Ричард Марш
Confessions of a Young Lady: Her Doings and Misdoings

IV

"Frank, is this an intentional outrage of which you have been guilty? Or is it an insolent practical joke which you have planned to play at the expense of your mother's friends?"

For the first time in his life Frank Pickard saw his mother really angry. Of the reality of her anger, as he confronted her in her boudoir, to which he had ascended in obedience to an urgent summons, there could be no doubt. He was conscious that her anger was justified. He was ready enough to admit it.

"It is neither, mother. Only-I don't understand."

"What don't you understand?"

"How the Miss Lorraine I saw yesterday has become transformed into the Miss Lorraine you saw just now."

"My dear Frank, I don't wish to hurt your feelings-although you have shown yourself indifferent as to mine-"

"Mother!"

"So I will not probe too deeply into the matter of what you call 'transformations,' and similar mysteries; I merely wish to know how long you propose to allow that person-whose presence, even in the immediate neighbourhood, is a monstrous insult both to your acquaintances and to me-to continue on these premises."

"I should like you, first of all, to believe that this is not the person I saw yesterday."

"Do you desire me to understand that this is not the person you asked to be your wife?"

"She is, and she is not. I assure you that I should never have extended that invitation to the person you have seen to-day. At present, I can't explain. I don't understand myself. A trick has been played on me. Before I have finished I will find out exactly how it has been done; and why, and by whom it has been played."

"And in the meantime, while you are examining the intricacies of a puzzle which is simplicity itself to all but you, do you propose that the young woman shall continue an inmate of this establishment?"

"I do not. On the contrary, I have requested General Taylor to get rid of her at once."

"Frank!"

"Mother, I am not the fool I seem to be. I assure you that the girl I fell in love with, and whom I asked to be my wife, was not like the one you have seen. I have already been putting two and two together. I am beginning to suspect that I have been the victim of some sort of conspiracy. The only thing I can do is to free myself from it as soon as I possibly can."

"But how do you intend to be rid of the girl? You don't imagine that she will take herself off at your mere request-or General Taylor's?"

"I am inclined to fancy that this is about to resolve itself into a question of money. I have instructed the Genera! to offer her any sum within reason for my release, and for the return of a certain document which she obtained from me yesterday."

"Frank!"

"You see, mother, it is necessary to take immediate action; at any cost I must free you from the risk of again encountering this person, not to speak of the others. Had I more time for consideration, I might take other steps. As it is, I don't think that the General will have so much difficulty as he perhaps anticipates."

For once in a while, rather late in the day, Frank Pickard's judgment was not at fault; General Taylor had no difficulty whatever. The General had an interview with the lady in question in the library, having deemed it desirable to fortify himself for it by a preliminary glass of sherry. As it turned out, however, as a fortifier the sherry was completely wasted; he had no resistance to encounter.

He opened proceedings with what was distinctly a professional tone and air.

"I am a soldier, Miss-eh-Lorraine, and therefore accustomed to come to the point without any sort of circumlocution. I will therefore at once put to you the question for which I have solicited the favour of this interview. How much do you require to leave this house at once; to release Sir Frank Pickard from his engagement to marry you, and for the surrender of the written undertaking which you extracted from him yesterday?"

Some ladies would have resented both the form in which the inquiry was couched, and the manner in which it was put. The General thought it extremely possible that, in this case, resentment might take a shape which was at once active and unpleasant. He was mistaken. The lady, as soon as the inquiry was addressed to her, answered, with the most matter-of-fact air in the world, -

"Five thousand pounds."

The General stared. He was genuinely taken aback by the magnitude of the demand, and by the prompt calmness with which it was made.

"Five thousand pounds! Monstrous! Do you take Sir Frank Pickard for a fool?"

The lady smiled.

"I don't think, General, that, if I were you, I should ask too many questions like that-it might be awkward for everyone concerned. The sum I have named is my lowest figure; my very lowest. As I believe the lawyers put it, it is named without prejudice. Unless I receive a cheque for that amount during the next fifteen minutes by that clock on the shelf, the figure will be raised. And as, also, if I am to remain for dinner there is not much time for me to put on my other frock-a startler, General, I give you my word! – I shall be obliged if you will not keep me a moment longer than you can help."

