CHAPTER VIII

VISITORS FOR JIMMY

We must at this point go back to some twenty minutes earlier. To a

moment when Jimmy Thesiger, emerging from the mists of sleep, was

conscious of a familiar voice speaking unfamiliar words.

His sleep-ridden brain tried for a moment to cope with the situation,

but failed. He yawned and rolled over again.

"A young lady, sir, has called to see you."

The voice was implacable. So prepared was it to go on repeating the

statement indefinitely that Jimmy resigned himself to the inevitable.

He opened his eyes and blinked.

"Eh, Stevens?" he said. "Say that again."

"A young lady, sir, has called to see you."

"Oh!" Jimmy strove to grasp the situation. "Why?"

"I couldn't say, sir."

"No, I suppose not. No," he thought it over. "I suppose you couldn't."

Stevens swooped down upon a tray by the bedside.

"I will bring you some fresh tea, sir. This is cold."

"You think that I ought to get up and--er--see the lady?"

Stevens made no reply, but he held his back very stiff and Jimmy read

the signs correctly.

"Oh! very well," he said. "I suppose I'd better. She didn't give her

name?"

"No, sir."

"H'm. She couldn't be by any possible chance my Aunt Jemima, could

she? Because if so, I'm damned if I'm going to get up."

"The lady, sir, could not possibly be anyone's aunt, I should say,

unless the youngest of a large family."

"Aha," said Jimmy. "Young and lovely. Is she--what kind is she?"

"The young lady, sir, is most undoubtedly strictly _comme il faut_, if

I may use the expression."

"You may use it," said Jimmy graciously. "Your French pronunciation,

Stevens, if I may say so, is very good. Much better than mine."

"I am gratified to hear it, sir. I have lately been taking a

correspondence course in French."

"Have you really? You're a wonderful chap, Stevens."

Stevens smiled in a superior fashion and left the room. Jimmy lay

trying to recall the names of any young and lovely girls strictly

_comme il faut_ who might be likely to come and call upon him.

Stevens re-entered with fresh tea, and as Jimmy sipped it he felt a

pleasurable curiosity.

"You've given her the paper and all that, I hope, Stevens," he said.

"I supplied her with the _Morning Post_ and _Punch_, sir."

A ring at the bell took him away. In a few minutes he returned.

"Another young lady, sir."

"What?"

Jimmy clutched his head.

"Another young lady; she declines to give her name, sir, but says her

business is important."

Jimmy stared at him.

"This is damned odd, Stevens. Damned odd. Look here, what time did I

come home last night?"

"Just upon five o'clock, sir."

"And was I--er--how was I?"

"Just a little cheerful, sir--nothing more. Inclined to sing 'Rule

Britannia.'"

"What an extraordinary thing," said Jimmy. "'Rule Britannia,'

eh? I cannot imagine myself in a sober state ever singing 'Rule

Britannia.' Some latent patriotism must have emerged under the stimulus

of--er--just a couple too many. I was celebrating at the 'Mustard and

Cress,' I remember. Not nearly such an innocent spot as it sounds,

Stevens." He paused. "I was wondering--"

"Yes, sir?"

"I was wondering whether under the aforementioned stimulus I had put

an advertisement in a newspaper asking for a nursery governess or

something of that sort."

Stevens coughed.

"_Two_ girls turning up. It looks odd. I shall eschew the 'Mustard and

Cress' in future. That's a good word, Stevens--_eschew_--I met it in a

cross-word the other day and took a fancy to it."

Whilst he was talking Jimmy was rapidly apparelling himself. At the

end of ten minutes he was ready to face his unknown guests. As he

opened the door of his sitting-room the first person he saw was a dark,

slim girl who was totally unknown to him. She was standing by the

mantelpiece, leaning against it. Then his glance went on to the big

leather covered arm-chair, and his heart missed a beat. Loraine!

It was she who rose and spoke first a little nervously.

"You must be very surprised to see me. But I had to come. I'll explain

in a minute. This is Lady Eileen Brent."

"Bundle--that's what I'm usually known as. You've probably heard of me

from Bill Eversleigh."

"Oh! rather, of course I have," said Jimmy, endeavouring to cope

with the situation. "I say, do sit down and let's have a cocktail or

something."

But both girls declined.

"As a matter of fact," continued Jimmy, "I'm only just out of bed."

"That's what Bill said," remarked Bundle. "I told him I was coming

round to see you, and he said you wouldn't be up."

"Well, I'm up now," said Jimmy encouragingly.

"It's about Gerry," said Loraine. "And now about Ronny--"

"What do you mean by 'and now about Ronny'?"

"He was shot yesterday."

"What?" cried Jimmy.

