George MacDonald Fraser
MR AMERICAN

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, chaarcters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Previously published in paperback by Collins Harvil 1992 Reprinted four times

First published in Great Britain by William Collins Sons & Co Ltd 1980

Copyright © George MacDonald Fraser 1980

Acknowledgement is due and gratefully given to Peter Newboldt for permission to quote from Sir Henry Newboldt’s “The Fighting Temeraire” and to B. Feldman & Co. Ltd. for permission to quote from “Everybody’s Doing It (Now)” and from “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”; and to Herman Davewski Publishing Co. for permission to quote from “Goodbye Dolly Gray”.

George MacDonald Fraser asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780006470182

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2016 ISBN: 9780007458431

Version: 2016-10-04

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Part One

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

Part Two

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

Keep Reading

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Part One

1

Inspector Griffin came down to the landing-stage on a raw autumn morning to see the Mauretania berthing. It was part of his job; there was always someone from the detective department on hand when the American liners docked, but for Inspector Griffin it was a pleasure, too. He loved the bustle of the wharf at dawn, and the sight of the huge iron ship edging gently into the quay, the busy little tugs, the squealing whistles, the propellor churning the yellow Mersey into dirty foam; he even enjoyed the bite of the wind and the cold drizzle which was causing his colleague, young Constable Murphy, to hunch his collar round his chin as he stamped his feet on the wet flags. To Murphy it was just another tedious chore; he wiped his nose and glowered at the low clouds over the river.

“Won’t be worth their while takin’ off at Doncaster this afternoon,” he observed glumly, and Inspector Griffin understood. Constable Murphy was a flying enthusiast, like most of the population these days; since M. Blériot had come winging ghost-like out of the Channel mist a few weeks before, the first man to fly from France into England in a crazy contraption that looked like an overgrown kite, the country seemed to have gone flying daft, Inspector Griffin reflected. He didn’t like it; perhaps he was getting old and conservative, but the thought that a man could fly in a few minutes across England’s last line of defence – and from France, of all places – made him uneasy. It wasn’t natural, and it wasn’t safe. And what use would the Royal Navy be, if Frogs and Germans and God knew what other breed of foreigners could soar unscathed over their heads?

“Farman an’ Cody’s goin’ to be at Doncaster,” said Murphy, with relish. “First flyin’ meetin’ on British soil, by gum! Wouldn’t I like to be there? Cody flew from London to Manchester the other day, over the railway tracks, special markers they had on the ground to guide him – an’ they say Farman’s been up six hundred feet, an’ can go higher yet.” He shuddered deliciously and wiped his nose again. “Think of it, sir! Just them tiny machines, an’ –”

Females, football and flying, Griffin reflected irritably, that was all these young fellows thought about. The gangways were down, and the first passengers were picking their way gingerly down to the quay, shepherded by the Mauretania’s stewards, but Murphy, who should have been casting a professional eye over them, was plainly miles away in the sky above Doncaster, performing aerobatics with Cody and Farman and his other heroes.

“Cody’s goin’ to become naturalized British, they reckon,” he went on. “If he lives long enough – there was a crash at Paris t’other day, fellow broke his neck, shocking risks they take –”

“Thought you were more interested in Everton,” said Griffin, vainly trying to stem the flood. “Aren’t they playing Liverpool this afternoon?”

“Gah, they’ll get beat, them,” said Murphy derisively. “Play football, that lot? They dunno what football is – you should have been up in Glasgow the other day, sir, my Saturday off. Glasgow versus Sheffield, that was something. See that McMenemy, an’ Quinn – bloody marvellous! We don’t see nothing like ’em, down here. Now, Quinn, he –”

I was a fool to mention it, thought Griffin, and a bigger fool for being so soft. Any right-minded inspector would have shut up the garrulous Murphy with a look, but he wasn’t a bad lad and Griffin had a liking for him. Irish though – mind you, who wasn’t, in Liverpool these days? Griffin the Welshman had strong views about immigrants and while the Micks were undeniably fellow-Britons there were still a damned sight too many of them about.

“Come on,” he said, “they’re coming ashore,” and the two officers moved off into the long, dingy Customs shed where the officials were waiting with their watchful eyes and pieces of chalk among the mounds of baggage, to deal soft-voiced with the first passengers who were congregating at the tables.

This was what Griffin liked. The faces, the clothes, the voices – above all the voices. Many years before, Inspector Griffin had been a strapping young constable in the North-west Mounted Police; it was where his career had begun, and he had never lost his affection for the North American accent – even the harsh nasal Yankee voice which was so often heard in that shed awoke memories for him; he had that vague privileged feeling of kinship that one feels for foreigners in whose country one has lived. Not that Canada was foreign, of course, quite the opposite; neither were Americans, really – he scanned the faces beyond the tables with an interest that was only part-professional, indulging in his habitual speculation. Who were they? Where were they from? What would they be doing in England? How many of them were rascals? One or two, in his experience, but nothing serious this trip, or Delgado in New York would have telegraphed. He’d never met Delgado, and knew him only as a name at the end of cables and occasional official reports – Delgado would know him in the same way. Wonder what he was like? – sounded like an Italian name, maybe. Good policeman, anyway, whatever he was; it was Delgado’s tip that had helped them nail that German forger in Leeds a year ago.

“Do I look as though I am carrying more than half a pint of spirits?” A mountainous lady in an expensive sealskin coat and a mountainous English accent was glaring at a Customs man. “Spirits, indeed! I never heard of such –”

“Perfumes are spirits, madam,” said the Customs man quietly. “Have you any perfume, madam?”

“Of course I have. A normal quantity, and certainly not half a pint –”

“And chocolates, madam? Confections of any kind?”

“Chocolates?”

“Sweets are dutiable, madam. Any American candies, or bonbons –”

“What arrant nonsense!” The lady turned indignantly to the pale young companion at her side. “Have we any sweets, Evelyn? Dangerous, highly contraband sweets whose introduction into England will unbalance the Budget?”

Griffin smiled, but his eyes were elsewhere, running over a small, stout man waiting his turn at the next table, politely allowing a lady to go first, smiling affably and tapping his fingers on the handle of his valise. Three or four bottles of brandy in there for a start, thought Griffin. That was not strictly speaking any of his business, but the stout little man could easily be a sharp. Griffin sauntered closer to listen to the voice.

“… one bottle of bourbon, open, and a half pound of cigars, nothing else, officer.” It was an American voice, sharp and eager, perhaps a little too conciliatory. “Oh, and I have a copy of one of Mr Conan Doyle – I beg your pardon, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s novels, printed in America. I know that English copyrighted books are liable to confiscation, but I assure you it’s the only one I’ve got.”

“ – an’ anyway, Liverpool’ll win by two clear goals, easy,” Constable Murphy was saying. “Want me to keep an eye on that one, sir?”

Griffin turned away, surveying the other passengers. Rich, influential, upper-class, most of them, as one would expect aboard the Mauretania. Well-fed faces, substantial broadcloths and tweeds on the men, furs on the ladies, fox stoles and sealskins, diamond pins, gold watch-chains, a profusion of expensive rings and brooches – a pickpocket’s paradise, if any of the local dips had had the nerve to invade the area between the quay and Riverside Station, well-policed as it was. About half were American visitors, about half returning Britons; the voices mingled in a babble round the Customs tables. “Anything to declare …? Well, I don’t know how many cigars make a pound, officer.… I have this silk scarf, but it’s a present for my mother, don’t you know … if you’ll open the large trunk, please, sir … but it’s an engagement ring – this is my fiancé – surely you won’t charge on that? … anything to declare, madam?”

All the usual little lies, the half-hearted deceptions, the unnecessary anxieties, thought Griffin. But nothing really to excite his official interest. He noted that the mountainous lady was preparing to erupt as her nervous companion clumsily unbuckled the straps of a suitcase and twitteringly guided and hindered the Customs man as he plunged into the mass of female clothing within.

“One would think one were a criminal, or a passenger to New York!” exclaimed the large lady indignantly, her feather hat quivering with affront. “It is bad enough to have one’s belongings turned out wholesale in front of half the population of America, but in England – really!” Plainly the lady had suffered, on her arrival at New York, at the hands of the minions of “Lucky” Loeb, the Customs Chief, whose private war against smuggling had caused considerable indignation and sundry spluttering letters to the New York Times; Griffin seemed to remember that even a steamship line’s director had had to turn out his pockets. But now the Customs man was delving and bringing forth a large bottle of gin, and the lady was going bright purple and demanding of the shrinking Evelyn how that had got there?

“Serve the old trout right,” observed Murphy coarsely, and Inspector Griffin privately agreed. Nothing much here, though; he glanced again at the little stout man, who was bustling off crying “Thank you, thank you, sir!” to the Customs man, and was preparing to speak to Murphy, when his eye fell on a face at the table beyond.

A man was stepping forward to take his place at the table, pausing momentarily to make way for two pretty, giggling American girls who were gathering up their cases; they had succeeded in wheedling more than their allowance of perfume past a grey-haired and indulgent official, and were tripping off to find a porter. One of them shot a quick, appraising glance at the man who was stepping aside, received a grave touch of the hat-brim in return, and whispered, tittering to her companion; she was what Murphy would have called a peach, a lissom little blonde whose bobbing curls and tight-skirted bottom drew an approving sigh from the constable as he watched her clicking off on her high heels, showing a tantalising glimpse of silken ankle; a nudge from Griffin brought him back to earth.

“That one at the far table. All right, turn this way and tell me about him.”

Murphy glanced at the man for a couple of seconds and turned obediently to face Griffin; he only slightly resented his superior’s habit of playing classroom games by way of instruction in police routine.

“American,” he said confidently, “thirty to thirty-five, not more. Six foot one, maybe two, between twelve an’ thirteen stone, well built on the lean side, black moustache, no whiskers, could do with a haircut, thin features, sunburned, wearing a bowler, brown, an’ a tweed cape, dark suit, no rings, plain pin, watch-chain as might be gold but might just as easy be brass, not carryin’ a stick, but with a big green valise –”

“Yes, yes, boy,” said Griffin. “But what about him? Turn and have another look.”

Murphy shrugged and glanced round at the man, who was watching the Customs official go through his valise; he looked ordinary enough to Murphy; not quite so well-dressed as most of the passengers, perhaps, a trifle more – bohemian was the word that might have occurred to Murphy if he had known it, but it would have been wide of the mark. Quiet-looking chap, very attentive to what the Customs man said, nodding seriously and thanking the official as he restrapped the valise and turned his attention to the battered trunk which lay beside the table. Murphy frowned and shrugged again.

“That’s all, sir; don’t see anything out o’ the way. He’s no crook, that’s certain; not so – well, smooth as most, but otherwise …” He shook his head. “Quiet chap, I’d say; you know, a bit soft-like, in his manner – for a Yankee, any roads.”

The Customs man was bending over the trunk, chalk in hand, and the American was stooping beside him, apparently reassuring him about the contents. Griffin strained his ears, and felt a slight thrill of satisfaction when the passenger spoke. All he said was: “No, no I don’t believe I have any of those. Guess I’d know if I did, all right. Thank you, thanks very much.”

The voice fitted, Griffin thought. That soft, husky drawl, so different from the nasal rasp of the Eastern seaboard; it was a voice from the Plains, the kind he remembered from the Saskatchewan prairie. North Central United States, then, or thereabouts; it was an accent which Griffin, with his sympathetic Welsh ear, could have listened to all day; a voice from out yonder.

“Have I missed anything, sir?” Murphy was wondering.