The General stared still more. It burst on him, with the force of an electric shock, that his young friend had placed himself in a very peculiar position indeed. Some remarks, in good, plain Saxon, were exchanged. As a result, the General interviewed his principal. After a period of time, which probably did not much exceed the fifteen minutes she had named, the lady quitted the house she had so recently entered as an invited guest, with her brown-paper parcels, and her cardboard bonnet-box, but without that sheet of paper on which Sir Frank Pickard had placed a formal undertaking to make her his wife.

That same night when, at last, Joe Lamb was enabled, by the closing of his master's shop, to get out into the streets to obtain what, comparatively speaking, was a mouthful of fresh air, he received a boisterous salute from a female in gorgeous and fantastic attire.

"Hullo, Joey! How goes it, my gay young pippin?"

He showed signs of objecting both to the address, and the person from whom it came.

"Don't holler at me like that; who are you? Why-if it isn't Peggy! What's the meaning of this Guy Fawkes show?"

"Crummy, isn't it? It's earned me that."

She held out in front of him a slip of paper. He took it in his fingers.

"What's this? – a cheque? – payable to you! – for five thousand pounds! Peggy, what does this mean?"

"It means that what I told you of 's come off, and before next Sunday, too. It means that I've been engaged to be married since I saw you; and now I'm disengaged again; and I've been paid five thousand pounds for allowing myself to be disengaged again. It was this rig-out did it. You remember that scene at the Frivolity, where the costers were supposed to take their donahs to Hampstead Heath on a bank holiday? This was one of the costumes which the girls wore. The sight of it was enough for Sir Frank Pickard and his aristocratic friends. I could have got ten thousand if I'd liked, but I was satisfied with five. Joe, that means that you needn't emigrate; and that we can be married whenever you like."

They were married within the month.

* * * * *

When Sir Archibald Ferguson had finished the story which is here set down, I regarded him for some moments in silence.

"That's not a bad yarn; but-how come you to be so well acquainted with the intimate details?"

Before he answered he rolled his cigar over and over between his fingers as if considering. Then he stood up in front of the fireplace and, from that vantage post, beamed down at me.

"I'll tell you. Open confession is-occasionally-good for the soul. I can trust you. I have taken the liberty to alter the names of some of my characters. The Frank Pickard of my story is-yours truly, Archie Ferguson."

"No?"

"Yes. Seems incredible, doesn't it, that a staid and happily-married man of many years' standing, with a big family of strapping sons and daughters, should have been that particular kind of idiot. But it's true; I was. It only demonstrates-what perhaps does not need demonstration-that because a youngster shows himself to be a first-class fool as a youngster, you mustn't take it for granted that he's going to continue to be a fool his whole life long."

"But how came you to be so well posted in the lady's part of the story?"

"That's not the least queer part of it. When Mr and Mrs Bennett-Lamb first established themselves here I felt-funny. I didn't know what I might expect. But one day we were going up by the same train to town. She invited me into her compartment. I didn't quite like going, but-I did. We had the compartment to ourselves. After the train had started she told me her side of the story, exactly as I have told it you. She told it uncommonly well-uncommonly. And by the time the train reached town I was more than half inclined to the opinion that the five thousand pounds had been judiciously expended. Fact! She has made her husband a first-rate wife, and been an excellent mother to his child. In fact, she's an all-round clever woman."

"So," I admitted, with a degree of candour which I am not sure that he altogether relished, "I should imagine."

XI
A MUTUAL AFFINITY

I

"What the-blazes!"

George Coventry sat with an open envelope in his hand. It was an ordinary white envelope-"business" size-of not too fine a quality. It was addressed: "George Coventry, Esq., Hôtel Metropole, Brighton." The address was type-written.

"Dun!"

That was the one word which had crossed his mind when he first glanced at the exterior of this missive. When he took it up his suspicions were strengthened. It was fat and bulky.

"Contains either a writ or a bill in several volumes."

He laid it down again. He looked at it ruefully as he puffed at his pipe. Then, gathering together his courage with a sigh, he opened it. It was at this point he emitted the above exclamation, – "What the-blazes!"

The envelope was full of crinkly pieces of paper-bank-notes. There were ten of them. Each was for a thousand pounds. Mr Coventry stared at them with bewildered amazement.

"Someone is having a joke with me! Bank of Elegance, for a fiver!"

But they were not on the Bank of Elegance. Mr Coventry fancied that he knew a genuine bank-note when he saw one. After examination, he concluded that if these were forgeries, then he was not so good a judge as he thought he was. He took a five-pound note from his pocket-book for the purpose of comparison.

