CHAPTER XXXI

_(From the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler)_

Johannesburg,

_March 7th._

Pagett has arrived. He is in a blue funk of course. Suggested at

once that we should go off to Pretoria. Then, when I had told him

kindly but firmly that we were going to remain here, he went to

the other extreme, wished he had his rifle here, and began bucking

about some bridge he guarded during the Great War. A railway bridge

at Little Puddecombe junction, or something of that sort.

I soon cut that short by telling him to unpack the big typewriter.

I thought that that would keep him employed for some time, because

the typewriter was sure to have gone wrong—it always does—and he

would have to take it somewhere to be mended. But I had forgotten

Pagett’s powers of being in the right.

“I’ve already unpacked all the cases, Sir Eustace. The typewriter

is in perfect condition.”

“What do you mean—all the cases?”

“The two small cases as well.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so officious, Pagett. Those small cases

were no business of yours. They belong to Mrs. Blair.”

Pagett looked crestfallen. He hates to make a mistake.

“So you can just pack them up again neatly,” I continued. “After

that you can go out and look around you. Jo’burg will probably be

a heap of smoking ruins by to-morrow, so it may be your last

chance.”

I thought that that would get rid of him successfully for the

morning, at any rate.

“There is something I want to say to you when you have the leisure,

Sir Eustace.”

“I haven’t got it now,” I said hastily. “At this minute I have

absolutely no leisure whatsoever.”

Pagett retired.

“By the way,” I called after him, “what was there in those cases

of Mrs. Blair’s?”

“Some fur rugs, and a couple of fur—hats, I think.”

“That’s right,” I assented. “She bought them on the train. They

_are_ hats—of a kind—though I hardly wonder at your not recognizing

them. I dare say she’s going to wear one of them at Ascot. What

else was there?”

“Some rolls of films and some baskets—a lot of baskets——”

“There would be,” I assured him. “Mrs. Blair is the kind of woman

who never buys less than a dozen or so of anything.”

“I think that’s all, Sir Eustace, except some miscellaneous odds

and ends, a motor-veil and some odd gloves—that sort of thing.”

“If you hadn’t been a born idiot, Pagett, you would have seen from

the start that those couldn’t possibly be my belongings.”

“I thought some of them might belong to Miss Pettigrew.”

“Ah, that reminds me—what do you mean by picking me out such a

doubtful character as a secretary?”

And I told him about the searching cross-examination I had been

put through. Immediately I was sorry, I saw a glint in his eye that

I knew only too well. I changed the conversation hurriedly. But it

was too late. Pagett was on the war-path.

He next proceeded to bore me with a long pointless story about the

_Kilmorden._ It was about a roll of films and a wager. The roll of

films being thrown through a porthole in the middle of the night

by some steward who ought to have known better. I hate horse-play.

I told Pagett so, and he began to tell me the story all over again.

He tells a story extremely badly, anyway. It was a long time before

I could make head or tail of this one.

I did not see him again until lunch-time. Then he came in brimming

over with excitement, like a bloodhound on the scent. I never have

cared for bloodhounds. The upshot of it all was that he had seen

Rayburn.

“What?” I cried, startled.

Yes, he had caught sight of some one whom he was sure was Rayburn

crossing the street. Pagett had followed him.

“And who do you think I saw him stop and speak to? Miss Pettigrew!”

“What?”

“Yes, Sir Eustace. And that’s not all. I’ve been making inquiries

about her——”

“Wait a bit. What happened to Rayburn?”

“He and Miss Pettigrew went into that corner curio-shop——”

I uttered an involuntary exclamation. Pagett stopped inquiringly.

“Nothing,” I said. “Go on.”

“I waited outside for ages—but they didn’t come out. At last I went

in. Sir Eustace, there was no one in the shop! There must be

another way out.”

I stared at him.

“As I was saying, I came back to the hotel and made some inquiries

about Miss Pettigrew.” Pagett lowered his voice and breathed hard

as he always does when he wants to be confidential. “Sir Eustace,

a man was seen coming out of her room last night.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“And I always regarded her as a lady of such eminent respectability,”

I murmured.

Pagett went on without heeding.

“I went straight up and searched her room. What do you think I

found?”

I shook my head.

“This!”

Pagett held up a safety razor and a stick of shaving soap.