Just about everything that matters, thought Griffin, but since he couldn’t blame Murphy for failing to recognize something he had never seen before, all he said was: “No, boy, you had him summed up nice for description. He isn’t sunburned, though; he’s weather-beaten. There’s a difference. Tell you what, Constable Murphy – that little stout chap who went through a minute since. See if he gets on the London train, will you? If he doesn’t, get his address.”

He was not particularly interested in the little stout man, but he wanted to study this other one at leisure. Not that there was anything really remarkable about him, but he was out of the run of the normal transatlantic traffic. A Westerner, and not a townsman, either. Griffin studied the tall, rangy figure in its slightly incongruous cape and new bowler; good features, behind the black moustache that turned down slightly at the corners of the mouth, quite a fine face, like a scholar’s, even, thought Griffin, although this patently wasn’t a scholar. Soft-like, Murphy had thought, and Griffin could excuse him for the mistake; there was a gentleness, almost a diffidence, about the face and the man’s whole bearing, as though he were ready to apologise for being there. But he wasn’t soft; oh no, thought Griffin, you’re not soft – but nobody will realize it until the moment when they wish they hadn’t misjudged you.

The Inspector smiled. How long ago was it now? – twenty-four years, nearly twenty-five since the day that sometimes came back to him in bad dreams. The tangled clearing at Duck Lake, the reek of powder smoke and the crash of firing, the shrill yells of the Metis sharpshooters and the whooping of Big Bear’s Crees as they closed in through the woods on the battered circle of red coats among the carts and slaughtered horses. The Army Colt jumping in his fist as he fired over the shelter of his saddle, and then the scorching pain in his left arm, and himself pawing at the feathered arrow in his blood-soaked sleeve, crying great tears of pain, until the man next to him had crawled across to snap the shaft off short and thrust the arrow-head agonisingly through Griffin’s arm and out the other side. He remembered the man’s face; the same wide-spaced grey eyes, the lean features and straight jaw under the broad-brimmed hat, and the soft, almost apologetic voice: “Easy does it, Mountie. Just lie there, head down – okay?” Why, he might have been this fellow’s father, for looks. MacPherson, his name had been, a big, gangling scout in buckskin – but then, there had been hundreds like him, all through that campaign; tall, quiet men who said little, and that to the point, courteous in manner, pensive, rather lonely men.

And the wounded bewildered young constable in the red tunic was now Inspector Lloyd Griffin, of the Liverpool force, dressed in authority and drab overcoat, heavier about the jowls and waist, and instead of the trees and war-whoops by Duck Lake there was the echoing Customs shed and the respectable passengers and staff going about their business quietly and orderly in the civilised centre of England’s second city, and it was no buckskin man but a soberly-dressed American who was nodding to the Customs man and looking about for a porter.

Griffin sauntered closer and cast an eye at the label on the battered trunk. It read “M.J. Franklin, Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool, England.” Well, he hadn’t expected to see the name MacPherson, anyhow. Just because this boy was from the same stable, so to speak, of the same breed and the same neck of the woods, give or take a thousand miles or so, meant nothing. Inspector Griffin shook himself almost irritably. That was all long ago, and things had changed; this was the twentieth century, and the wild days were well gone now, except in the memories of old hands like himself. But for a moment there, the sight of that … that type, working on his Celtic imagination, had taken him back. Well, of course, men didn’t change, even if times did. And this one still seemed out of place, somehow, in grimy old Liverpool. In quiet old England, come to that.

He watched M. J. Franklin trying to catch a porter’s eye and not succeeding. No, decidedly he wasn’t a city-dweller. A farmer, perhaps? No, that wasn’t right. A surveyor, then, or an engineer. Most probably something like that, with his sundowner complexion. And what was he doing in England? Any one of a thousand perfectly ordinary things – Inspector Griffin chided himself to remember that men came and went with startling speed from the ends of the earth nowadays, on all sorts of errands; the old conventions that tied a man to his place were going, and it was becoming one world indeed. Bloody Frogs flying the Channel, for example.

“He got on the London train, second class, his name’s Kruger, and he travels for a New Jersey typewriter manufacturer.” Constable Murphy was back, reporting with every sign of self-satisfaction. “An’ he’ll be staying at Peterson’s Hotel, Baker Street.”

“Very good, Constable Murphy,” said Griffin, and since it would never do for Murphy to think he was impressed, he added: “And the little Yankee charmer with the blonde curls, then? Where was she going?”

“Maidstone, to visit her aunt,” said Murphy, grinning. “Well, she was having trouble finding a seat, and a policeman’s meant to be helpful, isn’t he?”

“She must be uncommon helpless if she can’t find a seat on a train that’s never half-full,” said Griffin drily. He was still observing Mr Franklin’s unavailing attempts to summon a porter. On impulse the Inspector whistled, short and sharp, half a dozen porters looked round, and a jerk of his head directed their attention to Franklin’s trunk. In a moment it was on a barrow and being rolled out of the shed; Franklin, who had heard the whistle, raised an acknowledging finger to the Inspector.

“Much obliged to you, sir,” he said, and strode off after his trunk, valise in hand, open cape flapping. Griffin watched the rangy figure out of sight, and sighed. So much for his romantic imagination, he decided. Still …

“Duck out o’ water,” said Murphy carelessly, following his chief’s glance.

“Yes,” said Inspector Griffin, turning away. “Yes, constable, you’re probably right.”

Once outside the Customs shed, Mr Franklin paused to examine the railway timetable board; there were, he saw, five companies competing to carry him to London on Monday. After some deliberation, he decided on the London and North-western, which undertook to convey him to Euston in something over four hours, via Crewe and Rugby, for 29 shillings first-class. Just under six dollars, in fact. It was the fastest train, not that that could matter to a man who had not taken the special vestibuled boat-train for Atlantic passengers which was even now pulling out of Riverside Station with a shrilling of steam.

His porter was waiting at the cab rank, and on his inquiring whether the gentleman wished to travel by taxi or horse cab, Mr Franklin fixed him with a thoughtful grey eye and asked what the fare might be.

“Cab’s a shillin’ a mile, taxi’s sixpence a half-mile an’ twopence every sixth of a mile after that,” replied the porter.

“And how far is the Adelphi Hotel?” asked Mr Franklin.

This innocent question caused some consternation among the taxi-men and cab drivers; some thought it would be about a mile, if not slightly more, but there was a school of thought that held it was a bare mile by the shortest route. No one knew for certain, and finally the porter, a practical man who wanted to get back to the Customs shed for another client, settled the matter by spitting and declaring emphatically:

“It’ll cost you a shillin’, anyways.”

Mr Franklin nodded judiciously, indicated a horse-cab, and then paid the porter. He seemed to be having some difficulty with the massive British copper coins, to which he was plainly unaccustomed, and the tiny silver “doll’s-eye” threepence which he eventually bestowed; the porter sighed and reflected that this was a damned queer Yank; most of them scattered their money like water.

This was not lost on the cabby, who mentally abandoned the notion of suggesting that he take his passenger by way of Rodney Street – which would have added at least sixpence to the fare – there to gaze on Number 62, the birthplace of the late Mr Gladstone. Americans, in his experience, loved to see the sights, and would exclaim at the Grand Old Man’s childhood home and add as much as a shilling to the tip. An even better bet was the house in Brunswick Street where Nathaniel Hawthorne had kept his office as U.S. Consul in the middle of the previous century, but somehow, the cabby reflected morosely, this particular American didn’t look as though he’d be interested in the author of Tanglewood and The Scarlet Letter either.

The cab drew out of the quayside gates and up the long pier to the main street at the top, where the electric trams clanged and rumbled and a slow-moving stream of traffic, most of it horse-drawn, but with the occasional motor here and there, slowed the cab to a walk. The cabby noted that his fare was sitting forward, surveying the scene with the air of a man who is intent on drinking everything in, but giving no sign of whether he found it pleasing or otherwise. For the cabby’s money, central Liverpool was not an inspiring sight in any weather, with its bustling pavements and dirty over-crowded streets, and he was genuinely startled when after some little distance his passenger called out sharply to him to hold on. He was staring intently down the street which they were crossing, a long, grimy thoroughfare of chandlers” shops and warehouses; he was smiling, the wondering cabby noticed, in a strange, faraway fashion, as though seeing something that wasn’t there at all. He was humming, too, gently under his breath, as he surveyed the long seedy stretch of ugly buildings and cobbles on which the rain was beginning to fall.

“You want to go down there, sir?” the cabby inquired. “Takes us oot o’ the road to the Adelphi, like.”

“No,” said Mr Franklin. “Just looking.” He nodded at the street-sign, a plaque fixed high on the corner building. “Paradise Street.” And then to the cabby’s astonishment he laughed and sat back, quoting to himself in an absent-minded way:

As I was walking down Paradise Street,

Way-hay, blow the man down.

Thirty miles out from Liverpool town,

Gimme some time to blow the man down.

That had been Tracy’s song, Tracy the Irishman who had been a sailor. And there was Paradise Street itself, come on all unexpected, and nothing like the picture the song had conjured up when Tracy sang it, far from the sea. What had he imagined? Waving palms, blue water, sandy shores – and here were the cold grey stones of Liverpool’s sailortown. Very unexpected – but then England was sure to be full of unexpected, unimagined things. He became aware that the cabby, twisted round on his box, was viewing him with some concern; Mr Franklin nodded and gestured him to drive on.

A funny monkey, the driver decided; American interest in things English was, he knew from experience, liable to be eccentric, but Paradise Street …? Was this bloke one of those who might be enthused by a view of St George’s Hall, that startling showpiece of Liverpudlian architecture which they would see towards the end of their journey? Or if he didn’t care for mock Graeco-Roman temples five hundred feet long, would he respond to some useful information on the subject of the Walker Fine Art Gallery, with its striking sketch by Tintoretto and its portrait of Margaret de Valois, possibly by Holbein but more probably school of J. Clouet? The cabby, who had done his homework carefully for the benefit of tourists, stole another look at his fare’s impassive bronzed face and decided regretfully that he wouldn’t. Putting all hope of a substantial tip out of his head, he drove on to the Adelphi Hotel.

Here, he was rewarded with his shilling fare and another carefully-selected silver threepence, and Mr Franklin was escorted by porters into the luxurious marble and red plush interior of the lobby. He paused to survey the elegant little staircase leading to the main lounge, the mixed throng of affluent transit guests and local, no-nonsense business men in sober suits and watch-chains, the quiet efficiency of the Adelphi’s numerous hall staff – and was surveyed in his turn by the Irish head porter, who was as great an expert in his way as Inspector Griffin. No stick, no gloves, well-worn boots, and a decidedly colonial look to his clothing, the porter thought; his first question’ll be the price of a room.

“How much do you charge,” asked Mr Franklin quietly, “for a single room?”

“Four shillings and upwards, sir,” replied the porter. “That’s eighty cents in your own money,” and he favoured Mr Franklin with an avuncular smile, being one who had relatives in Philadelphia himself. “Just off the boat, sir? You’ll be ready for a bite of breakfast, then. In the coffee-room, sir; the gentlemen’s cloak-room is to your right. And the name, sir? Frank-lin, very good. Of –?”

“Ah … United States.”

“First-rate, sir. The boy will take up your luggage. You’ll be staying … two nights, sir. I see. Now, when you’ve breakfasted, if there’s any assistance I can give, you just inquire at my desk. Not at all, sir.” And as Mr Franklin hesitated, as though wondering whether to reach into his waistcoat pocket for another threepence, the porter generously solved the problem for him by turning to attend to an angular English lady, changing in that instant from a warm and genial father-figure into the respectfully impersonal butler to whom her ladyship was accustomed.

