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  CHAPTER II

  In a bedroom on the fourth floor of the Hotel Guelph inPiccadilly, the Honorable Frederick Threepwood sat in bed, withhis knees drawn up to his chin, and glared at the day with theglare of mental anguish. He had very little mind, but what he hadwas suffering.

  He had just remembered. It is like that in this life. You wakeup, feeling as fit as a fiddle; you look at the window and seethe sun, and thank Heaven for a fine day; you begin to plan aperfectly corking luncheon party with some of the chappies youmet last night at the National Sporting Club; and then--youremember.

  "Oh, dash it!" said the Honorable Freddie. And after a moment'spause: "And I was feeling so dashed happy!"

  For the space of some minutes he remained plunged in sadmeditation; then, picking up the telephone from the table at hisside, he asked for a number.

  "Hello!"

  "Hello!" responded a rich voice at the other end of the wire.

  "Oh, I say! Is that you, Dickie?"

  "Who is that?"

  "This is Freddie Threepwood. I say, Dickie, old top, I want tosee you about something devilish important. Will you be in attwelve?"

  "Certainly. What's the trouble?"

  "I can't explain over the wire; but it's deuced serious."

  "Very well. By the way, Freddie, congratulations on theengagement."

  "Thanks, old man. Thanks very much, and so on--but you won'tforget to be in at twelve, will you? Good-by."

  He replaced the receiver quickly and sprang out of bed, for hehad heard the door handle turn. When the door opened he wasgiving a correct representation of a young man wasting no time inbeginning his toilet for the day.

  An elderly, thin-faced, bald-headed, amiably vacant man entered.He regarded the Honorable Freddie with a certain disfavor.

  "Are you only just getting up, Frederick?"

  "Hello, gov'nor. Good morning. I shan't be two ticks now."

  "You should have been out and about two hours ago. The day isglorious."

  "Shan't be more than a minute, gov'nor, now. Just got to have atub and then chuck on a few clothes."

  He disappeared into the bathroom. His father, taking a chair,placed the tips of his fingers together and in this attituderemained motionless, a figure of disapproval and suppressedannoyance.

  Like many fathers in his rank of life, the Earl of Emsworth hadsuffered much through that problem which, with the exception ofMr. Lloyd-George, is practically the only fly in the Britisharistocratic amber--the problem of what to do with the youngersons.

  It is useless to try to gloss over the fact--in the aristocraticfamilies of Great Britain the younger son is not required.

  Apart, however, from the fact that he was a younger son, and, assuch, a nuisance in any case, the honorable Freddie had alwaysannoyed his father in a variety of ways. The Earl of Emsworth wasso constituted that no man or thing really had the power totrouble him deeply; but Freddie had come nearer to doing it thananybody else in the world. There had been a consistency, aperseverance, about his irritating performances that had acted onthe placid peer as dripping water on a stone. Isolated acts ofannoyance would have been powerless to ruffle his calm; butFreddie had been exploding bombs under his nose since he went toEton.

  He had been expelled from Eton for breaking out at night androaming the streets of Windsor in a false mustache. He had beensent down from Oxford for pouring ink from a second-story windowon the junior dean of his college. He had spent two years at anexpensive London crammer's and failed to pass into the army. Hehad also accumulated an almost record series of racing debts,besides as shady a gang of friends--for the most part vaguelyconnected with the turf--as any young man of his age evercontrived to collect.

  These things try the most placid of parents; and finally LordEmsworth had put his foot down. It was the only occasion in hislife when he had acted with decision, and he did it with theaccumulated energy of years. He stopped his son's allowance,haled him home to Blandings Castle, and kept him there sorelentlessly that until the previous night, when they had come uptogether by an afternoon train, Freddie had not seen London fornearly a year.

  Possibly it was the reflection that, whatever his secrettroubles, he was at any rate once more in his beloved metropolisthat caused Freddie at this point to burst into discordant song.He splashed and warbled simultaneously.

  Lord Emsworth's frown deepened and he began to tap his fingerstogether irritably. Then his brow cleared and a pleased smileflickered over his face. He, too, had remembered.