"Right uns, as I'm a sinner! Then, in that case, it strikes me they've been sent to the wrong address."

In his desire to establish the genuineness of the notes, he had temporarily overlooked a sheet of paper which he had drawn with them from the envelope. This he now examined. It was a single sheet of large post. On it these words were typewritten, -

"The accompanying bank-notes (£10,000) are forwarded to Mr George Coventry, to enable him to pay the losses which he has experienced during the Brighton races."

When Mr Coventry read this, his bewilderment, instead of being diminished, was considerably increased. There was no signature, no address, no clue to the sender. One type-writer is like another, so that there was no clue in the words themselves. Someone, of infinite faith, had entrusted £10,000 to the guardianship of a flimsy envelope and of a penny stamp. Mr Coventry had flattered himself that no one knew-as yet-of the particularly tight place that he was in. Here was proof positive that he had been guilty of self-deception indeed.

He stuffed the notes into his pocket-book. He put on his hat. He went across the road to the pier. He had a problem to solve. Who had chosen so curious a method of sending him so princely a gift? He was prepared to stake his little all-that was left-that it was none of his relations. If the donor was one of his "friends," how basely had he libelled the large and miscellaneous circle of his acquaintances! And yet, a stranger? It would needs be an eccentric stranger who would send an anonymous gift of £10,000 to an unknown person, to enable that unknown person to pay his bets. This thing might have happened in the days of the fairies, but surely the wee folk are gone!

"Would-would you lend me your arm? I-I am afraid I have hurt my foot."

Mr Coventry was standing at the head of the flight of steps which led to the landing-stage. The Worthing boat was just gone. There was a crowd of people to see it start. Although he was one of them, Mr Coventry had not the faintest appreciation of what the small excitement was about. The sound of a voice apparently addressing him recalled him to himself. He looked down. On the step immediately beneath him was a little woman dressed in black.

"I-I beg your pardon? Did you speak to me?"

"Would you help me to a seat? I have twisted my ankle."

The little woman was young. Her big brown eyes seemed to Mr Coventry as though they were filled with tears. She was leaning against the rail. She seemed in pain.

"Let me carry you to a seat."

Then, before all the people, in that impetuous way of his, he lifted her in his arms and bore her to a seat. She said nothing when he placed her there. Perhaps she was too surprised at his method of proceeding to be able to find, at an instant's notice, appropriate words to fit the occasion.

"I'll fetch you a bath-chair."

He fetched her one with a rapidity which did credit to his agility and to the chairman's. The little woman was placed within it. She murmured an address in the Steyne. The procession started. Mr Coventry walked beside the chair. He asked if her foot was better. She said it was. He asked if she was sure it was. She smiled, a little faintly, but still she smiled; she said that she was sure. The Steyne was reached. He saw her enter the house. He raised his hat. He walked away.

It was only when he had gone some little distance that a thought occurred to him.

"I ought to have asked her her name."

He hesitated for a moment as to whether he would not go back and supply the omission; but he perceived, on reflection, that this would be absurd. He told himself that he would call, perhaps that afternoon, and inquire how her foot went on.

That afternoon he called at the house in the Steyne. A person, evidently of the landlady type, opened the door. He handed in his card with, pencilled on it, the words: "I venture to hope that your foot is better." A reply came to the effect that he was requested to walk upstairs. He walked upstairs. He was shown into what was undeniably a lodging-house sitting-room. As he entered, someone was lying on a sofa; it was the little woman in black.

"It is very kind of you to call, Mr Coventry. I ought to have thanked you for your goodness to me this morning, but you were gone in a moment."

Mr Coventry murmured something. He hoped that her foot was better.

"Oh, it is nothing. Only I think that I had better rest it a little, and that is rather a difficult thing for me to do; rest means interference with my work." Perhaps because he seemed to hesitate, she added: "I am a teacher of music."

"Then I am afraid that your accident will be hard on your pupils."

She laughed. "The worst of it is, there are not many of them. I cannot afford to offend the few I have." She changed her tone. "I cannot think how it was I was so awkward, Mr Coventry. I was coming up the steps when my foot slipped, and-there I was. It was such a silly thing to do."

Mr Coventry explained that it was the easiest thing in the world to twist one's ankle. Further, that a twisted ankle sometimes turned out to be a serious matter. Possibly the lady knew this without his telling her, yet she seemed grateful for the information.