Mr Franklin left his cape and hat in the cloak-room, warily examined the array of flacons of lavender water, Hammam’s Bouquet, Mennen’s toilet powder, and Eno’s Fruit Salts laid out for exterior and internal refreshment, and compromised by washing his hands. He should have stayed over in New York, at the Belmont or the Clarendon, to get the feel of these places, but the city had been bursting at the seams for the Hudson-Fulton festivities celebrating the three hundredth anniversary of the former’s discovery of Manhattan, and the hundredth of the latter’s steam navigation; consequently, there had been no rooms to be had. Besides, he had had a vague desire to come fresh to England from where he had been; an odd ambition which he would have had difficulty in defining.

He ate an excellent breakfast in the cosy coffee-room, sitting at a little window table and watching the constant stream of traffic and pedestrians in the street outside. He deliberately ate slowly, conscious of a mounting feeling of excitement – which he found strange in himself, for he was not normally an excitable man. Then he returned to the lobby, and questioned the attentive porter.

“Guide books to London and East Anglia, sir? Sure, now I can get those for you. And a large-scale map of the county of Norfolk?” The porter’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “You’ll want the ordnance survey – yes, I dare say I can get that, too. It may take an hour or so, but if you’re going out … you are, for a look at the town. Capital, sir.”

Mr Franklin thanked him, and set off to tour the city on foot, content to walk at random, watching and listening, standing on street corners to observe the passing crowds, trying to accustom his ear to the strange, soft mumbling accent of the Liverpudlians, observing the magisterial police on traffic duty, spending five minutes listening to an altercation between a stout woman and a street trader, riding on an electric tram and on the famous overhead railway, and generally presenting the appearance of an interested wanderer absorbing the sights and sounds around him.

He lunched in a public house off soup and sandwiches, washed down by a pint of heavy dark beer which he found rather cloyingly sweet, spent another couple of hours in apparently aimless strolling, and returned to the Adelphi as dusk was falling. There he dined, and after calculating that the five shillings, or one dollar, which the dinner cost, still left him with a comfortable balance from the ten dollars which, the Mauretania’s purser had assured him, was all that a first-class traveller need spend per day in England, retired to his room.

Here the guide books which the porter had obtained were waiting for him, but he ignored them in favour of the large ordnance survey map of Norfolk, which he spread out on the bed and began to examine with close attention. For half an hour he pored over it, the dark face intent as he traced over the fine print and symbols denoting such detailed items as railway cuttings, plantations, marshes, forest paths, churches with spires (and with towers), historic sites, and the like, and the quaint, pastoral place-names, Attleborough, Sheringham, Swaffham, Methwold, and Castle Lancing.

Mr Franklin smiled, and lay down on the bed, and for another half-hour he was quite still, stretched out, hands behind his head, the dark grey eyes staring up at the ceiling, the gentle mouth beneath the black moustache slightly open. An onlooker would have thought he was asleep, but presently he came swiftly to his feet, and went purposefully to the work of undressing and preparing himself for bed.

He unpacked his few toilet articles from his valise, took off his jacket, removed the money-belt round his waist and methodically counted its contents – one hundred and ninety-eight gold sovereigns, which was a considerable sum, even for a transatlantic passenger, and had caused the American Express clerk in New York to purse his lips doubtfully when Mr Franklin, changing his dollars, had insisted on carrying so much on his person. If Inspector Griffin, or the Irish head porter, had been privileged to peep into Mr Franklin’s room they, too, might have been mildly surprised. But they would not have thought anything particularly out of the way until the moment when Mr Franklin, having stood for several minutes contemplating his battered trunk where it stood against the wall, gave way apparently to a sudden impulse, and unbuckled the straps which secured it. Even then there was nothing strange in his behaviour, or in the way he paused, glancing round the room with its homely fittings, the shaded light, the marble wash-stand with its bowl and ewer, the floral wallpaper and patterned carpet, the little notice informing guests of mealtimes and fire precautions; nor even in the way he meditatively touched the linen pillow and embroidered bed-spread, like a man reassuring himself of his surroundings, before he turned to the trunk again and threw back the lid.

At that point they might have taken notice, for the contents of Mr Franklin’s trunk were, to say the least, slightly unusual for a guest in a Liverpool hotel. Not that there was anything about them to excite Inspector Griffin’s professional attention; there was no contraband, no illicit goods, nothing to which, in those easygoing days, even a law officer could have taken exception, although he might have made a mental note that Mr Franklin was a man of unusual background and, possibly, behaviour.

The principal object in the trunk, taking up most of its space, was a saddle – but the kind of saddle that would have made an English hunting squire rub his eyes and exclaim with disgust. It was what the Mexicans call a charro saddle, heavily ornamented and studded with metal-work, very high both before and behind, and therefore a sure recipe (in the eyes of the English squire) for a broken pelvis if its owner were unwise enough to use it over hedges. There was also a blanket, of Indian pattern, neatly folded, and a heavy canvas slicker, or cape; a very worn and stained wideawake hat, a pair of heavy leather gauntlets, a pair of battered boots in sore need of repair, a large drinking mug of cheap metal, and several packets of papers done up in oil-skin.

Mr Franklin, squatting in front of the trunk in his long underwear – he had discarded his newly-bought nightshirt on the first day of his voyage – handled each item in turn, very carefully, running his long fingers over their surfaces, caressingly almost as a man will handle old things which are familiar friends. He spun the big rowels on the spurred boots and put them back, smiling a little, rapped his knuckle on the mug, balanced the packets of papers in his hands, and restored them to their places. There were half a dozen books in the trunk; he leafed through them slowly – Old Mortality, Oliver Twist, Humphrey Clinker, Baedeker’s Guide to England, the 1897 edition; the poetical works of Wordsworth, George Borrow’s Lavengro, Huckleberry Finn, the complete works of Shakespeare.

He read the fly-leaf on the Shakespeare, although he knew the inscription off by heart, the spidery writing in faded ink: “To Luke Franklin, in the earnest hope that he may find profit, pleasure, and peace of mind in its pages, from his affectionate father”. The signature was “Jno. Franklin, 1858”. His grandfather’s gift to his own father; he could hear the old man’s voice reading from it – Luke Franklin had loved best of all to recite Falstaff’s part, chuckling over the grosser jests, rolling Shakespeare’s rich periods over his tongue … “when I was of thy years I was not an eagle’s talon in the waist; I could have crept me into any alderman’s thumb ring.” He had wondered what an alderman was, and Luke Franklin had told him, on a soft and starry summer night when they camped on the road to El Paso; he had been just a boy then, lying staring into the fire, listening while his father explained that it was a corruption of “eolderman”, an old English word – “it’s the same as elder, an elder man, an alderman, who is a kind of city councilman back in England. They still have them there.” His father had resumed his reading aloud, and the boy had gone to sleep, to awake in the pearly dawn, beside a dead fire, with his father still croaking away through the Battle of Shrewsbury, oblivious of time and place, lost in the magic of the play.

Mr Franklin sighed. Shakespeare and he had travelled some long roads since then, into some strange places. There had been the time in the silver camp when he had read Othello to a group of amusement-starved miners, and old Davis, his partner, had burst out: “Why, that damnfool nigger! Couldn’t he have asked around? Couldn’t he see they were makin’ a jackass out of him?” Or the night in Hole-in-the-Wall when he had lent the book to Cassidy, the last man on earth who might have been expected to appreciate the Swan of Avon, but he had studied away at it, the broad, beefy face frowning as he spelled out the words, and Franklin had caught the whispered mutter: “Before these eyes take themselves to slumber, I’ll do good service, or lie in the ground for it, aye, or go to death. But I’ll pay it as valorously as I may. That will I surely do.” Yes, Cassidy might never have heard of Harfleur or the Salic Law, but he could understand that kind of talk, all right. Wonder where he was now? Where were any of them, for that matter?

Well, he was here, in Liverpool, Lancashire County, England, quarter of the way round the world from Hole-in-the-Wall, or El Paso, or the Tonopah diggings, or the Nebraska farm that he could barely remember. Already it seemed far away, that other world, in mind as well as distance. Only the instinct of the wanderer, whose home and effects travelled with him, whose whole being could be contained in one old trunk, had prompted him to hold on to all these relics – not the books, but the trail gear. Why hadn’t he abandoned it? Habit? Sentiment, perhaps? Insurance? Mr Franklin had to admit that he did not know.

He replaced the books, paused, and then reached under the saddle and drew out the belt with its scabbards and the two. 44 Remingtons; he unsheathed them and weighed them in his hand, one after the other, the light catching the long slim silver barrels. Like the Shakespeare, they had belonged to his father; like the Shakespeare, they were rather old and out of date; but again, he told himself, like the Shakespeare they would probably outlast most modern innovations. He rolled the cylinders, listening to the soft oily clicks of the mechanism; then he frowned, broke open the chambers, and carefully shook the little brass shells out into his palm. Loaded pistols in Liverpool were as incongruous as … as Shakespeare in Hole-in-the-Wall.

Dropping the cartridges into an old cloth, he knotted it and stowed it under the saddle with the empty pistols. Then he closed the trunk, buckled its straps securely, looked round the room again, rolled into bed, and turned out the light.

2

Mr Franklin travelled down to London on the Monday afternoon; noting that the railway company hedged its bets by giving the journey time as “from four to five and a half hours” he armed himself with every paper and periodical that the head porter could find and walked the short distance to Lime Street with his luggage borne behind him on the hotel barrow. Here he resisted the offer of a five-guinea book of rail tickets for 1000 miles-worth of first-class travel, buying only a single, and found himself an empty carriage, rather dusty and redolent of stale cigar smoke and Victorian grandeur.

For the first few miles there was nothing to see except the smoke-grimed roofs of Liverpool under heavy rain; Mr Franklin wondered why so much downpour didn’t have the effect of cleaning the city, and concluded that the rain was probably as dirty as the buildings. He turned at last to his newspapers, and settled himself comfortably to discover what England, the great mother of Empire, was concerning herself with that week-end; it seemed to him essential, if he was to accustom himself to his new surroundings.

The news was mixed and, to him, confusing. Mr Cody had crashed his aeroplane at Doncaster on Saturday and had emerged from the wreckage congratulating himself on his amazing good luck; further evidence of the flying mania was contained in a report of a race at Clapton Ladies Swimming Club, in which the fair competitors had taken the water equipped with model flying machines. There were columns about the Budget which had been introduced months before, but was still exciting heated debate, although it was all Greek to Mr Franklin – he noted a prominent advertisement on a facing page strongly recommending him to write to an insurance company for advice on how to provide against Mr Lloyd George’s new death duties. Jack Johnson, the highly unpopular black boxing champion, who had recently delighted the sporting public by his failure to defeat a rising young British heavyweight named Victor McLaglen, had somewhat restored his laurels by knocking out the formidable Stanley Ketchell in nine rounds; a French scientist, M. Flammarion, was proposing to harness the internal heat of the earth as a source of energy, Mr Bernard Shaw had made a witty speech on photography as an art form, and a Plymouth Rock hen had had its broken leg set at the London Hospital.

On the lighter side, questions had been asked in the House of Commons about the forcible feeding of suffragettes; the German army were reported to be buying flying torpedoes from Sweden, and El Roghi, a pretender to the Moroccan throne, had been exhibited in an iron cage at Fez and subsequently executed. Spain was at war with the Riffians.

Having brought himself abreast of current events, Mr Franklin studied the advertising pages. Here he was invited to subscribe to Cuban Telephones, Val d’Or Rubber, and Brazilian Railways; his custom was also solicited for Mexican Hair Renewer, Poudre d’Amour, Dr Deimel’s celebrated porous undergarments, and the new chocolate “massolettes” costing a penny-farthing each and containing “ten million beneficent microbes” guaranteed to kill all pernicious germs and ensure perfect health if taken twice daily.