  What Lord Emsworth remembered was this: Late in the previousautumn the next estate to Blandings had been rented by anAmerican, a Mr. Peters--a man with many millions, chronicdyspepsia, and one fair daughter--Aline. The two families hadmet. Freddie and Aline had been thrown together; and, only a fewdays before, the engagement had been announced. And for LordEmsworth the only flaw in this best of all possible worlds hadbeen removed.

  Yes, he was glad Freddie was engaged to be married to AlinePeters. He liked Aline. He liked Mr. Peters. Such was the reliefhe experienced that he found himself feeling almost affectionatetoward Freddie, who emerged from the bathroom at this moment,clad in a pink bathrobe, to find the paternal wrath evaporated,and all, so to speak, right with the world.

  Nevertheless, he wasted no time about his dressing. He was alwaysill at ease in his father's presence and he wished to beelsewhere with all possible speed. He sprang into his trouserswith such energy that he nearly tripped himself up. As hedisentangled himself he recollected something that had slippedhis memory.

  "By the way, gov'nor, I met an old pal of mine last night andasked him down to Blandings this week. That's all right, isn'tit? He's a man named Emerson, an American. He knows Aline quitewell, he says--has known her since she was a kid."

  "I do not remember any friend of yours named Emerson."

  "Well, as a matter of fact, I met him last night for the firsttime. But it's all right. He's a good chap, don't you know!--and all that sort of rot."

  Lord Emsworth was feeling too benevolent to raise the objectionshe certainly would have raised had his mood been less sunny.

  "Certainly; let him come if he wishes."

  "Thanks, gov'nor."

  Freddie completed his toilet.

  "Doing anything special this morning, gov'nor? I rather thoughtof getting a bit of breakfast and then strolling round a bit.Have you had breakfast?"

  "Two hours ago. I trust that in the course of your strolling youwill find time to call at Mr. Peters' and see Aline. I shall begoing there directly after lunch. Mr. Peters wishes to show mehis collection of--I think scarabs was the word he used."

  "Oh, I'll look in all right! Don't you worry! Or if I don't I'llcall the old boy up on the phone and pass the time of day. Well,I rather think I'll be popping off and getting that bit ofbreakfast--what?"

  Several comments on this speech suggested themselves to LordEmsworth. In the first place, he did not approve of Freddie'sallusion to one of America's merchant princes as "the old boy."Second, his son's attitude did not strike him as the idealattitude of a young man toward his betrothed. There seemed to bea lack of warmth. But, he reflected, possibly this was simplyanother manifestation of the modern spirit; and in any case itwas not worth bothering about; so he offered no criticism.

  Presently, Freddie having given his shoes a flick with a silkhandkerchief and thrust the latter carefully up his sleeve, theypassed out and down into the main lobby of the hotel, where theyparted--Freddie to his bit of breakfast; his father to potterabout the streets and kill time until luncheon. London was alwaysa trial to the Earl of Emsworth. His heart was in the country andthe city held no fascinations for him.

  * * *

  On one of the floors in one of the buildings in one of thestreets that slope precipitously from the Strand to the ThamesEmbankment, there is a door that would be all the better for alick of paint, which bears what is perhaps the most modest andunostentatious announcement of its kind in London. The grimyground-gl
ass displays the words:

  R. JONES

  Simply that and nothing more. It is rugged in its simplicity.You wonder, as you look at it--if you have time to look at andwonder about these things--who this Jones may be; and what is thebusiness he conducts with such coy reticence.

  As a matter of fact, these speculations had passed throughsuspicious minds at Scotland Yard, which had for some time takennot a little interest in R. Jones. But beyond ascertaining thathe bought and sold curios, did a certain amount of bookmakingduring the flat-racing season, and had been known to lend money,Scotland Yard did not find out much about Mr. Jones and presentlydismissed him from its thoughts.