The gentleman's visit, considering the circumstances, extended to what seemed to be an unnecessary length, yet neither appeared particularly desirous to bring it to a close. Before they parted they were talking like old friends. She had told him that her name was Hardy-Dora Hardy. She had imparted the further information that she was an orphan-alone in the world. They talked a great deal about, it must be owned, a very little, and they would probably have had as much to say even if the subject matter had been still less. Such conversations are not dependent upon subjects.

The next day he returned to inquire after her foot. It seemed better, but was not yet quite recovered; its owner was still upon the couch. That visit was even longer than the first had been. During its progress Mr Coventry became singularly frank. He actually made a confidant of the little woman on the couch. He told her all his history, unfolded the list of his follies-a part of it that is, for the list was long. Some folks would have said that he was adding to the crowning folly of them all. He told her of his recent disastrous speculations on what, doubtless in the cause of euphony, is called "the turf." He even told of the ten thousand pounds!

It must be allowed that Miss Hardy seemed to find the young gentleman's egotistical outpourings not devoid of interest. When he spoke of the contents of the mysterious envelope she gave quite a little start.

"I don't understand. Do you mean to say, Mr Coventry, that yesterday morning you received £10,000 from a stranger?"

"I do. In ten bank-notes of a thousand pounds each."

"But it's ridiculous. They can't be genuine."

"Aren't they? See for yourself. If they're not, then I never saw a genuine bank-note yet."

He took an envelope from his pocket. He gave it to Miss Hardy.

"Is this the envelope in which they came?"

"It is."

"And are these the bank-notes?"

"They are."

She took out the rustling pieces of paper. Her eyes sparkled. She laughed; it sounded like a little laugh of pleasure.

"Bank-notes! Ten of them, for a thousand each! You beauties!" She pressed them between her little hands. "Think of all they can buy. Ten thousand pounds!" She laughed again; this time in her laughter there was the sound of something very like a sob. "Why, Mr Coventry, it's-it's like a fairy tale. Some people never dream that they will be able to even handle such a sum-just once."

"It is a queer start."

Mr Coventry rose from his chair. He stood with his back to the fireplace. The little woman followed him with her eyes.

"Come, Mr Coventry, you know very well from whom they came."

"I wish I did."

"Think! They came from that rich old uncle you have been telling me about."

"He would see me starve before he gave me a fiver. I know it is a fact."

"Is there nobody of whom you can think?"

"Not a soul! I don't believe there's an individual in the world who would give me a hundred pounds to keep me from the workhouse."

There was a pause. The gentleman looked at the lady; the lady looked at him. She kept folding and unfolding the notes between her dainty fingers; a smile parted her lips.

"Mr Coventry, I know from whom they came."

"Miss Hardy, you don't mean it! From whom?"

"They came," with a rapid glance she looked down, then up again, "from a woman."

"A woman!" Mr Coventry looked considerably startled. "What woman?"

"Ah, there it is!"

Mr Coventry still looked startled.

"I suppose, Miss Hardy, you are simply making a shot at it."

"It looks to me like the act of a woman. Think! Is there a woman possible?"

Mr Coventry looked even disconcerted.

"It-it can't be. It-it's quite impossible."

"I thought there was. Mr Coventry, here are your notes. I don't wish to intrude upon your confidence."

"But, I-I assure you, the-thing can't be."

"Still, I fancy, the thing is, and so, I see, do you. Mr Coventry, if it is not stretching feminine curiosity too far-in my case you have piqued it-might I ask who is the woman?"

"There isn't one; I assure you there isn't. But I'll tell you all about it." Mr Coventry fidgeted about the room, then sat down on the chair he had just vacated. "Have-have you ever heard of a Mrs Murphy?"

"Had she anything to do with Mr Murphy?"

"You mean the iron man? It's his widow. She's-she's stopping at the Métropole just now."

"Isn't she rich?"

"Awfully, horribly rich. In fact my-my uncle wrote to me about her."

"You mean Sir Frederick?"

"Yes, old rip! I wrote, asking if he could let me have a few hundreds, just to help me along. He wrote back saying that he couldn't, but that he could put me in the way of laying my hands on several hundred thousands instead. Then he spoke of the widow."

"I see; go on."

Mr Coventry had stopped. He seemed to be a little at a loss.

"Then, somehow or other, I-I got introduced to her."