For his intellectual nourishment he was offered H. G. Wells” latest novel, Anna Veronica, E. Phillips Oppenheim’s Mr Marx’s Secret and a sensational new work entitled All At Sea: a novel of Life and Love on a Liner, by none other than Lily Langtry, whose outstanding attractions, displayed in an accompanying photograph, suggested to Mr Franklin that she was liable to outsell Mr Wells and Mr Oppenheim on appearance alone, whatever her prose was like. Her most serious competitor was obviously the Countess of Cardigan, whose Recollections promised a feast of scandal and included (according to the reviewer) “at least two stories which should not have been printed”.

Mr Franklin betrayed his sad literary taste by laying the reviews aside unfinished, and taking up a recent back number of The Strand which the porter had particularly recommended, since it contained a new story by Conan Doyle which he judged would be to Mr Franklin’s taste. And it might have been, for it was a spirited piece about a young prize-fighter hired by a vengeful beauty to beat up her brute of a husband, the Lord of Falconbridge, but the train had now left the grubby environs of Liverpool, and Mr Franklin was more interested in his first view of the English countryside. A glance at Baedeker informed him that he was passing through that fertile country famous for Cheshire cheese, and that the Welsh hills might be seen to the right, and like any dutiful tourist he sat looking out on the green fields and neat hedgerows, thinking how small and tidy and well-ordered they looked, like a little model toyland that a giant might have laid out for his children to play with.

Whether he enjoyed the prospect it would have been difficult for an onlooker to say, for he sat impassively surveying it, with his eyes far away, the dark face reflected in the carriage window, and did not even stir for the best part of an hour, when the spires of Lichfield came into view. The birthplace of Dr Johnson, the scene (at the George Hotel) of the “Beaux’ Stratagem”, according to Baedeker, but any philosophic reflections which this information might have inspired were interrupted by the arrival in his carriage, when the train had halted, of a beautifully-dressed old gentleman with a glossy top hat, an impressive white moustache spreading over his claret-enriched cheeks, and a copy of The Times in his hand.

He greeted Mr Franklin with a resounding “Good afternoon to you”, spread an enormous white handkerchief on the opposite corner seat, and carefully lowered himself on to it, remarking:

“The condition of modern trains is absolutely damnable. Dust an inch thick, haven’t been cleaned since the Jubilee by the look of them, might as well travel in a coal-cart. I should have gone on the Midland, but there isn’t a dam’ thing to choose between ’em, I dare say. Why the devil can’t they have de luxe trains, like the Continentals, eh? No wonder traffic’s falling off – but it’s all of a piece, of course. Everything’s running down, as I expect you’ve noticed.”

Gathering that a reply was called for, Mr Franklin considered his informant steadily and confessed that he was not in a position to make comparisons, since he was new to the country.

“Indeed?” said the old gentleman, and gave him back an equally steady stare. “An American. I see.” He considered this. “Well, filthy as they are, I suppose our trains could be worse. No doubt the French railways aren’t a whit better, if one comes right down to it, which I for one have no intention of ever doing. I’ve no experience of your American system, of course, but I believe it’s quite extensive.”

Mr Franklin, watching the platforms slide by as the train pulled out, said he believed it was, and the old gentleman shook out his Times and remarked that he didn’t suppose railways would last much longer anyway, what with these damned motor cars, to say nothing of aeroplanes; one thing was certain, that the combination of infernal machines would certainly mean the end of decent horsemanship, and did Mr Franklin ride? Mr Franklin admitted that he did.

“Hunt?” inquired the old gentleman, hopefully.

“Occasionally.”

“Where, would you tell me?”

“Colorado, mostly.”

The old gentleman looked doubtful. “Didn’t know they had hounds there.” He frowned. “What d’you hunt?”

“Bear,” said Mr Franklin, and after a look of surprise the old gentleman laughed heartily and said, of course, he meant game, big game. Well, that was another matter; he had done something in the bear line himself, in India, and enjoyed it, in moderation, not like these damned Germans, who according to the shooting correspondent of The Field were going off to Spitzbergen and Greenland and slaughtering every bear in sight, which was just about what you would expect.

“If you’re hoping to shoot in England, I’m afraid you won’t find much sport, though,” he went on. “Bad year for grouse, you know. Too few birds. Nesting badly, as they’re bound to, of course, considering the way they’re over-driven. No one seems to know how to look after a moor these days; like everything else, going to the dogs. Sport especially – why, in my young days, if anyone had suggested to me that an American polo team – yes, sir, your own Yankee riders – could come over here and open our eyes to the game, well, I should have laughed at him. But that’s what they’ve done, sir – saw it myself, at Hurlingham. It’s this new technique – meeting the ball. Magnificent! Changed the whole game. Well, you remember what it used to be – when the ball was coming at your goal, what did you do, eh?”

Mr Franklin considered this gravely, but the question was fortunately rhetorical.

“You swung round, sir,” cried the old gentleman, “and you hit an orthodox back-hander. But not your fellows – no, they come to meet the ball, head-on, and damn the risk of missing at the gallop! Splendid! Mind you, there were those who didn’t care for it, thought it too chancy – but that’s our trouble. Hide-bound. Timorous. I was all for it, myself. If we won’t change, won’t show some enterprise, where shall we be? Polo’s no different from anything else, I’d have thought. But we seem to have lost the spirit, you see.” He sighed, shaking his head, and since Mr Franklin offered no consolation, the old gentleman presently retired into his paper, leaving the American to continue gazing out of the window at the rainy green country speeding past.

He was not allowed to continue his silent contemplation for long, however; the old gentleman discovered a news item about the defence budget, and drew Mr Franklin’s attention to the deplorable fact that the British Army seemed to be non-existent and was receiving only £27 million for maintenance against £38 million that the Germans were spending.

“And already they spend half as much on their navy as we do ourselves – depend upon it, they’re greedy for empire, and we’ll find ourselves face to face with them before very long. It’s this damned Liberal Government – I take it you don’t have a Liberal Party in America? Well, you can thank God for it. I must say your chap Roosevelt seems quite admirable – I’d love to see Asquith at the head of the Rough Riders, I don’t think!” The old gentleman laughed derisively. “Fool seems to think it will be time enough to arm when we have the Kaiser at our throats! Immortal ass! But what can anyone look for in a party that seems bent on our ruin, helping the blasted Socialists to get on their feet – they’ll find that that’s a plant they’ve nourished to their own undoing, one of these fine days, let me tell you. In the meantime, they curry favour with the masses with their old age pensions, and use the country’s parlous lack of defence as an excuse for bleeding us dry. But of course you know about the Budget …”

If Mr Franklin had been wise he would have said, untruthfully, yes, that he knew all about the Budget, but since he kept a polite silence his indignant informant took the opportunity to dilate on the iniquities of Mr Lloyd George, the Liberal Chancellor, who, aided and abetted by “young Churchill”, of whom the old gentleman had expected better things, was proposing to increase death duties by one-third, raise income tax to one shilling and twopence in the pound, tax undeveloped land and unearned increases in land values, and generally subject the country to a flood of legislation which any right-thinking person could see was downright communistic.

“The Lords will throw it out, I imagine – which is what the little snake is after, of course. He wants them to provoke a crisis, and break ’em. God knows where it will end – in the ruin of the property-owning class, undoubtedly, and then heaven help us. You don’t have a House of Lords in America. Well, you may be right; ours have their hearts in the right place, but they’re damned short of intelligence. No match for the Welsh Wizard, anyway.” And the old gentleman retired glumly to his paper, emerging only once more to remark on the controversy about the North Pole; personally he doubted whether either Dr Cook or Commander Peary had reached it, and much good it would do anyone if they had. Thereafter he fell asleep, snoring peacefully in his corner with the fine white moustache fluttering gently with his breathing; Mr Franklin, absorbed in his own thoughts, continued to gaze out silently on the passing scene, watching the shadows of the trees lengthening in the hazy October afternoon.

It was dark when they reached London at last, after the full five-and-a-half hours conceded by the railway company, the train clanking slowly through mile after mile of suburbs with their yellow-flaring windows, of dark deserted warehouses and factories, of long wet streets with their flickering lights, of black roofs and viaducts – that same prospect which another newly-arrived American, Henry James, had found so ugly but delightful a generation before. Possibly Mr Franklin was meditating that this was the greatest city that the world had ever seen, the most important capital of earth since ancient Rome, the heart of an empire dominating a quarter of the globe – fourteen miles long by ten miles wide, and housing more than seven million people, half as many again as New York: if so, he gave no sign of it, thought the old gentleman, who had wakened silently and was watching him through half-open eyes. Interesting face, for all its impassivity, purposeful and yet curiously innocent, with those steady eyes that obviously saw everything and yet gave away nothing. Difficult chap to know, probably; not over-given to opinion, but he’d speak his mind succinctly when he had to. Not a city man, obviously – Colorado, of course, he’d said as much. Tough customer? No, that wasn’t right – not with that almost gentle mouth and those long, slender hands. Not weak, though, by any means. And like Inspector Griffin and the Adelphi porter, the old gentleman wondered idly who he might be, and what brought him to England. Interesting bird.

“Give me a call if you feel like a week-end’s shooting.” As the train rolled slowly into Euston, and they gathered up their hand-luggage, the old gentleman drew a card from his waist-pocket. “Turf Club will always find me. Can’t promise you any bear or bison, but partridge is better than nothing, eh? Good evening to you.”

And to his astonishment, the old gentleman was rewarded first by a lift of the brows as Mr Franklin took the card, and then by a surprisingly bright, almost embarrassed smile.

“Thank you, sir. That’s most companionable of you.”

Extraordinary word to use, thought the old gentleman, as he left the carriage; American, of course; rather pleasant. Hadn’t exchanged cards, or even given his name. Still, Colorado … different conventions.

Mr Franklin left the station in a taxi, having made his customary comparison of fares and been astonished to find that the motor was fourpence a mile cheaper than the horse. He had never, in fact, ridden in an automobile before; possibly he felt it was more in keeping with the metropolitan atmosphere. The Cockney cabby, having weighed up his fare with an expert eye, asked where he would like to go, and received the disconcerting reply: “The best hotel convenient to Chancery Lane.”

“You mean – any ’otel, sir? Well, now, there’s the Savoy, in the Strand, which is about the best in London, but just a bit farver on, there’s the noo Waldorf, which is first-class, an’ on’y arf the price. Closer to Chancery Lane, an’ all, or there’s –”

“The Waldorf,” said Mr Franklin, “will do.”

“Right you are, sir. First time in London, sir? Ah, an’ from America, very nice. Then we could go round by White’all, if you like, not far aht the way, an’ let you see a few o’ the sights …”

And taking his fare’s nod for consent, the cabby cranked his machine into life and set off, shouting above the roar of his engine and the traffic, in his role as self-appointed guide. It was, he knew, an exciting ride for a stranger, and from experience he could guess to a nicety what the American made of it. First, that the streets were the most crowded he’d ever seen in his life, with the big omnibuses, taxis and cars, the two-wheel hansoms and the growlers, and the astonishing number of cyclists, including ladies, even at this time of day, weaving expertly through the traffic in their hobble skirts and hats tied down with scarves; second, that the noise, to which the cabby added with his running fire of incomprehensible comment, was deafening; third, that the buildings seemed uncommonly close together, and the streets far too narrow for their volume of traffic. That was what they always said – so when you’d given them their fill of jammed pavements, brilliantly-lit shop fronts, cursing drivers, and honking horns, and topped it off with a mild altercation with a helmeted policeman, just for local colour – then you wheeled them suddenly into one of the great majestic squares, with its tall buildings and towering trees above the central square of green, where the couples sauntered under the strings of lights, and it was possible for the taxi to crawl slowly along the inner pavement, to give the passenger the best view of the laughing girls tripping by on the arms of their top-hatted young men, with an organ-grinder going strong on the corner, and the constant stream of pleasure-seekers round the entrances of the brilliantly-lit hotels. The cabby thanked God for London’s squares – depending what you wanted you could give ’em beautiful lamp-lit peace, with the throb of the metropolis muffled by the magnificence of the trees, or all the bustle and glitter of the richest city in the world, or the dignified quiet of the residential squares with their opulent fronts and the carriages waiting patiently and perhaps a glimpse of a liveried footman pacing swiftly with a message from one great mansion to another. Variety, that was what they wanted – provided it wasn’t raining.

