returned to the inner office.

“Well?” cried Billie.

“Eh? Oh, he’s gone,” said Sam. “I persuaded him to go away. He was a

little excited, poor fellow. And now let us return to what we were

talking about. You say....” He broke off with an exclamation, and

glanced at his watch. “Good Heavens! I had no idea of the time. I

promised to run up and see a man in one of the offices in the next

court. He wants to consult me on some difficulty which has arisen with

one of his clients. Rightly or wrongly he values my advice. Can you

spare me for a short while? I shan’t be more than ten minutes.”

“Certainly.”

“Here is something you may care to look at while I’m gone. I don’t know

if you have read it? Widgery on Nisi Prius Evidence. Most interesting.”

He went out. Jno. Peters looked up from his _Home Whispers_.

“You can go in now,” said Sam.

“Certainly, Mr. Samuel, certainly.”

Sam took up the copy of _Home Whispers_ and sat down with his feet on

the desk. He turned to the serial story and began to read the synopsis.

In the inner room Billie, who had rejected the mental refreshment

offered by Widgery and was engaged on making a tour of the office,

looking at the portraits of whiskered men whom she took correctly to be

the Thorpes, Prescotts, Winslows, and Applebys mentioned on the

contents-bill outside, was surprised to hear the door open at her back.

She had not expected Sam to return so instantaneously.

Nor had he done so. It was not Sam who entered. It was a man of

repellent aspect whom she recognised instantly, for Jno. Peters was one

of those men who, once seen, are not easily forgotten. He was smiling a

cruel, cunning smile—at least, she thought he was; Mr. Peters himself

was under the impression that his face was wreathed in a benevolent

simper; and in his hand he bore the largest pistol ever seen outside a

motion-picture studio.

“How do you do, Miss Milliken?” he said.