“So that’s Fauntley’s daughter,” thought Mannering.
During dinner he sat opposite the girl. There was something disturbing about her, he admitted, although he wasn’t sure what it was. She wasn’t beautiful; remarkable, he told himself, was a word that suited her. Her eyes were grey, thoughtful, and probing. Probing. She had nothing of her mother’s lumpiness, and she was taller than either of her parents. Her movements were graceful but unconsidered, almost like a challenge: “Here am I, whether you like the effect or you don’t.” Mannering did. She looked mutinous, he thought. Her chin was firm, square, and like a man’s.
“She’s at war with the world,” Mannering told himself, “and that means she’s unhappy, which suggests an affaire. She’s twenty-five, or a year or two older, and she’s cleverer than her years. Hm.”
“He’s cynical,” Lorna thought, “and I hate cynical men. He’s handsome, and I dislike handsome men. He’s clever, and knows it, and clever men are detestable. Why do I like him?”
“The most distinguished man I’ve ever seen,” thought Lady Fauntley. “So tall and strong, so reserved. Just the man for Lorna - no, I mustn’t think of such things.” Aloud: “Do try a little of that sauce with your fish, Mr Mannering. It’s very out of the ordinary.”
Mannering smiled and tried it.
“It is,” he acknowledged. “Delightful.”
“Wait till you try the Cockburn 1900,” said Fauntley. “A wine with body in it, real body!”
Mannering felt the girl’s eyes on him suddenly - smiling eyes. His own twinkled. Yes, he liked her. He told himself that he must spend an hour looking up the record of her painting. She had a reputation for strong work in the old style, despite her modern tendencies in everything but art. It would be strong work, of course. Everything about her suggested power.
“I hear you had a wonderful day,” said Lady Fauntley.
“Fair,” said Mannering, smiling secretly. More than ever he realised the good effect his reputation was creating. No one, not even his closest friends, had any idea that he was so low in money.
He quizzed his hostess for a moment, staring at the Liska diamond in her corsage, and noticing the reddening of her skin under his gaze.
“That’s a wonderful stone, Lady Fauntley,” he said at length.
“Recognised it, eh?” chuckled Fauntley. “I wondered whether you would. Old Rawson is cursing himself for letting it go, I’ll bet.”
“Are you interested in precious stones?” asked Lorna.
Lady Fauntley noticed the sparkle in her daughter’s eyes, and was apprehensive. Lorna did say such dreadful things on occasions.
“Always when they become their wearers,” said Mannering.
He was sorry, a moment later. The triteness of the words brought a flicker of amusement to Lorna’s eyes. There was something scornful about her expression.
“Almost like pressing button B, wasn’t it?” she said mockingly.
“Oh, my dear!” thought Lady Fauntley miserably.
“Darned little idiot!” stormed her husband inwardly, stabbing viciously at his fish.
Mannering laughed, and was glad of the answering laughter in the girl’s eyes.
“Touché!” he admitted. “As ye sow, so shall ye reap.”
“It doesn’t always follow,” said Lorna.
“Careful, girl, careful,” muttered Fauntley to himself. He lived in perpetual fear of the offence Lorna would give to his many visitors. Lorna spoke her mind too much, and, to make things worse, had a mind to speak.
“So sweet not to take offence,” thought Lady Fauntley.
“I like him,” Lorna reaffirmed.
Mannering chuckled to himself
“The Liska’s only one of many of yours, isn’t it?” he asked, playing with a spoon. “I’ve heard rumours that your collection is unrivalled.”
“Only rumours?” Fauntley chuckled, in rare good humour. “It’s the truth, Mannering, take it from me. Like to see them?”
“After dinner, dear,” said Lady Fauntley.
“Of course, of course.”
“Thanks,” said Mannering. His eyes challenged Lorna’s. She was dressed in a black Schiaparelli gown, gathered at the corsage with a single diamond clip, but otherwise she was innocent of jewels. The gleaming white satin of her skin needed none. “You don’t like gems?” he asked her.