This particular Yank wasn’t like some of ’em, though; the cabby was used to an incessant yammer of nasal question, with demands for Buckingham Palace, but this bloke just sat sober and quiet, taking it in – judging to a nicety, the cabby decided to limit his diversionary route to Trafalgar Square and the Embankment, after first exposing his fare to the bedlam of St Martin’s Lane, where the theatres were going in, and he could feast his eyes on everything from ladies glittering with diamonds and swathed in furs, sailing in stately fashion up the steps with their opera-cloaked escorts, to the raucous Cockney boys and girls of the gallery crowds, dressed in their raffish best, cackling like jackdaws, or the stage-door johnnies with their capes and tiles rakishly tilted, monocles a-gleam for the expensively painted and coiffured beauties sauntering in pairs – hard to tell ’em apart from the duchesses, the cabby always thought, even when they were plying their trade after the show at the Empire Promenade in Leicester Square. He said as much to Mr Franklin, who nodded gravely.

“Trafalgar Square,” said the cabby presently, and watched curiously as his fare surveyed the famous lions around the sparkling fountain and the immense pillar of Lord Nelson’s monument; oh, well, thought the cabby, you can’t please everyone, but we’ll startle even this one in a minute. Which he did by driving down Whitehall, wheeling out on to the Embankment, and stopping sharply; it was a cunning move, to confront the unwary suddenly with the magnificent sweep of Thames, and beyond it the great electric-jewelled pile of the Houses of Parliament, with the massive structure of Big Ben towering over all, framed against the glowing night sky. It never failed to win excited gasps, especially if the cabby was clever enough to time his run down Whitehall just as the chimes were beginning; well, why not, he thought; that’s England, after all, in everyone’s imagination.

Mr Franklin did not gasp, but sat while eight o’clock struck, the great notes booming across the water like an imperial benediction; then he nodded slowly, which the cabby rightly guessed was the equivalent of three cheers followed by an ecstatic swoon. He must have been impressed, for when they got to the Waldorf he paid the cabby’s three shillings without a murmur, and even added a threepenny tip.

It was as he was turning away from the taxi that the American found himself face to face with a young woman; he stepped politely aside, she stepped with him, he moved again, raising a hand in apology, only to find her still blocking his way. Baffled, Mr Franklin stopped, and the young woman pulled what looked like a small magazine from a sheaf under her arm, and thrust it at him, announcing:

“This is a copy of the Englishwoman, the official journal of the suffragette movement. Will you please buy it, and support the cause of women’s rights?”

And while Mr Franklin still hesitated the young woman turned her head and announced loudly: “Votes for women! Support the cause of women’s suffrage! Votes for women!” Then to Mr Franklin: “Sixpence, please!”

Like her first announcement, it was a command rather than a request, and Mr Franklin paused with his hand half-way to his pocket, to study this peremptory young lady. One glance was enough to tell him that her voice was exactly in character; she was tall and commanding and entirely assured, and the hazel eyes that looked at him from beneath the brim of her stylish broad-brimmed hat were as clear and direct as his own. They were wide-set beneath a broad brow; the nose, like the face, was a shade too long for beauty, but she was undeniably handsome – really very handsome indeed, he decided, with that wide, generous mouth and perfect complexion. The expensive sealskin coat effectively concealed her figure, but Franklin could guess it was beautiful; the grace with which she moved and stood proclaimed it. He caught a drift of perfume, and possibly it was mere male susceptibility that made him not only draw a sixpence from his fob, but favour her with a longer speech than he had addressed to anyone since landing in England.

“Sixpence is a good deal of money for a paper that I never heard of. I mayn’t like it, you know; can you tell me any good reason why I should?”

He got a question back in return – plainly it was a stock one. “Do you think that you alone are entitled to the vote? Simply because you are a man? Votes for women!”

“But I’m not entitled to the vote – not in this country, at any rate. I’m tolerably certain of that.”

The young lady frowned irritably. “You’re an American,” she said, almost indignantly, and raised her voice again for the benefit of passers-by. “Our leader, Mrs Pankhurst, is in America at this moment, spreading our message among our American sisters, and among those American men who have the intelligence and decency to listen.” She turned her attention directly to Mr Franklin once more – really quite unusually handsome, he decided. “Are you one of those – or perhaps you believe that the land of the free is free for men only?”

“In my experience it’s free only to those who can afford to pay for it,” he said smiling, but the lady was not there to be amused.

“Spare us your transatlantic humour, please! Will you buy a paper or will you not? Votes for women!”

“Before such persuasive salesmanship, I reckon I can’t refuse,” he said, holding out his sixpence. “Or should it be saleswomanship? I don’–”

A presence loomed up at his elbow, heavy, whiskered, and officially bowler-hatted. In a deep patient voice it addressed the lady: “Now then, miss, please to move along. You’re annoying this gentleman …”

“Oh, but she’s not, really,” said Mr Franklin, and the lady shot him a glance before directing a withering stare at the plain-clothesman.

“I am entitled to sell our newspaper in the street, like any other vendor.” She might have been addressing a poor relation whom she disliked. “If you are a policeman, be good enough to give me your name, rank, and number, since you are not wearing a uniform.”

“Sergeant Corbett, Metropolitan Police, B Division, and I must ask you to move along at once, miss –”

“And I am not ‘miss’,” said the young woman loudly. “If you must address me by title, I am ‘my lady’.”

The illogicality of this retort from a suffragette passed Mr Franklin by for the moment, but he was naturally intrigued, not having encountered nobility before. She looked expensive, but otherwise quite normal. The policeman blinked, but made a good recovery.

“That’s as may be,” he said. “You’re not wearing a uniform either. And entitled to sell you may be, but you’re not entitled to cause an obstruction, which is what you’re doing.”

It was true; a small group had formed on the already crowded Aldwych pavement, some amused, but most of the men, Mr Franklin noted, either contemptuous or hostile. Aware of her audience, the suffragette raised her voice again.

“Another example of police harassment! You are interfering with a public right! I am breaking no law, and you are deliberately seeking to provoke –”

“You’re creating a public nuisance,” said the sergeant brusquely. “Now you move along, or –”

“Move me along if you dare! I will not be bullied! Votes for women!”

“Really, sergeant, I wasn’t being bothered a bit,” Mr Franklin was beginning.

“Be quiet!” snapped the young lady, and to the sergeant: “Arrest me, if I have done wrong! If the peaceful distribution of literature has become a crime in England, let us see you punish it! Votes for women! End the tyranny of forced feeding! Votes for –”

“That’ll do!” shouted the sergeant, who was plainly reluctant to try the physical conclusions which this violent female was obviously bent on provoking. “I’ll warn you just once more –”

“Freedom and equality among the sexes!” cried the lady triumphantly.

“Officer, may I say a word?” interposed Mr Franklin, and the unaccustomed accent, in the gentle drawl which Inspector Griffin had found so attractive, caused the sergeant to hesitate, and even the flashing young lady, her sheaf of papers brandished to assist denunciation, paused in full flood. “This is probably my fault,” Mr Franklin explained. “The young … her ladyship, that is, asked me to buy a paper – very civilly, I’m sure – and I asked her what it was about. She still hasn’t told me,” he went on, with a slight bow in her direction, “and I’ld like to know. Really, I would. So I just wish to say to her, with your permission, that if she would do me the honour of accompanying me into my hotel there, I’ld be charmed to continue our discussion in a less public place.”

It was not, perhaps, the happiest way of putting it, but it might have passed if the cabby, a gleeful spectator, had not supplied his own ribald interpretation, with a raucous guffaw; someone in the crowd sniggered, and a voice chortled: “I’ll bet he will, too!” The lady, either genuinely indignant, or seizing another opportunity to take offence, flushed to her handsome cheekbones; then she went pale, a look of utter scorn came into her fine eyes, and before the sergeant could interfere she had exclaimed: “You insolent blackguard!” and slapped Mr Franklin resoundingly across the face.

The onlookers gasped. “Right!” roared the sergeant, lunging ponderously. “That’s assault!” His hand went out, but before it could grip her arm his own wrist was caught in sinewy fingers.

“I’m sorry,” said Mr Franklin quietly. He inclined his head towards the lady, who was preparing to resist arrest. “I meant no offence, and I beg the lady’s pardon. She misunderstood me – but that’s a woman’s privilege, wouldn’t you say, sergeant?” He released the policeman’s hand, and smiled into her speechless glare. “You know – like hitting someone, without the risk of being hit back.” He held out the sixpence. “Now, may I buy a copy of your ladyship’s paper, please? If I can’t have the privilege of your personal explanation, I can always read about it.”

There was a pause, and someone in the crowd murmured sympathetically – though on whose behalf it was difficult to say. The sergeant hesitated. Not so, however, the militant scion of the aristocracy, who could see herself being baulked of martyrdom by this odiously placatory colonial. She drew herself up with that icy dignity which only generations of aristocratic breeding and nursery teas can produce.

“You can have the bloody lot for nothing!” she snapped, throwing the bundle of papers at him, and before the sergeant could react to this further outrage against public order, she had turned on her heel with a swirl of expensive fur and vanished into the crowd.

“Here!” exclaimed the sergeant, and half-started to follow her, but thought better of it: arresting suffragettes was no fun at the best of times, and he honestly doubted his capacity to handle that one without considerable loss of dignity and possibly some tufts of hair as well. He turned reprovingly to Mr Franklin. “That’s what you get for being tolerant! You shouldn’t encourage ’em, sir; they’re a dam’ nuisance. She’ll be smashin’ shop windows with a hammer tomorrow, like as not. Vicious little hooligans. She didn’t cut your face, sir? Some of ’em ain’t above using brass knuckles.”

Mr Franklin, who had been gazing thoughtfully along the pavement where the lady had disappeared, became aware of his questioner. “No – no, I’m fine. Curious, though.” He frowned. “I thought they liked to fight it out. She didn’t. I wonder why?”

The sergeant gave him a hard stare, shrugged, and moved off heavily along the pavement. Mr Franklin stood for a moment, sighed, shook his head, pocketed his sixpence, stooped to pick up one of the fallen papers, folded it, and walked into the Waldorf Hotel.

3

At an hour when most of the Waldorf’s guests were still asleep, or, if they were unusually energetic, were thinking of ringing for their early morning tea, Mr Franklin was striding briskly east along Fleet Street. It would have interested that student of men and appearances, Inspector Griffin of Liverpool, to note that the clothes which had seemed a trifle incongruous among the Mauretania’s conservative passengers, were in no way out of place in cosmopolitan London, E.C.; but then as now, one would have had to be an eccentric dresser indeed to attract even a second glance in the English capital, which had seen everything. The inspector might also have noticed a difference in the American’s manner; the slightly hesitant interest of the tourist had gone, and Mr Franklin no longer lingered on corners or spent time glancing about him; it was as though the anonymity which the great city confers on visitors had somehow reassured him. Also, he walked like a man who is going somewhere, which a London tourist seldom does. Now and then he would refer to a pocket map and glance at a street sign, but he never asked his way.

