Spring came, and Jacob found the monotony of life relieved by a leisurely motor trip through the south of England, during which he stopped to play golf occasionally at various well-known courses. He returned to London in June, and on the second day of Ascot he came across Felixstowe, for the first time since their meeting in Monte Carlo. The young man’s greeting was breezy and devoid of any embarrassment. The little matter of the pony did not appear to trouble him.

“Jacob, old heart!” he exclaimed, leaning on his malacca cane and pushing his silk hat a little farther back on his head. “God bless you, my bloated capitalist! Three times have I rung up your office in vain. Where have you been to, these days?”

“Getting about as usual,” was the modest reply. “In the country, as a matter of fact, for the last few weeks.”

The young man considered his friend’s attire and nodded approvingly.

“Quite the Ascot touch,” he observed. “You can’t get the perfect sweep of the coat with your figure, but on the whole your man’s done you proud. Here alone?”

“Quite alone.”

“Tell you what, then, I’ll introduce you to my people. Best leg forward, old buck.”

Jacob followed his guide back through the tunnel, into the stand, up the stairs, and into a box on the second tier. The introduction was informal.

“Mother, want to introduce a pal – Mr. Jacob Pratt – Marchioness of Delchester – my sister, Lady Mary – dad. Now you know the family. What’s doing up here?”

The Marchioness, a handsome, thin-faced lady of advanced middle age, whose Ascot toilette was protected from the possible exigencies of the climate by an all-enclosing dust coat, held out her hand feebly and murmured a word of greeting. The Marquis, a tall, spare person, with aquiline nose and almost hawklike features, welcomed him with a shade of dubiousness. Jacob felt a little thrill, however, as he bowed over Lady Mary’s fingers. Her eyes were blue, and though her complexion was fairer and her manner more gracious, there was something in the curve of her lips which reminded him of Sybil.

“Do tell me, do you know anything for the next race, Mr. Pratt?” she asked. “I had such a rotten day yesterday.”

“I’m not a racing man,” Jacob replied, “but I was told that Gerrard’s Cross was a good thing.”

There was a general consultation of racing cards. The Marquis studied the starting board through his glasses.

“Gerrard’s Cross is a starter,” he announced, “ridden by Brown, colours brown and green. Belongs to Exminster, I see. Nine to one they seem to be offering in the ring.”

“I want a sovereign on,” Lady Mary decided. “Hurry, Jack!”

“Nothing doing, child of my heart,” the young man sighed. “Cleaned out my pocketbook last race.”

The young lady turned to her parents, who both seemed suddenly absorbed in the crowd below.

“Bother!” she exclaimed. “And the numbers are up already!”

“Will you allow me?” Jacob ventured, producing his pocketbook and handing a five-pound note to Felixstowe. “You’ll have to hurry.”

Lady Mary smiled at him sweetly and abandoned a furtive attempt to open her bag.

“Do you go to many race meetings, Mr. Pratt?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Very few,” he answered. “As a matter of fact, this is my first Ascot.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“Are you an American, then, or Colonial?”

“No, I am English, but it is only during the last year or so that I have had any time or money to spare for amusements of this sort.”

“How interesting!” she murmured a little vaguely. “Now tell me, have they started? We must watch.”

The race was a good one. In the last stretch, Gerrard’s Cross came away and won easily by three lengths. There was a scene of measured enthusiasm in the little box.

“Your horse has won, my dear,” the Marquis informed his daughter, lowering his glasses. “I congratulate you.”

The Marchioness indicated her approval by a more or less genial smile. Lady Mary’s blue eyes danced with pleasure.

“You dear person, Mr. Pratt!” she exclaimed. “This is my first winner, and I did want one so badly. I wonder what price Jack will get.”

The young man returned presently with a bundle of notes in his hand.

“Nines I got,” he announced. “Here’s your fiver, Jacob. Forty-five of the best for you, Mary. Lucky old dear!”

The girl grasped the notes joyfully.

“But surely these aren’t all mine? I said one pound. Some of this must belong to Mr. Pratt?”

Jacob shook his head, interrupting Felixstowe’s reluctant confirmation.