  On the theory, given to the world by William Shakespeare, that itis the lean and hungry-looking men who are dangerous, and thatthe "fat, sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights," areharmless, R. Jones should have been above suspicion. He wasinfinitely the fattest man in the west-central postal district ofLondon. He was a round ball of a man, who wheezed when he walkedupstairs, which was seldom, and shook like jelly if some tactlessfriend, wishing to attract his attention, tapped him unexpectedlyon the shoulder. But this occurred still less frequently than hiswalking upstairs; for in R. Jones' circle it was recognized thatnothing is a greater breach of etiquette and worse form than totap people unexpectedly on the shoulder. That, it was felt,should be left to those who are paid by the government to do it.

  R. Jones was about fifty years old, gray-haired, of a mauvecomplexion, jovial among his friends, and perhaps even morejovial with chance acquaintances. It was estimated by enviousintimates that his joviality with chance acquaintances, speciallywith young men of the upper classes, with large purses and smallforeheads--was worth hundreds of pounds a year to him. There wassomething about his comfortable appearance and his jolly mannerthat irresistibly attracted a certain type of young man. It washis good fortune that this type of young man should be the typefinancially most worth attracting.

  Freddie Threepwood had fallen under his spell during his shortbut crowded life in London. They had met for the first time atthe Derby; and ever since then R. Jones had held in Freddie'sestimation that position of guide, philosopher and friend whichhe held in the estimation of so many young men of Freddie'sstamp.

  That was why, at twelve o'clock punctually on this Spring day, hetapped with his cane on R. Jones' ground glass, and showed suchsatisfaction and relief when the door was opened by theproprietor in person.

  "Well, well, well!" said R. Jones rollickingly. "Whom have wehere? The dashing bridegroom-to-be, and no other!"

  R. Jones, like Lord Emsworth, was delighted that Freddie wasabout to marry a nice girl with plenty of money. The suddenturning off of the tap from which Freddie's allowance had flowedhad hit him hard. He had other sources of income, of course; butfew so easy and unfailing as Freddie had been in the days of hisprosperity.

  "The prodigal son, by George! Creeping back into the fold afterall this weary time! It seems years since I saw you, Freddie.The old gov'nor put his foot down--didn't he?--and stopped thefunds. Damned shame! I take it that things have loosened up a bitsince the engagement was announced--eh?"

  Freddie sat down and chewed the knob of his cane unhappily.

  "Well, as a matter of fact, Dickie, old top," he said, "not sothat you could notice it, don't you know! Things are still prettymuch the same. I managed to get away from Blandings for a night,because the gov'nor had to come to London; but I've got to goback with him on the three-o'clock train. And, as for money, Ican't get a quid out of him. As a matter of fact, I'm in thedeuce of a hole; and that's why I've come to you."

  Even fat, jovial men have their moments of depression. R. Jones'face clouded, and jerky remarks about hardness of times andlosses on the Stock Exchange began to proceed from him. AsScotland Yard had discovered, he lent money on occasion; but hedid not lend it to youths in Freddie's unfortunate position.

  "Oh, I don't want to make a touch, you know," Freddie hastened toexplain. "It isn't that. As a matter of fact, I managed to raisefive hundred of the best this morning. That ought to be enough."

  "Depends on what you want it for," said R. Jones, magically genialonce more.

  The thought entered his mind, as it had so often, that the worldwas full of easy marks. He wished he could meet the money-lenderwho had been rash enough to advance the Honorable Freddie fivehundred pounds. Those philanthropists cross our path too seldom.

  Freddie felt in his pocket, produced a cigarette case, and fromit extracted a newspaper clipping.

  "Did you read about poor old Percy in the papers? The case, youknow?"

  "Percy?"

  "Lord Stockheath, you know."

  "Oh, the Stockheath breach-of-promise case? I did more than that.I was in court all three days." R. Jones emitted a cozy chuckle."Is he a pal of yours? A cousin, eh? I wish you had seen him inthe witness box, with Jellicoe-Smith cross-examining him! Thefunniest thing I ever heard! And his letters to the girl! Theyread them out in court; and of all--"

  "Don't, old man! Dickie, old top--please! I know all about it. Iread the reports. They made poor old Percy look like an absoluteass."

  "Well, Nature had done that already; but I'm bound to say theyimproved on Nature's work. I should think your Cousin Percy musthave felt like a plucked chicken."