His first call was at the American Express Company’s office at 84 Queen Street, and Inspector Griffin might have been mildly surprised by the deference with which he was received there, once he had given his name and satisfactory proofs of identification – unusually conclusive proofs, as it happened. It was the manager’s private office for Mr Franklin, a comfortable chair, the offer of a cigar, and the exclusive attention of the manager in person, with his deputy standing by. Mr Franklin stated his requirements – and at that point Inspector Griffin’s jaw would have dropped as far as the manager’s did.

“Fifty thousand pounds?” said the manager, staring. “In gold?”

Mr Franklin nodded.

“But,” said the manager, blinking. “But … but … I don’t quite understand …”

“New York handled the transfer, surely. They told me everything would be in order.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly!” The manager hastened to reassure him. “Your account is perfectly in order – no question about that. Your credit is … well, I don’t have to tell you, sir. But … gold. That’s rather – unexpected, sir. And such a vast sum … an enormous sum.”

“You’ve got it, though?”

“Got it? Why … why, yes … that’s to say, I can get it.” The manager shot a look at his assistant, and found his own astonishment mirrored on the other’s face. “But we’re not used … that is, it would take an hour or two … the banks … so forth. We don’t hold such a sum on the premises, you understand.” He hesitated. “You would want it in … sovereigns?”

“Or eagles. I don’t mind. Just so it’s gold.”

“I see,” said the manager, although plainly he didn’t do anything of the kind. “Well, now …” He frowned at his blotter and pulled his lip, “Uh … Mr Franklin … forgive me, but it’s an unusual request – most unusual. I mean, we like to help our customers every way we can – especially a fellow-American like yourself, you understand. We try to advise, if… what I mean is, if you want it in gold, fine – but if you’ll excuse my saying so, it’s a hell of a lot of hard cash, when I could arrange for a cheque, or a letter of credit, for any amount you like, at any bank in Great Britain.” He paused hopefully, meeting the steady grey eyes across the desk. “I mean, if you would care to give me some idea, you know … what you needed the money for …” He waited, looking helpful.

“To dispose of,” said Mr Franklin amiably, and there was a long silence, in which manager and deputy stared at him baffled. Finally the manager said:

“Well, sir, you’re the customer. I’ll get you the money, but … well, let’s see …” He scribbled hastily, calculating. “Fifty by ten by a hundred … holy smoke, there’s enough to fill a suitcase, supposing you could lift it – it’ll weigh about half a ton!”

“Not nearly,” said Mr Franklin, rising. “When shall I call back for it?”

He left a bewildered and vaguely alarmed American Express office behind him, and there was close re-examination of the credentials he had presented, and anxious consultation between the two officials.

“Could we stall him and cable New York?” wondered the deputy.

“No point,” said the manager. “They can’t tell us anything we don’t know already. There’s his letter, with McCall’s signature on it – and I know McCall’s fist like I know my own. He’s given us his thumbprint, and it checks; his description fits, he has the numbers right … New York couldn’t add a damned thing short of a reference from Teddy Roosevelt.”

“But – gold?”

“Why not? If you’re as rich as this bird – hell, he’s probably Carnegie’s nephew. Get me Coutts’, will you?”

And such is the efficiency of the admirable American Express organization that when Mr Franklin returned shortly after eleven o’clock he found waiting for him four heavy leather handbags, their flaps open to reveal a tight-packed mass of dull gold coin in each, a manager in a state of bursting curiosity, a deputy still full of dark suspicions, and two burly civilians in hard hats. These, the manager explained, were ex-police officers who would escort Mr Franklin and his treasure to … wherever he wished to go.

“Oh, they won’t be necessary,” said Mr Franklin. He handled a few coins from one of the bags, nodded, and replaced them. “If you could have a cab called, though, perhaps they’d be good enough to put the bags aboard.” And while the goggling deputy called a cab, Mr Franklin signed the receipt, and watched the burly pair hefting out the bags with some difficulty, while the manager drummed his fingers.

“Mr Franklin,” he said solemnly. “Are you absolutely sure you know what you’re doing? I mean – well, dammit all, sir – that’s no way to treat money!”

Mr Franklin looked at him. “I know exactly how to treat money,” he said. “And I know what I’m doing. Do you?”

“How’s that? Do I – ?” The manager took a deep breath. “Yes, Mr Franklin, I do,” he said with some dignity. He thought of the letter, the proofs … I hope to God I do, he thought.

“That’s fine then,” said Mr Franklin. “I’m obliged to you, sir; you’ve been most helpful.”

Boarding his taxi, he waited until the ex-policemen and the nervously hovering deputy had reluctantly retired, and only gave the driver his destination when the cab was under way. But it was not an address: merely a street corner a half-mile away. There he swung his four bags out on to the pavement, paid off the taxi, waited until it had disappeared, hailed a passing hansom, reloaded his precious cargo, and drove to the Chancery Lane Safe Deposit. (It is a sad reflection on human nature that the taxi he had dismissed returned immediately to the American Express Company office, as the deputy had privately instructed the driver to do, and there was momentary blind panic when it was understood that Mr Franklin had disappeared with quarter of a million dollars’ worth of ready money, no one knew whither. There was frantic re-examination of the credentials, and the manager finally concluded that they were as watertight as he had originally supposed. Even so, he re-examined them several times during the course of the day, and the deputy did not sleep well for a week.)

At the Safe Deposit the well-respected manager, Mr Evans, personally rented to Mr Franklin a private strong room for five guineas per annum. For an additional guinea he was given one of the company’s reliable safes, into which the bags were packed; the safe was then man-handled into the strong-room, securely locked, and Mr Franklin presented with the key.

After such an important morning’s work he might have been forgiven for relaxing and basking in the reflection of treasure stored up upon earth, but he showed no such inclination. After a brisk bite at a public house he was afoot again by noon, to the biggest estate agent’s he could find; the senior partner, whom he asked to see in person, was engaged, and Mr Franklin spent the time of waiting in acquainting himself with the town and country properties advertised on the office walls.

There was to be had, he noted, in the reasonably fashionable area of Cadogan Square, S.W.1, a Gentleman’s Apartment comprising a Full Ground Floor; Mr Franklin stood absorbed by the catalogue of luxury – the fitments and furnishings by Liberty, the crockery by Doulton with which the kitchen and pantry were stocked, the fine master-bedroom with its private dressing-room and bathroom, the cosy panelled study, the opulent drawing-room with its Afghan carpeting and French chandelier, the elegant breakfast-room with furniture by Chippendale, the spare bedroom and second bathroom, the servants” room at the back, the excellent storage space, the polished cedar floors, the embossed wallpaper, the newly-installed silent flush toilets from Stoke-on-Trent, the electric lighting throughout at 1,000 candlepower for a penny, the patent boiler ensuring constant hot water … and all for the moderate sum of £200, a mere thousand dollars, per annum …

… Twelve cents a night for twelve square feet of Yancy’s shack in the Tonopah diggings and a place at the communal table, bring your own grub. fifteen cents if your space was against the wall – old Davis had rated a wall space, being over sixty, with Franklin on his unguarded side so that Yancy’s clientele couldn’t come creeping in the night to untie the blanket lashed around the old boy’s ankles and remove the precious poke from beneath it. One thing about London, S.W.1, you probably didn’t need to sleep with your goods tied to your legs. Twenty-seven cents a night all told, more than they could afford, but the old fellow’s chest couldn’t take the weather any longer; just a week in the mud under the tarpaulins would have curled him up for keeps – and even if it hadn’t, it would have left him unfit to dig on the ledges. And life without the ability to dig his stint wouldn’t have been worth living to Davis – “Hell, boy, I’m just an old gopher; ‘less I’m grubbin’ up the dirt I feel all deprived like. I shifted so much shit offn Mother Earth, she’s got a permanent tilt. Seen ’em all – Comstock, Australie, Cripple Creek, Sierra Madre, Klondyke – ten thousand dollars Jocky Patterson an ‘ me took into Dawson City, nuggets an ‘ dust, an ‘ the little bastard lost the whole dam ‘ pile in a stud game while I was drunk. Never did touch liquor since, ’cept for medicinal purposes…” And his old croaking voice had trailed into sleep, gradually murmuring into gentle snores in Yancy’s mouldy, flea-ridden, sweat-stinking shack, packed with scratching bodies, wet and filthy, and the Mex came slithering like a rattler, eyes glinting in the moonlight from the window, hand out towards old Davis’s blanket until Franklin’s Remington was thrust into his face, the muzzle resting on the olive cheek, and the eyes widened in terror, with gasping breath as the hammer clicked back: “Si, si … campadre!” Si, si, campadre, your greasy dago ass, stir a finger and I’ll blow your black head off! Vamos! Twelve cents a night for the privilege of lying awake against verminous thieves while old Davis babbled in his sleep in that leaky shed under the Big Smokies – and fifty dollars a night at the Bella Union after they came down singing together from the mountains with their saddle-bags plump with silver, soaking off the grime of months in their own private bath-tub, with French champagne being poured over old Davis’s matted grey locks by a squealing twenty-dollar whore, and the waiter feeding the old rascal cream cakes as he wallowed in the tub, yelling at the girls to get in beside him ’cos he was the richest son-of-a-rich-bitch and he was going to blow the whole danged pile in one riotous night and die in the morning, see if he wasn’t, and Franklin sitting on the tin trunk that held their goods, the Remingtons handy beneath his jacket and an eye on the waiters and bar-flies and raddled strumpets who abetted old Davis’s hooting celebrations and drunken staggerings – the wreckage of their private room had cost them a mint in damages, on top of the fifty-dollar rent for that single carousing night … Two hundred pounds a year in Cadogan Square, cheaper than the Bella Union, dearer than Nancy’s, and with silent flush toilets from Stoke-on-Trent thrown in …

“A most desirable property, sir.” The senior partner was murmuring at his elbow; perhaps he would care to see over it that afternoon? One of the assistants would be most happy to … ah, the gentleman had something else in mind. Quite so – and Mr Franklin was borne off to the inner sanctum where he and the senior partner spent an hour in earnest discussion. Mr Franklin’s requirements were specific – unusually so, and while the result of their talk seemed to satisfy him, it is a fact that he left the senior partner in a state of some mystification, blended with satisfaction at the cheque which his visitor had paid over, sight unseen.

Mr Franklin’s next call took him to the West End, and the discreet offices of one of those exclusive domestic agencies which specialised in supplying personal servants to the nobility and the more ancient nouveaux riches. Here Mr Franklin beat his own record for upsetting managers, for while he had caused concern at the American Express, and bewilderment at the estate agent’s, he caused in Mr Pride, director of the domestic agency, something close to outrage.

“You wish to engage a personal attendant,” said Mr Pride, faintly, “for one afternoon only? One afternoon?”

“Yes,” said Mr Franklin.

“My dear sir,” said Mr Pride, recovering his normally austere composure, “I am afraid that is quite impossible. Indeed,” he went, on turning his cold eye-glass on this peculiar person and deciding, after a distasteful survey of his eccentric tweed cape (a disgusting garment, in Mr Pride’s opinion) that he might carry his refusal a stage farther in reproof – “indeed, I do not recollect ever to have heard of such a thing. There are, I believe, agencies which undertake to engage staff for limited periods and … ah … what I understand are called special engagements –” he said it in a way that suggested longshoremen being recruited to help out at carnivals “– but we … ah … do not.”

Mr Franklin nodded sympathetically. “The commission isn’t worth it, I suppose. However, in this case I can assure you it will be.”