“Not at all,” he protested politely. “As a matter of fact, I have won a great deal of money myself on the race. I gave your brother a five-pound note because I could not find a smaller one. So much the better for you.”

The girl gave a little sigh of content. Jacob, turning around, was suddenly aware of a look of relief on the part of her distinguished father and mother. The latter smiled approvingly at Jacob, who was preparing to take his leave.

“You must come and call some afternoon, Mr. Pratt,” she said graciously. “We shall be glad to see you in Belgrave Square.”

“I shall be very pleased,” Jacob replied.

“And thank you,” Lady Mary whispered.

Jacob had made his farewells; he had almost reached the door. Felixstowe, leaning towards his mother, whispered behind his hand, “Millionaire! Rolling in it!”

The Marchioness was a woman of rare presence of mind. She addressed the departing guest quite softly, with no signs of flurry, but with a new note of graciousness. Jacob paused upon the threshold.

“Mr. Pratt,” she invited, “won’t you come and dine with us one evening? I know how men hate afternoon calls. Next Thursday night, at eight o’clock?”

“Do come,” Lady Mary begged, still grasping her notes.

“Very glad to see you, Mr. Pratt,” the Marquis added, with a little bow which was a model of deportment.

Felixstowe walked down the wooden stairs with his departing guest, who had murmured his grateful acceptance.

“You’ve hit it up all right with the old folks at home,” he confided. “Between you and me, that forty-five quid is about the only ready there is in the house. Bet you they’re snaffling it at the present moment. What a life it must be to have plenty of the dibs, Jacob! So long, old bean. See you Thursday. Hullo, what’s that?”

The two men looked back up the wooden staircase. Lady Mary was slowly descending towards them.

“I am to be taken for a walk,” she announced sedately, “on the lawn, if possible. And if either of you feel inclined to save the life of a young girl, perhaps you will give her something cool to drink.”

Jacob hesitated for a moment, but Lady Mary’s smile so obviously included him that he ventured to remain. They crossed the lawn and found an empty table within hearing of the band. Jacob ordered strawberries and cream, ice cream and champagne cup with reckless prodigality. The girl laughed softly.

“How deliciously greedy it all sounds,” she murmured, “and how much nicer this is than that stuffy box! – Jack!”

Felixstowe, however, was on his feet, waving to some one in the distance.

“There’s Nat Pooley!” he exclaimed. “Knows every winner to a cert. I’ve been looking for him all day. Look after my sister, Pratt, old thing.”

He dived into the crowd and disappeared. Lady Mary smiled at her companion.

“I am foist upon you, Mr. Pratt,” she said.

“I am very much the gainer,” he assured her. “I was feeling unusually lonely when I met your brother.”

“Well, I’ve had rather a stuffy time of it myself,” she acknowledged. “You see, I have on a new dress, and mother was afraid it was going to rain. And then Jack deserted us, and there was no one for me to come out with. How do you like my frock, Mr. Pratt?”

“I think you look nicer than any one I’ve seen here,” Jacob replied sincerely.

She laughed.

“I hope you mean it. You must eat some strawberries, please,” she begged. “Please do, or I shall feel so greedy. I had no idea one could get such good things here.”

Jacob did as he was told, drank some champagne cup, lit a cigarette, and began to realise that he was having a very pleasant time. Lady Mary chattered on gaily, telling Jacob who many of the people were and exchanging greetings with a number of friends. Presently, at her suggestion, they walked in the paddock, where she pointed out to him the most wonderful of the toilettes, and it was not until the bell rang for the last race that they climbed the steps once more to the box.

“I have enjoyed myself more,” she declared, “than any day this week. Thank you so much for looking after me, Mr. Pratt.”

“It has been a great pleasure,” Jacob assured her. “I hope I haven’t kept you too long, and that your people won’t be annoyed.”

The Marchioness, however, received them without any sign of displeasure and listened complacently to her daughter’s account of their doings.

“So nice of you, Mr. Pratt,” she said, “to have looked after Lady Mary. So many of our friends are not down to-day that I am sure she would have had quite a dull time but for you. We shall see you on Thursday.”