"Did you, indeed? How strange!"

"Don't laugh at me, Miss Hardy. The woman's my aversion. She's old enough to be my mother, or-or my aunt, at any rate."

"One's aunt may be younger than oneself."

"She isn't, by a deal. She's a hideous, vulgar old monstrosity."

"You appear to have a strong objection to the lady."

"I have. It-it sounds absurd, but she's always after me. She must mistake me for her son."

"For her son? You look twenty-five, and I thought I saw in one of the papers the other day that Mrs Murphy was in her early thirties."

"She looks fifty, if a day. She can't have sent me all that money."

"As to that, you should know better than I. She might, if she took you for her son."

"If I thought she had, I-I'd send it back to her."

Mr Coventry had recommenced fidgeting about the room. Miss Hardy's suggestions seemed to have seriously disturbed him. That young lady continued to trifle with the bank-notes. As she trifled she continued to smile demurely.

"Hasn't another rich woman been stopping at the Métropole?"

"You mean the American?"

"Was she an American?"

"Rather! Sarah Freemantle. Got five millions-pounds-of her own, in hard cash."

"Has she been stopping at the hotel since you've been there?"

"I believe she has, though I wasn't aware of it till she had gone."

"Haven't you ever seen her?"

"Never; which is rather queer, because she's often been at dances which I've been at. But I hate Americans."

"Do you, indeed? How liberal-minded!"

"Don't laugh at me. You-you don't know how worried I am."

"Some people wouldn't feel worried because £10,000 fell into their lap from the skies. Here, Mr Coventry, are your precious notes."

"I'll send them back to her at once."

"Her? Whom? Mrs Murphy? Don't you think you are rather hasty in jumping at conclusions? Suppose, after all, they didn't come from Mrs Murphy?"

"I'll soon find out, and if they did-"

"Well, if they did? I thought you mentioned some rather pressing obligations which you had to meet."

"Confound it! I know I've been a fool, but I'd rather be posted than owe my salvation to a woman's money."

"All men are not of your opinion, Mr Coventry."

The lady's tone was dry. The young gentleman had a tendency in the direction of "high-falutin."

Among his morning's letters on the morrow the first which caught his eye was a missive enclosed in an envelope which was own brother to the one which had contained the notes.

"Another ten thousand pounds," he wailed.

But he was mistaken. Only a sheet of paper was in the envelope. On the sheet of paper two words were type-written:

"Buy Ceruleans."

Mr Coventry endeavoured to calm himself. Constitutionally, he was of an excitable temperament. The endeavour required an effort on his part. When he could trust himself to speak, he delivered himself to this effect:

"What in thunder are Ceruleans? And why am I to buy them?"

He examined the paper; he examined the envelope; he observed that the postmark was "London, E.C." – that could scarcely be regarded as a tangible clue.

The remainder of his correspondence was not of an agreeable tenor. Everybody seemed to be wanting money; moreover, everybody seemed to be wanting it at once. He went downstairs with, metaphorically, "his heart in his boots." On the way down he encountered an acquaintance. Mr Coventry stopped him.

"I say, Gainsford, what are Ceruleans?"

"Ceruleans?" Mr Gainsford fixed his eyeglass into his eye. "Ceruleans?" Mr Gainsford thrust his hands into his breeches pockets. "What do you know about Ceruleans?"

"I don't know anything, only some fool or other has been advising me to buy them."

Mr Gainsford eyed Mr Coventry for some moments before he spoke again.

"Coventry, would you mind stepping into my sitting-room?" Mr Coventry stepped in. "I should be obliged if you would tell me who has been advising you to buy Ceruleans. I give you my word that you shall not suffer through giving me the name of your informant. I don't know if you are aware that I am a member of the London Stock Exchange."

"I can't give you the name of my informant, because I don't know it myself. I have just had that sent me through the post. From whom it comes I know no more than Adam."

Mr Coventry handed him the paper on which were the two type-written words, "Buy Ceruleans." Mr Gainsford eyed this very keenly. Then he applied an equally keen scrutiny to Mr Coventry himself.

"Odd! Very odd! Very odd indeed!"

He paused, then continued with an air of quite judicial gravity, -

"Ceruleans, Mr Coventry, is Stock Exchange slang for an American mine which has just struck oil. The fact of its having done so is known, as yet, in England, to only one or two persons. Until you showed me that sheet of paper, I was under the impression that it was known only to one other person beside myself. Whoever sent you that piece of paper is in the know. Your correspondent has given you a recipe for a fortune."