Mr Pride’s eye-glass quivered as though it had been struck, but he mastered his emotion. Pointless to try to explain to this eccentric that managing an exclusive domestic agency, which dealt with clients even more sensitive and highly-strung than their noble employers, called for the combined qualities of a theatre manager, a sergeant-major, and a racehorse trainer; financial consideration was the least of it to one who, like Mr Pride, had had to contend with hysterical butlers, psychotic nannies, and on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, a Highland head stalker who had tried to assassinate an Indian potentate because he was teetotal. He contented himself now by saying icily:

“Our personnel come to us in the hope of permanent employment, or at the very least, extended engagements. I may say that we have on our books three individuals whose families have served in the same establishments – the very highest establishments – since the eighteenth century.”

He had no sooner said it than Mr Pride was uncomfortably aware that it sounded like defensive boasting, stung out of him by this person’s gross mention of “commission’; he was, however, gratified at the admiration it produced.

“The eighteenth century? You don’t say!”

Mr Pride smiled frostily. “So you see, Mr … ah … Franklin, that we can hardly –”

“With a record like that, it ought to be easy to fix up a first-class valet for just one afternoon. For the right price, of course.”

“I have tried to indicate that it is out of the question,” said Mr Pride with asperity. “We could not consider it.”

“Could one of your clients, though?” asked Mr Franklin. “For five pounds an hour, say. Or whatever you think would be reasonable.”

He regarded Mr Pride innocently, and Mr Pride, on the brink of a crushing retort, suddenly hesitated. He looked again at his visitor and wondered. You could never tell with Americans; this one, in spite of his outlandish attire and uncivilized ideas, had an indefinable air about him – it couldn’t be breeding, of course, so it was probably money, and yet, Mr Pride admitted reluctantly, he could not truly be described as vulgar. Perhaps he had been a trifle hasty in rejecting Mr Franklin’s peculiar request; after all, it would be foolish to offend one who might, just possibly, prove against all the signs to be a lucrative customer if properly handled. And Mr Pride had to confess it to himself – he was curious. A valet – for one afternoon? It was, when he came to think of it, intriguing.

“It is most unusual,” he said at length. “Most unusual. And frankly, I cannot guarantee that any of our clients would be agreeable … however, it is just possible that there may be one …” Samson, he was thinking, was in his servants’ waiting-room at the moment, and Samson, in addition to being Al starred on Mr Pride’s list, was also in need of a new employer, his previous master having recently fled the country rather than face certain conviction for indecent assault on the Newcastle Express. Of course, Mr Pride would have no difficulty in placing Samson in a new situation; he had just the viscount in mind for him, in fact – but in the meantime Samson would be the very man to satisfy Mr Pride’s curiosity about his American visitor.

He rang a bell, and within five minutes Samson, a stocky, sober and impassive man of middle-age who looked more like a retired cavalry trooper (which he was) than one of the best gentlemen’s gentlemen in London (which he also was), had agreed, without a flicker of expression on his craggy face, to place his unrivalled expertise at Mr Franklin’s disposal for the rest of the afternoon. Mr Franklin was gratified, and was plainly on the point of asking Mr Pride, how much? when the director airily waved him aside – the agency were privileged to assist in such a trivial matter, and would not dream of charging, leaving it to Mr Franklin to make his own arrangement with Mr Samson. Mr Pride, in fact, had come full circle and decided that if he was going to humour this strange American, he might as well do it properly. What, he wondered, as the pair took their leave, could be behind it?

The answer, could he have overheard it on the pavement outside, was disappointingly mundane. Mr Franklin wanted to buy clothes and equipment suitable for his new surroundings, and he was prepared to pay handsomely for the best advice on the matter. He explained as much to Samson, and the latter accepted the information with judicious gravity. Mr Franklin had a vague feeling that if he had suggested they should rob the Bank of England, Samson would have received it with the same courteous detachment and asked: “And will there be anything further, sir?” As it was, he merely asked: “Both for town and country wear, sir? Then we had better begin with Lewin’s.”

At this exclusive establishment they bought shirts, and more shirts, and Mr Franklin was initiated into the mysteries of stiff fronts and rolled collars, for evening and day wear respectively, after which they passed on to socks, in the fashionable shades of tobacco, Leander, Wedgwood and crushed strawberry, with black lace silk for the evenings; the grey ties known as “whitewash” they also added to their store, with a selection of new Mayfair pins, and when a zealous assistant attempted to demonstrate the latest treble knot, Samson patiently took the tie from him and tied it with such swift precision that the assistant abased himself as before a high priest.

With Mr Franklin’s body linen attended to they repaired to Lobb’s for boots, a matter in which Mr Franklin needed little assistance. They then considered suits, and on Mr Franklin’s supposing that they should visit Savile Row, for which he had read advertisements in the newspapers, Samson pursed his lips, observed, “I don’t think we need to, hardly, sir,” and conducted him to a small, dim establishment off Oxford Street where an unhappy-looking little Jewish tailor, whom Samson addressed as Zeke, provided Mr Franklin with two immaculate morning dress suits, two evening dress suits, with white weskits and ties, two tweed suits, a magnificent Norfolk jacket and breeches, two lounge suits, all off the peg, and for a total of less than £100.

Mr Franklin was both delighted and doubtful. “Are these as good as we’d get at the fashionable shops?”

“Better,” said Samson briskly. “Most gentlemen can’t buy off the peg, sir, and wouldn’t if they could, because they feel bound to patronise the fashionable tailors. Not necessary, sir. Zeke can cut with any man in London – you’ll have to shorten the sleeves on the Norfolk, Zeke, and bring in the waist on the morning coats. Have them all round at the Waldorf by six, mind. Now, sir, spats, top hats, cane, great-coat, opera cloak, caps, everyday hat – not a bowler for you, sir, I think. You’ll feel more at home in something more wideawake, I dare say, like Mr Andrew Lang. Very stylish, the broad brim, but only for travellers and literary men.”

“And which am I?” wondered Mr Franklin aloud, as he surveyed the growing stack of clothing on Zeke’s table with some misgivings. Samson, without a flicker of a smile, replied gravely: “I’m sure you enjoy good literature very much, sir. Plain grey in the spats, I think.”

The fact was, Mr Franklin was half-regretting his recruitment of an expert in the matter of clothing. It had been an impulse – since he could afford the best, why not make sure that the best was what he got? But he had thought of what, to him, was a full outfit – a couple of suits, coat, hat, and boots, and here he was being kitted out with an opulence that would have embarrassed a railroad tycoon. The trouble was that every purchase seemed to call for some undreamed-of-accessories; it wasn’t the expense he minded, so much as the extravagance – but there was nothing to be done about it now. Piker was a word that Mr Franklin had been brought up to despise; besides, this Samson undoubtedly knew his business, and it would have been a shame to spoil his fun.

In fact, Samson was enjoying himself immensely, in his restrained way. He had never had the opportunity, despite his great experience, of outfitting a gentleman entire before, and this one was a pleasure to equip. Too long and lean for true elegance, perhaps, but splendid shoulders, trim waist, and excellent bearing: Samson the soldier liked a man to look like a man, and not a tailor’s dummy, and he went to work accordingly, undeterred by the growing unease which he sensed in Mr Franklin’s manner. He could guess its source, and wisely did not let it trouble him. His professional pride apart, he liked this big American with his frontier face and diffident manner, and he was going to see him right. So when the last garment had been bought, he bore Mr Franklin off to Drews of Piccadilly for a full set of oxhide luggage, and finally to a Bond Street jewellers for a rolled gold cigarette case, silver and diamond links and studs, and the thinnest of platinum watch-chains set with tiny pearls. By this time Mr Franklin was totally silent; never mind, thought Samson, you’re the best-dressed man in London this minute – or will be when you’ve put them on. And having weighed his man up precisely, he was not in the least surprised, as they drove back to Aldwych in a four-wheeler loaded with packages, when Mr Franklin broke the silence by saying suddenly:

“I imagine you think I’m all kinds of fool – buying all this sort of stuff?”

Samson looked straight to his front. “I’d think you would be ill-advised to continue in your present garments, sir,” he said, and Mr Franklin digested this.

“You know what I mean, Samson. It isn’t – well, it isn’t my style, and you know it. Is it, now?”

Samson turned to look at him, his bright blue eyes without expression. “It’s as much your style as anybody’s, sir. The clothes you’ve bought look extremely well on you. And that’s a professional opinion, sir.”

“Well,” said Mr Franklin, looking out at the bustling Aldwych traffic, “I guess that’s why I asked you along.”

“I’m glad you did, sir. It’s been a pleasure.” He preceded Mr Franklin from the cab at the Waldorf, and when they were both on the pavement he added: “You’ll be dining out this evening, sir. A theatre, perhaps. I’ll look back in a couple of hours and help you dress. Many gentlemen dress themselves, of course, but with new clothes, sir, it’s advisable to have a second opinion, I always think, in case of any last-minute adjustments, sir.”

He knew perfectly well that Mr Franklin had not given a thought to dining out, let alone the theatre; a sandwich in his room while he glowered uneasily at his new-bought finery would be more like it. Samson was not going to permit that if he could help it; why this quiet American had engaged him in the first place, and allowed Samson to provide him with the trappings of the fashionable metropolis, he did not bother to speculate, but since he had, Samson’s professional ethic demanded that the job be seen through. So having refreshed himself with a pie and a pint of beer at a St Clement’s tavern, he returned to the Waldorf at seven prompt and proceeded to attire his client for the evening.

Mr Franklin submitted with a good-natured tolerance behind which there obviously lay a deal of self-consciousness; the statutory uniform of dress tails with white tie and weskit he bore without too much unease, but at the cloak, hat and cane he rebelled.

“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t need them. I don’t need a stick.”

“For the theatre, sir –”

“Who says I’m going to the theatre? I could go in my street clothes, couldn’t I?”

Samson’s raised brows suggested that he could go in a diving suit if he wished, but he merely said:

“Then for dining out, sir …”

“I don’t have to dine out, either. I can get supper downstairs.”

“Of course, sir.” Samson allowed a moment of neutral silence while Mr Franklin glowered at his patent-leather shoes. “Shall I return your evening dress to the wardrobe, sir?”

Mr Franklin regarded him steadily, prepared to speak, changed his mind, breathed through his nose, and finally squared his shoulders, Sydney Carton leaving the tumbril.

“No,” he said heavily. “Let’s put the damned things on.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Samson. “The cane, sir – and the cloak. If it feels more comfortable, why not carry the hat, sir?” It sounded like a concession; in fact he was a trifle uneasy about the length of his client’s hair. He stepped back, contemplating his handiwork, mentally comparing the tweeded colonial of the afternoon with the imposing and even elegant gentleman who now confronted him; quite striking, really, with that bronzed face, and the slightly raffish hair and moustache seemed to enhance the splendour of his dress. Samson made a mental note to recommend a barber of his acquaintance. “Very passable, sir,” he said, and indicated the pier glass.

Mr Franklin looked, stared, and said softly: “I’ll be damned.” He was not a vain man, Samson knew, but he stood frowning at his image for a full minute before adding: “You tricked me into this, you know. I didn’t exactly … oh, well, never mind.” He turned to the dressing table, took up his money belt, and carefully counted out thirty sovereigns. “I’m obliged to you, Samson. You’ve given me more than I bargained for, and I’m not sure it isn’t more than I care for. But I asked for it, I guess.” He handed over the coins.

“Thank you very much indeed, sir.” Samson flicked an invisible speck of dust from the lapel. “I have dressed several gentlemen in their first evening attire, sir. Invariably they were reluctant to put it on – but not nearly so reluctant as they were later to take it off. It grows on one, sir.” He paused. “Did I understand, sir, from what Mr Pride said, that it is not your intention to engage an attendant?”

Mr Franklin had been sneaking another glance at the long mirror. “How’s that? No – no, I’m not.”