Bundle told her story for the second time. Jimmy listened like a man in

a dream.

"Old Ronny--shot," he murmured. "What _is_ this damned business?"

He sat down on the edge of a chair, thinking for a minute or two, and

then spoke in a quiet, level voice.

"There's something I think I ought to tell you."

"Yes," said Bundle encouragingly.

"It was on the day Gerry Wade died. On the way over to break the news

to _you_"--he nodded at Loraine--"in the car Ronny said something

to me. That is to say, he started to tell me something. There was

something he wanted to tell me, and he began about it, and then he said

he was bound by a promise and couldn't go on."

"Bound by a promise," said Loraine thoughtfully.

"That's what he said. Naturally I didn't press him after that. But he

was odd--darned odd--all through. I got the impression then that he

suspected--well, foul play. I thought he'd tell the doctor so. But no,

not even a hint. So I thought I'd been mistaken. And afterwards, with

the evidence and all--well, it seemed such a very clear case. I thought

my suspicions had been all bosh."

"But you think Ronny still suspected?" asked Bundle.

Jimmy nodded.

"That's what I think now. Why, none of us have seen anything of him

since. I believe he was playing a lone hand--trying to find out the

truth about Gerry's death, and what's more, I believe he _did_ find

out. That's why the devils shot him. And then he tried to send word to

me, but could only get out those two words."

"Seven Dials," said Bundle, and shivered a little.

"Seven Dials," said Jimmy gravely. "At any rate we've got that to go on

with."

Bundle turned to Loraine.

"You were just going to tell me--"

"Oh! yes. First, about the letter." She spoke to Jimmy.

"Gerry left a letter. Lady Eileen--"

"Bundle."

"Bundle found it." She explained the circumstances in a few words.

Jimmy listened, keenly interested. This was the first he had heard of

the letter. Loraine took it from her bag and handed it to him. He read

it, then looked across at her.

"This is where you can help us. What was it Gerry wanted you to forget?"

Loraine's brows wrinkled a little in perplexity.

"It's so hard to remember exactly now. I opened a letter of Gerry's by

mistake. It was written on cheap sort of paper, I remember, and very

illiterate handwriting. It had some address in Seven Dials at the head

of it. I realized it wasn't for me, so I put it back in the envelope

without reading it."

"Sure?" asked Jimmy very gently.

Loraine laughed for the first time.

"I know what you think, and I admit that women are curious. But, you

see, this didn't even look interesting. It was a kind of list of names

and dates."

"Names and dates," said Jimmy thoughtfully.

"Gerry didn't seem to mind much," continued Loraine. "He laughed. He

asked me if I had ever heard of the Mafia, and then said it would be

queer if a society like the Mafia started in England--but that that

kind of secret society didn't take on much with English people. 'Our

criminals,' he said, 'haven't got a picturesque imagination.'"

Jimmy pursed up his lips into a whistle.

"I'm beginning to see," he said. "Seven Dials must be the headquarters

of some secret society. As he says in his letter to you, he thought

it rather a joke to start with. But evidently it wasn't a joke--he

says as much. And there's something else: his anxiety that you should

forget what he'd told you. There can be only one reason for that--if

that society suspected that you had any knowledge of its activity, you

too would be in danger. Gerald realized the peril, and he was terribly

anxious--for you."

He stopped, then he went on quietly:

"I rather fancy that we're all going to be in danger--if we go on with

this."

"If--?" cried Bundle indignantly.

"I'm talking to you two. It's different for me. I was poor old Ronny's

pal." He looked at Bundle. "You've done your bit. You've delivered the

message he sent me. No; for God's sake keep out of it, you and Loraine."

Bundle looked questioningly at the other girl. Her own mind was

definitely made up, but she gave no indication of it just then. She

had no wish to push Loraine Wade into a dangerous undertaking. But

Loraine's small face was alight at once with indignation.

"You say that! Do you think for one minute I'd be contented to keep out

of it--when they killed Gerry--my own dear Gerry, the best and dearest

and kindest brother any girl ever had. The only person belonging to me

I had in the whole world!"

Jimmy cleared his throat uncomfortably. Loraine, he thought, was

wonderful; simply wonderful.

"Look here," he said awkwardly, "you mustn't say that. About being

alone in the world--all that rot. You've got lots of friends--only too

glad to do what they can. See what I mean?"

It is possible that Loraine did, for she suddenly blushed, and to cover

her confusion began to talk nervously.

"That's settled," she said. "I'm going to help. Nobody's going to stop

me."

"And so am I, of course," said Bundle.

They both looked at Jimmy.

"Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, quite so."

They looked at him inquiringly.

"I was just wondering," said Jimmy, "how we were going to begin."