"What do you mean?"

"What I say. Get into the market before the rush begins, and-ah! you might take what some people would call a snug little fortune in less than a couple of hours. Mr Coventry, I am going up to town at once. Come with me, and I will put you in the way of doing the best day's business that ever you did in all your life."

Mr Coventry went up to town with Mr Gainsford. When the young gentleman returned that night to Brighton, he was quite a man of means. On the return journey he just got into the station as the train was starting. He made a dash at the first carriage he could reach. He was settling himself in the corner, and the train was rapidly quickening, when a voice saluted him.

"Mr Coventry!"

He turned. At the other end of the compartment was Mrs Murphy.

"How nice! I was just thinking that I was going to have the carriage all to myself, and you know that I am not fond of my own society."

At that moment, Mr Coventry could not have even hinted that he was fond of hers. The lady went on-her volubility was famous, -

"I have been dabbling on the Stock Exchange."

Mr Coventry did not heed her. He was reflecting that the train did not stop till it reached its journey's end, and how about a smoke on the way? Her next words, however, caused him to prick up his ears.

"I have done wonderfully well. In fact, I have made what to some, less fortunately circumstanced than myself, would be quite a fortune. I have been buying Ceruleans. Do you know what Ceruleans are?"

Did he? Didn't he?

"Ceruleans! Then-it was you-"

He stopped, petrified. The lady seemed amused.

"It was I what?"

Mr Coventry took out a well-stuffed pocketbook.

"Mrs Murphy, allow me to return you these."

A broad smile was upon the lady's face as she took what the gentleman gave her; but when she perceived what it was she held, the broad smile vanished.

"What is it you are returning me? I was not aware-why, they're bank-notes for a thousand pounds each! Mr Coventry! What do you mean?"

The expression of her face, the tone of her voice, were alike expressive of the most unequivocal amazement. But, disregarding these signs, Mr Coventry pursued a line of his own.

"It was very good of you to send them me-though I hardly realise what it was which could have caused you to suppose that I was a fit subject for your charity. At the same time, I hope it is scarcely necessary for me to point out that it is quite impossible for me to take advantage of your generosity."

"Mr Coventry! What on earth do you mean?"

The lady's manner was altogether unmistakable, but Mr Coventry rushed at his fences.

"I can only say that I hope that you will find a more worthy object of what I cannot but call your eccentric liberality."

Mrs Murphy, as she sat, bank-notes in hand, endeavouring to grasp the gentleman's meaning, would not have made a bad study for a comic artist.

"Mr Coventry, will you be so good as to take back your property?"

The lady held out the notes. The gentleman waved them from him.

"My property! I presume you mean your property?"

"Mr Coventry, what do you mean by giving me these bank-notes?"

"Rather, Mrs Murphy, I think I am entitled to ask what you meant by giving them to me?"

"Pray, Mr Coventry, are you mad?"

"I can only presume that you thought I was mad."

"Thought you were mad! I am beginning to think so now."

"You flatter me. And-then there's the tip for Ceruleans. I-I confess that I have taken advantage of it; but had I known what I know now, I would sooner first have died. I have not yet received the whole of my gains-indeed, I have only received a portion as a favour from a friend. Here, Mrs Murphy, is a cheque for £5,000."

Mr Coventry thrust another slip of paper into the astonished lady's hand. She kept her presence of mind admirably upon the whole.

"I suppose, Mr Coventry, that you are a gentleman?"

"I suppose I was until you taught me otherwise."

"Then, as a gentleman, perhaps you will keep silence while a lady speaks."

Mr Coventry shrugged his shoulders.

"I see that I have here ten notes of a thousand pounds each. Am I to understand that someone has made you a present of £10,000?"

"Mrs Murphy, pray don't dissemble!"

"I have not the slightest intention of what you call dissembling. If you suppose I was the donor, you are under a great delusion. I don't think I ever gave any living creature even ten thousand pence; I have far too just a sense of the value of money."

It was Mr Coventry's turn to look astonished.

"Then if-if it wasn't you-"

"Who was it? That I cannot tell you. Someone, I should say, with more money than sense."

"But-but the tip for Ceruleans?"

"I have not the least notion what you're talking about. But I may tell you this: I myself only received what you call a 'tip' for Ceruleans this morning."