“With great pleasure,” Jacob answered truthfully.

CHAPTER XVII

“The aristocracy,” Dauncey remarked the next morning, as he brought Jacob his private letters, “is sitting up and taking notice of us. Two coronets!”

“Anything in the rest of the correspondence?” Jacob enquired, as he opened his desk and made himself comfortable.

“Nothing worth your troubling about. Five or six addle-headed schemes for getting rid of your money, and about as many bucket shop prospectuses.”

Jacob opened the first of his two letters. It was dated from Belgrave Square and was simply a cordial reminder from the Marchioness of his promise to dine at Delchester House on the following Thursday. The second was dated from the same address, and Jacob read it over twice before he came to a decision.

Dear Mr. Pratt,

I know you will think me very foolish, but I am feeling most unhappy about the money which I thoughtlessly accepted this afternoon. It was really only a sovereign I asked you to put on Gerrard’s Cross for me, and the remainder of the money, except nine pounds, surely belongs to you.

Are you, by any chance, ever near Kensington Gardens about twelve o’clock? I walk there most mornings, and I should feel so much happier if I could have just a word with you about this.

Please don’t think I am quite mad.

Sincerely yours,
Mary Felixstowe.

Jacob dictated a few letters, studied his stockbroker’s list for half an hour, and drove to Kensington Gardens. Lady Mary was almost the first person he saw. She greeted him with a friendly little nod and led him from the broad avenue into one of the narrower paths. From the first he had been aware that Lady Mary, escaped from the shadow of her parents, was a very different person.

“Well?” she asked, smiling at him, “what did you think of my ingenuous little letter?”

Jacob glanced at her doubtfully. He had the impression that she was reading his thoughts.

“You probably decided that it would amuse you to fall in with the scheme,” she continued, “although I expect you saw through it quite easily. Well, the scheme doesn’t really exist. My mother dictated the letter and I wrote it. I haven’t the least idea of giving you back a penny of that money – in fact, it’s all spent already. Still, if you like, you can think of me as the ingénue with a conscience, who wants reassuring but doesn’t want to part. That was my rôle.”

“I see that you have your brother’s sense of humour,” he remarked.

“Heaven knows where we got it from!” she exclaimed. “Mother’s idea appears to be that, as a result of this clandestine interview, I am to walk in Kensington Gardens with you every morning until one day we find ourselves late for luncheon and you take me to a restaurant. Compromising situation number one. Intoxicated with pleasure, I hint – you not being supposed to notice that it is a hint – at a dinner and theatre. We go, are discovered, my mother asks your intentions. Behold me, Lady Mary Pratt, restoring the family to a condition of affluence.”

Jacob laughed till the tears stood in his eyes.

“The idea doesn’t seem to appeal to you!”

“Not a bit,” she answered frankly. “I like you very much – I like the little crease about your eyes, which deepens when you laugh. And I like your mouth. But as a matter of fact, I’m rather in love with some one else, and I’m going to marry him soon. He’s got quite enough money for me, although he can’t carry the family.”

Jacob sighed.

“I am in the same position,” he confessed, “only the girl I’m in love with won’t have anything to say to me.”

Two pudgy little children suddenly deserted their attendant and rushed at Lady Mary. While she was returning their embraces, Jacob stood transfixed. So did the attendant.

“Miss Bultiwell!” he gasped.

“Jacob Pratt!”

Lady Mary looked up.

“So you two know one another?”

“Young lady I was just telling you about,” Jacob confided.

Lady Mary held out a hand to each of her small nieces.

“May I have the children for a few minutes, Miss Bultiwell, please?” she begged. “You come along with Mr. Pratt.”

Sybil’s response was scarcely gracious. She accepted the situation, however, and walked slowly by Jacob’s side.

“I’m very glad to see you, Miss Bultiwell,” he ventured.

“Sorry I can’t say the same,” she replied.

“Is there any reason,” he asked desperately, “why you shouldn’t treat me like an ordinary human being?”

“There is.”

“What is it?”

“You know.”

“I’m damned if I do!”