“A Roland for my Oliver,” thought Lorna. Aloud: “Not so much as I’m supposed to,” she admitted.
“But you’re free to choose,” said Mannering.
“Everything’s a darned sight too free and easy over here,” broke in Fauntley, whose recent political activities tempted him to mount the platform at the slightest opportunity. “Going to the dogs, that’s what I think, Mannering, and - ”
“Do try that soufflé,” pleaded Lady Fauntley.
Mannering smiled, and the imps of laughter in Lorna’s eyes matched his.
The meal passed as pleasantly as it had begun, and Mannering told himself that Lady Fauntley, passive as she was, had more in her to admire than her husband. But there was not the slightest hint of her in Lorna; the girl seemed of a different class. He was enjoying himself much more than he had expected.
They chatted for a while over the Cockburn 1900. Fauntley was jerky both in manner and speech, a little too self-important, as though he were anxious to prepare his guest for an honour indeed. Mannering smiled when he realised the peer’s pride in his possessions, and his heart beat faster when at last they moved - the two ladies had been with them all the time - from the dining-room to the library and thence to the strong room, built in one corner. If Fauntley was to be believed the collection held so safely in the room was without parallel in England.
And what did the possession of it mean to Fauntley, beyond an outlet for boastfulness that was already more than annoying?
Mannering pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind as Fauntley opened the door of the strong-room and switched on the light.
“Come along in, Mannering - you’re one of the half-dozen who’ve ever been inside, so you can think yourself honoured. Careful with the door, Lorna; we might get shut in. No one else has a key, and our obituary notices would be out before we were. Ha! Don’t shiver so, Lucy - only my joke.”
Lady Fauntley glanced nervously at the steel door, while her husband played with the combination of one of the safes in the strong-room. Mannering looked round idly. It was as near burglar-proof as a place could be. First the strong-room, with its lock that only gelignite or a key could open. Then the safes inside the room. Hm. If a man wanted to separate Lord Fauntley from some of his precious stones it would be a task worth doing - but as near impossible as anything in the way of cracksmanship. Cracksmanship. . .
The idea was there now, and growing apace.
Mannering felt tense and excited, and he could hardly keep his eyes off the peer’s fingers. Had ever a man had such an opportunity for learning the combination of a safe first-hand?
The place was as nearly burglar-proof as it could be, but there were flaws in the system, and not the least was Lord Fauntley’s memory. Fauntley muttered under his breath, and then lost his patience and grumbled aloud.
“Damn the thing! Sorry, Lucy, but I never can remember the numbers. I’ve a note of them somewhere - they’re changed every week, Mannering, just as an added safeguard.”
“And you need plenty,” Mannering said easily.
“I look after that,” Fauntley said, rooting through his pockets. He brought out a slim black note-book at last, flicked over the pages, and muttered, “Four right - six left - seven right - ten left - four - eight.” He snapped the book to, and returned it briskly to his pocket.
Mannering deliberately looked away from him, but the numbers were turning over in his mind. He could not stop them - he was by no means sure he wanted to.
“Four right - six left - seven right - ten left.” He’d lost the last two, but, providing he looked back in time to see Fauntley’s final turning, he could pick them up again.
His eyes felt hot, and his chest was constricted. With an effort he forced a smile as Lorna’s eyes looked into his, twinkling. What would these people think if they knew what was passing through his mind?
The tumblers were clicking over now. Left, they dropped slowly to ten. Right, one - two - three - four. Left, seven or eight, he wasn’t sure which, for Fauntley broke out: “That’s got him. It needs to be secure, Mannering, but you can leave that to me. My strong-room’s the nearest thing to perfection of its kind in London - and that means the world, let me tell you. For instance” - Fauntley reached for a large leather case in the safe that yawned open now, and made Mannering’s fingers itch - “you noticed I was careful to lock the library door behind us when we came in?”