  A spasm of pain passed over the Honorable Freddie's vacant face.He wriggled in his chair.

  "Dickie, old man, I wish you wouldn't talk like that. It makes mefeel ill."

  "Why, is he such a pal of yours as all that?"

  "It's not that. It's--the fact is, Dickie, old top, I'm inexactly the same bally hole as poor old Percy was, myself!"

  "What! You have been sued for breach of promise?"

  "Not absolutely that--yet. Look here; I'll tell you the wholething. Do you remember a show at the Piccadilly about a year agocalled "The Baby Doll"? There was a girl in the chorus."

  "Several--I remember noticing."

  "No; I mean one particular girl--a girl called Joan Valentine.The rotten part is that I never met her."

  "Pull yourself together, Freddie. What exactly is the trouble?"

  "Well--don't you see?--I used to go to the show every othernight, and I fell frightfully in love with this girl--"

  "Without having met her?"

  "Yes. You see, I was rather an ass in those days."

  "No, no!" said R. Jones handsomely.

  "I must have been or I shouldn't have been such an ass, don't youknow! Well, as I was saying, I used to write this girl letters,saying how much I was in love with her; and--and--"

  "Specifically proposing marriage?"

  "I can't remember. I expect I did. I was awfully in love."

  "How was that if you never met her?"

  "She wouldn't meet me. She wouldn't even come out to luncheon.She didn't even answer my letters--just sent word down by theJohnny at the stage door. And then----"

  Freddie's voice died away. He thrust the knob of his cane intohis mouth in a sort of frenzy.

  "What then?" inquired R. Jones.

  A scarlet blush manifested itself on Freddie's young face. Hiseyes wandered sidewise. After a long pause a single word escapedhim, almost inaudible:

  "Poetry!"

  R. Jones trembled as though an electric current had been passedthrough his plump frame. His little eyes sparkled with merriment.

  "You wrote her poetry!"

  "Yards of it, old boy--yards of it!" groaned Freddie. Panicfilled him with speech. "You see the frightful hole I'm in? Thisgirl is bound to have kept the letters. I don't remember whetherI actually proposed to her or not; but anyway she's got enoughmaterial to make it worth while to have a dash at anaction--especially after poor old Percy has just got soaked forsuch a pile of money and made breach-of-promise cases thefashion, so to speak.

  "And now that the announcement of my engagement is out she'scertain to get busy. Probably she has been waiting for somethingof the sort. Don't you see that all the cards are in her hands?We couldn't
afford to let the thing come into court. That poetrywould dish my marriage for a certainty. I'd have to emigrate orsomething! Goodness knows what would happen at home! My oldgov'nor would murder me! So you see what a frightful hole I'm in,don't you, Dickie, old man?"

  "And what do you want me to do?"

  "Why, to get hold of this girl and get back the letters--don'tyou see? I can't do it myself, cooped up miles away in thecountry. And besides, I shouldn't know how to handle a thinglike that. It needs a chappie with a lot of sense and apersuasive sort of way with him."

  "Thanks for the compliment, Freddie; but I should imagine thatsomething a little more solid than a persuasive way would berequired in a case like this. You said something a while agoabout five hundred pounds?"

  "Here it is, old man--in notes. I brought it on purpose. Will youreally take the thing on? Do you think you can work it for fivehundred?"

  "I can have a try."

  Freddie rose, with an expression approximating to happiness onhis face. Some men have the power of inspiring confidence in someof their fellows, though they fill others with distrust. ScotlandYard might look askance at R. Jones, but to Freddie he was allthat was helpful and reliable. He shook R. Jones' hand severaltimes in his emotion.

  "That's absolutely topping of you, old man!" he said. "Then I'llleave the whole thing to you. Write me the moment you have doneanything, won't you? Good-by, old top, and thanks ever so much!"

  The door closed. R. Jones remained where he sat, his fingersstraying luxuriously among the crackling paper. A feeling ofcomplete happiness warmed R. Jones' bosom. He was uncertainwhether or not his mission would be successful; and to betruthful he was not letting that worry him much. What he wascertain of was the fact that the heavens had opened unexpectedlyand dropped five hundred pounds into his lap.