She glanced at him without any sign of offence.

“What are you doing walking with Lady Mary in Kensington Gardens at this time of the morning?” she enquired.

“Her mother’s idea,” Jacob explained. “Nothing to do with us.”

She regarded him thoughtfully.

“I suppose you’re to marry Lady Mary and redeem the family fortunes!”

“The idea doesn’t appeal to either of us,” he assured her. “Lady Mary has just confided to me that she is in love with some one else, and I have made a similar confession to her.”

“Are you in love with some one else?”

“Yes!”

“Who? Me?”

“Yes!”

“Is there any sense,” she demanded, “in being in love with a person who, as you perfectly well know, thoroughly dislikes and detests you?”

“There’s no sense in love at all,” Jacob groaned.

“If we must talk,” Sybil suggested, quickening her pace a little, “let us talk of something else. How are you enjoying your millions?”

“Not at all.”

“Why not?”

“I’m lonely.”

“Poor man!” she scoffed.

Lady Mary rejoined them.

“Well, I must go,” she announced. “Take me to the gates, won’t you, Mr. Pratt? Good-by, Miss Bultiwell. How these children have improved since you had the charge of them.”

“Au revoir, Miss Bultiwell,” Jacob ventured.

She leaned towards him as he turned to follow Lady Mary.

“If you come back,” she whispered threateningly, “it will cost me my situation and I will never speak to you again.”

“I won’t come,” he promised sadly.

“She’s a charming girl,” Lady Mary said. “Why won’t she have you?”

“It’s a long story,” Jacob sighed.

“We’ll see what we can do on Thursday night,” she reflected. “Good-by! I shall tell mother we are getting along famously. Don’t forget Thursday at eight o’clock.”

The drawing-room at Delchester House was large and in its way magnificent, although there was in the atmosphere that faint, musty odour, as though holland covers had just been removed from the furniture, and the place only recently prepared for habitation. The Marchioness, who was alone, greeted Jacob with much cordiality.

“I hope you won’t mind our not having a party for you, Mr. Pratt,” she said. “We are just ourselves, and a quaint person whom Delchester has picked up in the city, some one who is going to help him make some money, I hope. You have no idea, Mr. Pratt, how hard things are to-day for people with inherited estates.”

Jacob murmured a word of sympathy. Then the Marquis appeared, followed by Lady Mary, who drew him to one side to ask him questions about Sybil; next came Felixstowe, who looked in to say “How do you do” on his way to dine with a friend; and finally, to Jacob’s amazement, the butler announced, “Mr. Dane Montague!”

Mr. Dane Montague, in a new dress suit, his hair treated by a West End hairdresser, had a generally toned-down appearance. Jacob was conscious of a sensation of genuine admiration when, upon the introduction being effected, the newcomer held out his hand without the slightest embarrassment.

“I have the pleasure of knowing Mr. Pratt,” he announced. “We have, in fact, carried through a little business deal together. Not such a bad one, either, eh, Mr. Pratt? A few thousands each, or something of that sort, if I remember rightly. Even a few thousands are worth picking up for us city men, Marquis,” he added, turning to Lord Delchester.

The Marquis’ eyes glistened. His face seemed more hawklike than ever.

“I should be exceedingly grateful to any one who showed me how to make a few thousands,” he declared.

“Well, Mr. Pratt and I between us ought to find that easy enough,” the financier observed. “Treat the City right, pat and stroke her the right way, and she’ll yield you all you ask for. Buck up against her and she’d down a Rothschild.”

Dinner was a quaint meal. Mr. Dane Montague engaged his hostess’ attention with fragments of stilted conversation, the Marquis was almost entirely silent, and Lady Mary monopolised Jacob, except for a few moments when her mother alluded to the subject of the letter.

“Dear Mary is so conscientious,” she murmured. “She positively couldn’t rest until she had had it out with you.”

Jacob stammered some sort of answer, which was none the more coherent because of the kick under the table with which Lady Mary favoured him. Afterwards she continued to carry out the parental behest and again completely absorbed his attention. She wound up by lingering behind, as he held open the door at the conclusion of dinner, and whispering audaciously in his ear.