“Yes.” Mannering looked calm, even though his heart was thumping.
“To warn the servants you were on the prowl?” mocked Lorna.
“Quiet, my dear. Also to cut off the alarms at the strong-room. I’ve left strict instructions that the library door must never be locked, because when it’s open any touching of the safe or strong-room would send the alarm of f - and it’s some row, I can tell you! Ingenious, eh?”
“Most,” admitted Mannering, and something more than the humour of the situation was gleaming in his eyes.
“Supposing a man came through the window?” asked Lorna.
“It doesn’t make any difference, my dear. I tell you the door’s never locked unless I’m here. Still, that doesn’t matter now. Mannering, have a look at these . . .”
While he talked, and while Mannering recovered from the effect of the ‘that doesn’t matter’ - could anything matter as much to him as that comprehensive explanation of the first essential for getting at the strong-room without sending the alarm off? - Fauntley had been manipulating the leather case. Now he unlocked it, with a key taken from a ring in his pocket. The light from the single electric lamp in the strong room seemed to shiver and give fire. The room was a blaze of twinkling lights, of gold and silver and a thousand colours that were never still.
The light shone on diamonds set in the black velvet of the case. A single-piece tiara held the centre, glittering and blazing; rings surrounded it, while beneath it was a necklace, bordered by bracelets that dangled so often on Lady Fauntley’s plump wrists. The room was alive!
“Well?” breathed Fauntley.
“Terrific!” muttered Mannering. “I’d no idea you’d anything like this, Fauntley. Wonderful!”
“Watch this,” said Fauntley.
He was a bundle of excitement as he peered at the stones, and his hands trembled. Lady Fauntley was breathless. Lorna said nothing, and the fire danced from the diamonds to her eyes. Mannering found the spell of the diamonds almost too much for him; for the first time he stopped repeating to himself the numbers of the combination. He’d never forget them now. God! What an idea - cracksmanship!
Fauntley took a pocket-lamp from a shelf in the room and flicked the light on as he held the glass close to the stones. As it travelled, within a few inches of the collection, the diamonds seemed to move like living fire. Shimmering and cascading, fascinating and compelling, they lived.
Fauntley broke the silence at last.
“There you are, Mannering - the Gabrienne collection, reckoned the purest stones found during the early nineteenth century. It’s my prize piece. I’ve others, of course, but in ones and twos; there’s no collection to match this. I’m talking of diamonds, of course. The Karenz rubies are matchless too, and the Deveral sapphires. Let me see “The peer rubbed his forehead and frowned.” You must see the rubies - I think they’re in the third safe.”
Mannering saw them, and a dozen other examples of the jewel-setter’s art that made his eyes agate-hard. He could take gems from this room worth ten or twenty thousand pounds, and Fauntley would hardly notice they were gone. In the safe where the Gabrienne collection was kept there were half a dozen other cases of smaller stones; and he knew the combination! If he managed to get them it might be months before Fauntley missed what had been taken.
He was nearing the end of his run, he knew. The Blackjack-Feodora double helped a little, but unless he stopped gambling his resources would last another month, perhaps; two at the outside. It was absurd, he admitted, to rely on winning enough to keep going; he would soon touch bottom.
What did that mean?
It meant absolute poverty, the loss of position, the loss of friends, the loss of pleasures. It meant going without clothes - real clothes - and perhaps without food. He had realised all that before, of course, but he had not faced it. He had determined to strain the flesh-pots of indulgence to their utmost, and then let Fate make of him what it wanted. In fact, he admitted, he had never faced what would happen after the crash; he had only known that the crash would come, and that anything was better than the life he had been leading over the past five years. Until the month at Overndon he had been contented enough. He admitted it. But the Overndon month had split him asunder.
What followed had been an interesting experiment.
Mimi Rayford, Madaline Sayer, Alice Vavasour, all had been interesting, up to a point. They had been amusing, up to the same point. Betting was at once interesting, amusing, and occasionally exciting, and consequently was a point above Mimi, Madaline, and Alice; and, of course, there were other people and other things.