“What should a woman want with these?”

I don’t suppose Pagett ever reads the advertisements in the

high-class ladies’ papers. I do. Whilst not proposing to argue with

him on the subject, I refused to accept the presence of the razor

as proof positive of Miss Pettigrew’s sex. Pagett is so hopelessly

behind the times. I should not have been at all surprised if he

had produced a cigarette-case to support his theory. However, even

Pagett has his limits.

“You’re not convinced, Sir Eustace. What do you say to _this?”_

I inspected the article which he dangled aloft triumphantly.

“It looks like hair,” I remarked distastefully.

“It is hair. I think it’s what they call a toupee.”

“Indeed,” I commented.

“Now are you convinced that that Pettigrew woman is a man in

disguise?”

“Really, my dear Pagett, I think I am. I might have known it by

her feet.”

“Then that’s that. And now, Sir Eustace, I want to speak to you

about my private affairs. I cannot doubt, from your hints and your

continual allusions to the time I was in Florence, that you have

found me out.”

At last the mystery of what Pagett did in Florence is going to be

revealed!

“Make a clean breast of it, my dear fellow,” I said kindly. “Much

the best way.”

“Thank you, Sir Eustace.”

“Is it her husband? Annoying fellows, husbands. Always turning up

when they’re least expected.”

“I fail to follow you, Sir Eustace. Whose husband?”

“The lady’s husband.”

“What lady?”

“God bless my soul, Pagett, the lady you met in Florence. There

must have been a lady. Don’t tell me that you merely robbed a

church or stabbed an Italian in the back because you didn’t like

his face.”

“I am quite at a loss to understand you, Sir Eustace. I suppose

you are joking.”

“I am an amusing fellow sometimes, when I take the trouble, but I

can assure you that I am not trying to be funny this minute.”

“I hoped that as I was a good way off you had not recognized me,

Sir Eustace.”

“Recognized you where?”

“At Marlow, Sir Eustace?”

“At Marlow? What the devil were you doing at Marlow?”

“I thought you understood that——”

“I’m beginning to understand less and less. Go back to the beginning

of the story and start again. You went to Florence——”

“Then you don’t know after all—and you didn’t recognize me!”

“As far as I can judge, you seem to have given yourself away

needlessly—made a coward of by your conscience. But I shall be able

to tell better when I’ve heard the whole story. Now, then, take a

deep breath and start again. You went to Florence——”

“But I didn’t go to Florence. That is just it.”

“Well, where did you go, then?”

“I went home—to Marlow.”

“What the devil did you want to go to Marlow for?”

“I wanted to see my wife. She was in delicate health and expecting——”

“Your wife? But I didn’t know you were married?”

“No, Sir Eustace, that is just what I am telling you. I deceived

you in this matter.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Just over eight years. I had been married just six months when I

became your secretary. I did not want to lose the post. A resident

secretary is not supposed to have a wife, so I suppressed the

fact.”

“You take my breath away,” I remarked. “Where has she been all

these years?”

“We have had a small bungalow on the river at Marlow, quite close

to the Mill House, for over five years.”

“God bless my soul,” I muttered. “Any children?”

“Four children, Sir Eustace.”

I gazed at him in a kind of stupor. I might have known, all along,

that a man like Pagett couldn’t have a guilty secret. The

respectability of Pagett has always been my bane. That’s just the

kind of secret he would have—a wife and four children.

“Have you told this to any one else?” I demanded at last, when I

had gazed at him in fascinated interest for quite a long while.

“Only Miss Beddingfeld. She came to the station at Kimberley.”

I continued to stare at him. He fidgeted under my glance.

“I hope, Sir Eustace, that you are not seriously annoyed?”

“My dear fellow,” I said, “I don’t mind telling you here and now

that you’ve blinking well torn it!”

I went out seriously ruffled. As I passed the corner curio-shop,

I was assailed by a sudden irresistible temptation and went in.

The proprietor came forward obsequiously, rubbing his hands.

“Can I show you something? Furs, curios?”

“I want something quite out of the ordinary,” I said. “It’s for a

special occasion. Will you show me what you’ve got?”

“Perhaps you will come into my back room? We have many specialties

there?”

That is where I made a mistake. And I thought I was going to be so

clever. I followed him through the swinging _portières._