“We’re getting on too well, you know. You’d better be careful, or I shall be Lady Mary Pratt, after all!”

The Marquis moved his chair down to the side of Jacob’s, on the latter’s return to the table.

“I am glad to see you on such excellent terms with my daughter, Mr. Pratt,” he observed with a smile.

“Lady Mary is most gracious,” Jacob murmured uneasily.

“My son, too,” the Marquis continued, “has always spoken to me highly of your sagacity in business affairs. I understand that you are one of those fortunate people who have amassed a large fortune in a very short space of time.”

“I cannot take any of the credit to myself,” Jacob replied. “I invested a little money with my brother, who was prospecting for oil in the western States of America, and he met with the most amazing success.”

The Marquis himself filled Jacob’s glass.

“I hope you like my port,” he said. “It was laid down by my father when he was a young man. My cellar is one of the last of the family treasures remaining to us.”

“I have never tasted anything like it,” Jacob admitted truthfully.

“Returning to the subject of commercial life,” his host went on, “I have always hoped that I might have introduced my son, Felixstowe, into some remunerative post. Automobiles, they tell me, may be made a profitable source of income. Do you happen to have any investments in that direction, Mr. Pratt?”

“Not at present,” Jacob answered. “The industry is, I believe, a sound one.”

“Ah!” the Marquis regretted. “At some future time, perhaps. I myself am much interested in City affairs. Our friend, Mr. Dane Montague, has kindly placed me upon the board of one of his companies, and if another company in which he is interested is floated, I am also to join that. The fees so far have not been munificent, but it is encouraging to have made a start.”

Jacob muttered something noncommittal. Mr. Dane Montague leaned across the table. He had been listening to every word of the conversation between the two.

“You are a person of imagination, Mr. Pratt,” he said. “I gathered that from our brief business connection.”

“Did you?” Jacob replied. “I had rather an idea – ”

“Don’t say a word,” the other interrupted. “We had a little tussle, I admit. Brain against brain, and you won. I have never borne you any malice – in fact I should be proud to be associated in another business venture with you.”

The Marquis cleared his throat.

“I asked Mr. Pratt to meet you this evening, Mr. Montague,” he said, “not knowing that you were previously acquainted, but thinking that you might like to put your latest scheme before him.”

“I shall be proud to do so,” was the prompt declaration. “My latest scheme, Mr. Pratt, is simple enough. I propose to appeal to the credulity of the British middle classes. I propose to form a sort of home university for the study of foreign languages and dispense instruction by means of pamphlets.”

“I don’t mean that one,” the Marquis interposed. “I mean the little scheme, the – er – one where a certain amount of remuneration in the shape of commission was to be forthcoming for the introduction of further capital. You follow me, I am sure?”

Mr. Montague’s face was furrowed with thought. He sipped his wine and looked across at Jacob furtively. A certain uneasiness was mingled with his natural optimism.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that Mr. Pratt is too big a man for us. What about your brother-in-law, Lord William Thorndyke?”

The Marquis coughed.

“I think,” he pronounced, “that I have already been too benevolent to the members of my immediate family circle. Besides, it would be quite impossible to ensure from my brother-in-law that measure of secrecy which the circumstances demand.”

Mr. Montague took another glass of wine and appeared to gain courage.

“It’s quite a small affair, this, Pratt,” he warned him.

“As a matter of fact,” Jacob declared, “I am really not looking for investments at all at the moment.”

“No one is ever looking for investments,” his vis-à-vis rejoined. “On the other hand, no man with large means sees a gold mine opening at his feet without wanting to have his whack. If you see our little venture with the same eyes as we do, Mr. Pratt, it is better for you to understand from the first that yours must be a very small whack.”

“Hadn’t you better explain the scheme to Mr. Pratt?” the Marquis suggested.

Mr. Dane Montague nodded. First of all, however, he rose to his feet, promenaded the room, peering into its darker recesses to be sure that no one was lurking there, opened the door, looked down the passage, closed it again, and finally returned to his seat. He then dropped his bomb.