They had all been intriguing and amusing and had made 1ife pleasantly varied; occasionally they had even given a notable kick to the business of living. But there had been nothing vital. Vital!
Mannering looked away from the Karenz rubies, and saw Lorna Fauntley’s eyes quizzing his. His lips curved, and hers responded. The mutiny, the mockery, the boredom, in her eyes were lost for a moment, and her teeth flashed.
“Impressed, Mr Mannering?”
“Overwhelmed,” said Mannering truthfully.
“Not the first nor the last,” said Lord Fauntley, locking his precious rubies in their safe. “Well, that’s the lot. Just a minute, Lucy, my dear; you’re in the way. Ha! Well, Mannering? Not many people would like to try conclusions with that strong-room, and an armed man on guard while the best stones are inside. Lucy! Don’t unlock the library door until the strong room’s closed. All right now, my dear.”
They walked slowly across the library, and Mannering’s mind was humming with the words “and an armed man.” That was something he hadn’t expected. He looked about him, and caught sight of the man sitting unobtrusively in a corner of the room. He was reading, and didn’t look up, even when Fauntley went to a bureau near him, unlocked it, and dropped a key into a drawer. Then he locked the drawer and turned towards the others.
But Mannering knew what had happened, and he could scarcely believe that luck was breaking his way so much. Fauntley kept the key of the strong-room in that bureau. Of course, in many ways it was safe; few people would look for it there, unless they knew it could be found.
Mannering knew; and he was telling himself that the bureau drawer could be prised open in a few seconds.
He glanced again at the guard, a short, stocky fellow who would be difficult to get past; difficult, but not impossible by any means . . .
“What are you going to do after that?” asked Lorna. Mannering, leaning against the marble mantelpiece of the lounge, surveyed his companion silently for several seconds. Lord and Lady Fauntley, abruptly conscious of the duties of parenthood, had disappeared on some mysterious errand, and Mannering had been with their daughter for several minutes. Neither had spoken until that question.
Mannering shrugged his shoulders at last.
“Do I satisfy?” Lorna asked suddenly.
“Y’know, you shouldn’t have said that,” said Mannering. “You’re not made for peddling the obvious.”
“Isn’t this isolation of the young with the eligible just as obvious?” demanded Lorna, her eyes smouldering. “Or do you still preserve your innocence in a world of matchmaking parents?”
“Sometimes it’s folly to be wise,” said Mannering, and took a deep breath. “I like your mother.”
“Poor Dad!”
“Rich, I thought the better word. In more ways than one.”
A tinge of colour flooded the girl’s cheeks. In the soft light of the lounge she had a loveliness that a harsher light might have mocked.
“And are you considering your verdict?” she asked with an effort. “While Mother’s saying, ‘I wonder if,’ and Dad’s grunting, ‘Not a chance, m’dear; the little fool s got no sense.
“It’s a regular performance, then?”
“Almost a vicious habit. But lately it’s been - I’ve been away more often. You may have heard” - her eyes danced - “that I paint.”
He smiled and nodded.
“I’ve heard it rumoured.”
“Of course. So many of your friends belong to the studio set, don’t they?”
Mannering laughed, and took his cigarette-case from his waistcoat pocket. Lorna shook her head as he proffered it.
“You keep saying what you’re not feeling,” Mannering said, as he selected a cigarette and poised it in the air. “It seems out of character to me. There are pretty cats and pretty women, each admirable of their species, but when a woman turns cat she seems all claws - from the man’s point of view.”
“Some men’s. Anyhow” - she flushed - “I’m sorry. What were you thinking of in there?”
“You want the truth?”
“It’s not entirely out of fashion - even in our age.”
“I was wondering what your eyes would look like if a lamp was held in front of them, as it was held over the diamonds.”
“Ye-es. You’re capable of thinking like that. What else?”