“I am in possession,” he announced solemnly, “of an undertaking from the owner of the Empress Music Hall to sell me the property.”

“For how much?” Jacob asked.

“For fifty thousand pounds, including the freehold. Hush! Not another word for the moment.”

The butler entered with coffee and liqueurs, and the Marquis directed the conversation into other channels. As soon as they were alone again, Mr. Montague leaned forward across the table, his cigar in the corner of his mouth.

“You mustn’t ask too many questions about this, Pratt,” he enjoined. “The undertaking was given to me in a fit of temper after a family row, and with the sole view of spiting others. The date fixed for the completion of the sale is to-morrow. I have contributed half the purchase money myself. The remainder has been distributed amongst my own friends, and it has been my privilege to allow the Marquis and some of his relatives to acquire an interest. To make up the full amount, a sum of seven thousand pounds is required. This I can get from a dozen people as soon as the office is open in the City to-morrow morning, but I promised the Marquis here to give him a chance of placing this amount also with one of his friends. I must confess,” Mr. Montague went on candidly, “that I took that to mean one of his – er – personal friends – perhaps one of the family. I have been trying to keep the thing out of the City as much as possible.”

“My acquaintance with Mr. Pratt,” the Marquis confessed, “is not of long date, but my son has enjoyed his friendship for some time, and he seems likely to become, if I may say so, a – er – a friend of the family.”

The financier’s smile was meant to be waggish.

“I fancied that I detected indications of the sort,” he declared.

“Have you any documents?” Jacob asked.

“I have the undertaking to sell,” Mr. Montague replied, “signed, of course, by Peter. Also a letter from a well-known firm of solicitors, who have examined the undertaking to sell, pronouncing it legal. I can also, if you like, supply you with a list of the contributors.”

Jacob accepted the documents and studied them. The undertaking to sell the place of amusement known as Empress Music Hall was simply but clearly worded, and signed by “W. Peter”; also by two witnesses.

“That seems to be in order,” Jacob admitted, “except that I always thought Peter spelt his name ‘Petre.’”

“Swank,” Montague scoffed. “As a matter of fact, though, I thought so myself until I saw the signature.”

Jacob examined the letter from the solicitors. It was brief and conclusive:

Dear Sir,

Re the Empress Music Hall. We have examined the undertaking for the disposal of the above, signed by the owner and addressed to you, and we find the same duly in order and a legal document.

Faithfully,
Danesworthy & Bryan.

The third paper contained a list of the contributors. Mr. Montague headed the list with twenty-five thousand pounds. The Marquis was down for five thousand. The other names, ranging from three thousand to five hundred, were all people of title, many of them relatives of the Marquis.

“Sounds like a Court guide,” Jacob remarked, passing it back.

“I have been privileged,” the Marquis observed, stroking his grey moustache, “as Mr. Montague has already told you, to place his proposition before various members of my family. I have found them, one and all, anxious to share in the profits of Mr. Montague’s – er – enterprise.”

“When the purchase of the Empress Music Hall is concluded, what do you propose to do with it?” Jacob enquired.

“Sell it to a company for a hundred and fifty thousand,” Mr. Montague answered, “and divide the profits of the sale amongst the contributors according to their holding. The Marquis holds an agreement signed by me to that effect.”

“That is so,” his lordship acquiesced.

Jacob was frankly puzzled.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Montague, how you got that undertaking,” he confessed. “I saw an interview with Mr. Peter in the papers the other day, in which he denied having sold the ‘Empress’ or even proposing to do so.”

“That’s the commonest bluff going,” the other pointed out. “Always done. And see here, Pratt, this is the truth of the matter. The profit or the loss on the sale of the ‘Empress’ wouldn’t go into Peter’s pocket at all. It would go into the pockets of people with whom he is at present on very bad terms. This sale does them in the eye. That’s the long and short of it.”

“I see no reason,” Jacob decided, after a few moments’ consideration, “why I should not join in this enterprise. If you will allow me, I will telephone for my cheque book.”

“Certainly,” the Marquis agreed, “and in the meantime we can make our peace with the ladies.”