“I was wondering what the chances were of breaking into the strong-room,” said Mannering, laughing. He hardly knew what daredevil spirit prompted the statement; it came almost unbidden.
She stared at him for a moment, and he was puzzled by the expression in her eyes.
Finally her lips curved.
“Ye-es,” she said again; “I believe you’re capable of that too.”
Of thinking of it?”
“Even doing it.”
Mannering lit his cigarette, glad of the chance to keep his eyes averted. God! She was near the mark! And he was a fool to have mentioned the idea.
“Hm. Well, it’s a good job I can resist that temptation,” he said. “I’m not thinking of trying it yet. And now, with the night still young, what next?”
“I liked that ‘yet,’” she said.
“Forget it.”
“I doubt if I ever shall, so be careful. As for the rest of the evening, I’d rather like to dance in a crowd, where there’s no room to move or breathe, the noise Negroid, and the band to match. But I think it would be fairer to go back to my studio.”
“You sleep there?”
“The question and answer could be misconstrued,” Lorna said, “but I’ll risk it. Yes, sometimes.”
“Why would it be fair?”
“Fairer, I said. Because I dislike rousing false hopes in fond parents.”
Mannering laughed, and smoke streamed from his lips.
“Frankness can be almost a vice,” he said. “But I rarely wonder what others will think. If I’m amused I’m satisfied.”
“You think I’ve possibilities, then?”
“I’d like to prove it.”
Lorna laughed, but the mockery was back in her eyes.
“Do you ever think of anything but amusement?”
“Why, yes. I think so. I study Ruff’s Guide.”
“That’s an evasion.”
“Naturally,” acknowledged Mannering, chuckling.
“Is there time these days to cope with anything but amusement? It’s a life’s work to watch for every variety.”
“I believe, too, you even work overtime.”
“I wasn’t thinking of musical comediennes.” Mannering smiled. “They’re the novice grades. There are endless other things - and I’ve found them all wanting.”
“It may have been you who were wanting.”
“More than likely, but my education’s not finished.
Well, it’s something past ten. How does the Dernier suggest itself?”
“No other dates?”
“Two. One I’ve already missed; the other I’m willing to forget.”
“Hm.” Her eyes held his, with a glimmer of mingled amusement, mockery, and challenge. “Should I trust myself to such a memory?”
Mannering laughed as he crushed his cigarette into a tray.
“The safest way never to lose a thing is never to have it,” he said.
“I’m ready to try anything once,” said Lorna. “While I powder my nose spread the good news among the parents, and try not to see the light in their eyes.”
She turned away easily, and walked towards the stairs. Mannering stood watching her, and his lips moved.
“A cat,” he said, “but a wild-cat. Lord, what a life! One Lucy and one Hugo produced her. Her!”
And she liked that ‘yet.’
At half-past one they left the Dernier Club, and Mannering handed Lorna into a taxi.
“Chelsea,” he asked, “or Langford Terrace?”
“Langford Terrace,” said Lorna. “Even for the West home’s best - and probably safest.”
Mannering instructed the driver and climbed into the cab.
“That remark,” he said, as they moved from the kerb, “was the fourth you’ve made to-night that wasn’t worthy of you.”
“Both your standards and your arithmetic sound horribly precise,” Lorna said.
“And need revising for the brave new world?” chuckled Mannering. “Well, was the Dernier nearer your standard?”
“Divine - if only there’d been a decent floor, plenty of room, and a breath of air,” she answered.
“You’ve forgotten the Negro band that should have been white,” said Mannering. “Are you trying to convince me you are typical of the variable feminine?”
“I may be, but I wasn’t trying to convince you of anything. I think I’d like to paint you. Head and shoulders.”
“Thanks, but I prefer photographs.”
“They can only reflect what you look like, not what you are.’
“What am I?”
“I haven’t discovered - yet.”
Mannering chuckled.
“I liked that ‘yet,”’ he said.