“I quite understand, sir. However, if you should contemplate such a course in the future, sir, I should be happy to be considered. If you thought me suitable, sir, of course.”

Mr Franklin looked sharply to see if he was being mocked, and saw he was not. “I’ll be damned!” he said again, and fingered his moustache thoughtfully. “Look – Samson. You don’t know the first thing about me – except,” and he jerked his thumb at the mirror in a gesture which made Samson wince, “except that the party there is a fraud, by your lights. Now – isn’t that so?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Samson evenly. “And, if you’ll pardon the liberty, I don’t think you know either. The cloak just a trifle back off the right shoulder, sir. Very good. I’ve known frauds, sir, and gentlemen, and some that were both, and some that were neither. I’ve even known some Americans. Will there be anything else, sir? Then if I might suggest, sir, Monico’s is very pleasant for dinner; if you were to ask for Maurice, and mention my name – Thomas Samson, sir, he would see you had a good table. Or the Cavendish, in Jermyn Street; Miss Lewis knows me, and it’s quieter.” He had taken up his own hat and coat. “I hope you have a pleasant evening, sir. Good night, sir.”

Mr Franklin pondered him thoughtfully, and then held out his hand. Samson shook it, let himself out quickly and efficiently, and left Mr Franklin frowning at his own reflection.

4

The great theatrical attraction of London in that week, or in that autumn for that matter, was undoubtedly The Whip, a drama of racing and high society which in addition to a highly sensational plot also offered the astonishing spectacles of a rail crash, a pack of hounds on stage, and a thrilling horse race. Unfortunately, as the Waldorf’s porter informed Mr Franklin, it had been booked out for weeks ahead; however, he was able to provide a synopsis from an evening paper of alternative entertainments, and Mr Franklin, having concluded that since Samson had decked him out for the theatre, he might as well go, studied it as his hansom drove west along the Strand.

To his disappointment, there was no Shakespeare available. The only performance of his father’s favourite author he had ever seen had been under canvas at the Tonopah diggings, when a travelling production of Hamlet had been broken up by a crowd of miners outraged at the prince’s cavalier treatment of Ophelia. He would have liked to see Falstaff in the flesh, for his father’s sake; the alternatives were not immediately inviting. Mrs Patrick Campbell in False Gods, and a new play badly entitled Smith, by Mr Somerset Maugham, did not sound interesting; he hesitated over an Arabian Nights comedy, The Brass Bottle, by F. Anstey, passed on to Making a Gentleman, the story of a retired pickle-maker aspiring to a place in society, decided it was a thought too close to home for comfort, and considered The Great Divide, a drama about three men in the backwoods gambling for possession of a girl. Understandably, it did not attract him, and he was left to choose between Miss Lily Elsie in The Dollar Princess, and a variety bill at the Oxford.

On the cab driver’s recommendation he settled for the latter, and sat gravely in the middle of an uproarious audience who revelled in the drolleries of a sad-looking man in a bowler hat called George Robey; Mr Franklin found the accent and topicalities equally confusing. The popularity of the other star attraction on the bill he found much easier to understand; the fish-netted thighs and voluptuous figure of Miss Marie Lloyd, swaying suggestively across the stage, brought uproar and a chorus of whistles which almost drowned out her stentorian rendering of “Yip-aye-addy-aye-ai”. She followed it with a ballad whose unabashed ribaldry was rapturously received; Mr Franklin, although not shocked, was mildly surprised that London should accept gleefully innuendoes which would have been regarded as out of place in some saloons he had known. What interested him most, however, was the tumultuous enthusiasm which greeted the rendering of a song, apparently an old favourite, anent the German Emperor and his naval ambitions:

His friends assert he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

But he’s building ships of war

What does he want ’em for?

They’ll all be ours by and by!

It was by two young writers unknown to Mr Franklin, an American named Kern and an Englishman called Wodehouse; hearing the chorus taken up by the audience with patriotic abandon, he recalled the dire prophecies of his companion of the railway train.

When the show had thundered to its brassy finale, Mr Franklin made his way to the theatre steps and paused among the dispersing, high-spirited audience, wondering, for the first time since he had come to England, what he should do next. He had spent a busy day; he had, thanks to Samson, experienced a London theatre, and been slightly surfeited by brilliant lights, heady, swinging music, and half-understood jokes and choruses; now he had time on his hands. As he hesitated on the steps, he felt perhaps just a touch of what every stranger to London, in any age, must feel: that consciousness of being alone in the multitude. It did not trouble him; he was only a little tired, but content, and presently he would feel hungry. Until then, he would walk and take in the sights, and at that he set off along the pavement, hat and cane in one hand, stepping briskly – to the chagrin of several bright-eyed and exotically-dressed ladies skirmishing in the foyer, who had simultaneously noted his diamond and silver studs, his hesitation, and his solitary condition, and had been sauntering purposefully towards him from various directions. Disappointed, they wheeled away gracefully like high-heeled, feathered galleons, while Mr Franklin, unaware of his escape, walked on where his feet led him, taking in the sights and sounds and wondering vaguely where he was, exactly.

It seemed to him, as he walked, that this section of London was one vast theatre – everywhere there were canopies with their myriad electric bulbs, names in lights, huge posters, and audiences escaping into the open air, laughing and surging out in quest of cabs and taxis. To escape the crowds, he turned into a less-congested side street, and found himself confronting a stout little old woman, surrounded by flower baskets, soliciting his custom.

“Posy fer the lady, sir. Boo-kays an’ posies. W’ite ’eather fer luck, sir. Buy a posy.”

Instinctively he reached for a coin, smiling; he did not want flowers, but he was in that relaxed, easy state which is easily imposed on. As it happened, the coin he held out was a florin, and before he knew it he was grasping a massive bunch of blooms, and the grateful vendor was calling down luck, blessings, and good health on his head. He was on the point of suggesting an exchange for something smaller, but another customer had arrived, so Mr Franklin shrugged ruefully and walked on, examining his trophy, vaguely aware that just ahead of him, in that unpromising side-street, with its dust-bins and littered gutters, some activity was taking place round a lighted doorway.

His glance took in several couples, men dressed like himself, each with a girl on his arm, laughing and chattering as they moved away towards the main street; he was abreast of the doorway when a young woman came tripping out and almost collided with him. Mr Franklin stepped back, starting to apologize; the young woman looked right and left and straight at him; her glance went to the flowers in his hand, she smiled radiantly, then looked more closely at the bouquet, and regarded him with astonishment.

“Where did you get those, then?” she demanded.

“I beg your pardon?” Mr Franklin, nonplussed, looked from her to the flowers. “Why – from the old woman – along there.”

“You never!” She found it incredible. “Well, you’re a fine one, I must say!”

For a moment Mr Franklin, recalling his encounter with the suffragette the previous night, wondered if all Englishwomen were mad, or at least eccentric. This one looked sane enough – not only sane, in fact, but beautiful. Or if not beautiful, perhaps, then quite strikingly pretty. She was small, with bright blonde hair piled on top of her neat little head to give her added height; the face beneath was a perfect oval with pert nose, dimpled chin, and vivid blue eyes – one of them unfortunately had a slight squint, and Mr Franklin instinctively dropped his glance, taking in instead the hour-glass figure in the glittering white evening dress beneath the fur cape. Altogether, she was something of a vision in that grimy back street – a slightly professional vision, though, with her carefully made-up complexion and bosom rather over-exposed even by the generous Edwardian standard.

“You buy flowers from a florist, dear,” she said, regarding him with something between laughter and indignation, “not from street-hawkers. Not for me, anyway.”

Mr Franklin stiffened. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” he said. “I didn’t buy flowers for –”

“Here!” exclaimed the young woman. “Aren’t you from Box 2A?”

“No,” said Mr Franklin firmly. “I’m not. Not lately.”

“This isn’t your card?” And she held up a rectangle of pasteboard on which some message, indecipherable in that faint light, was scrawled. He shook his head.

“Well!” she exclaimed in some vexation. “I was sure you were him. Where the hell is he, then?”

Mr Franklin automatically looked round; certain there was no one else waiting. Behind her two other girls, in the same theatrical finery, were emerging from the doorway. For the first time he realized that the light overhead shone from within an iron frame reading “Stage Door”, and understanding dawned.

“Oh, damn!” said the blonde. “Another one with cold feet! Honestly, it makes you sick. They get all feverish, watching you on stage, and then at the last minute they remember mama, all worried about her wandering boy, and leave you flat.” She pouted, tore up the card, shrugged, and regarded Mr Franklin ruefully. “Who were you waiting for, then – Elsie, is it? She’ll be out in a minute. I say, Glad,” she said over her shoulder, “he isn’t from 2A after all.”

“Shame.” Glad, a dark, languorous beauty, looked Mr Franklin up and down regretfully. “Elsie has all the luck. “Night, Pip.” She and her companion sauntered off, and Mr Franklin, conscious that he was at a rather ridiculous disadvantage, was about to withdraw with what dignity he could, when the small blonde snorted indignantly.

“Of all the rotten tricks! D’you know, I haven’t been stood up since I was in the chorus? Brewster’s Millions, that was – and just as well, really; I think he was married –”

“I’m afraid –”

“’Course, in the chorus, you learn to expect it – now and then. But when you get out in front – well, when you have a solo, and if you’ve got any kind of figure at all – and I have, no mistake about it – well, you don’t get billings as ‘The Pocket Venus’ if you haven’t, do you? Huh! Of all the disky beasts! Blow him – whoever he was. I could have done with dinner at the Troc., too,” she added wistfully. “Hold on, I’ll see what’s keeping Elsie. Won’t be a sec.”

“Just a minute!” Mr Franklin spoke sharply, and the blonde checked, startled. “I’m sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not waiting for Elsie. In fact, I’m not waiting for anyone. I bought these flowers by chance –”

“You’re an American,” said the blonde, smiling brilliantly. “Well, I never!”

“I’m sorry if you were disappointed,” Franklin went on. “But you see—”

“Hold on a shake.” She was considering him, head on one side. She descended the step, still smiling, but with less animation than before. “I think you are the fellow from 2A, aren’t you? And you did send round the card, asking me to dinner at the Troc, didn’t you?”

“I assure you –”

“And then you saw me, close to. And I’ve got a squint. Wasn’t that it?” There was a curl of bitterness at the corner of the pretty mouth. “It’s my damned squint, isn’t it?”

Mr Franklin stood for a moment in silence. He was a level-tempered man, but he had found the last few minutes uncomfortable. He had felt momentarily bewildered, and then slightly foolish, and he was not used to either. The fact that the situation should have been amusing, or that most men would have seen it as an opportunity to further acquaintance with this unusually attractive girl, only increased his natural reserve. And now it was not amusing at all. He found himself at a loss, holding a bunch of flowers (something he had not done since childhood, if then) being reproached by a creature who was apparently preparing to feel aggrieved, through no fault of his. It was new to him, and he must take thought how to deal with it.

“No,” he said at last. “You’re quite wrong. I wasn’t waiting for you, or anyone. I said so. And I didn’t even notice if you had … a squint,” he lied. “I still don’t. And if I did, it wouldn’t make any difference – if I had been waiting for you, I mean.” For Mr Franklin, this was positively garrulous, but in this novel and disturbing situation he felt that frontier chivalry demanded something more. “You’re a remarkably beautiful girl, and anyone who saw you on the stage would be even more … impressed, when he met you. I’m sorry your friend didn’t turn up.”

He stepped back, intending to say good-night and go, but the blonde was regarding him with quizzical amusement.

“My,” she said, “you aren’t half solemn. Look, it’s all right, really. If you’re waiting for Elsie, I’ll be gone in a –”

“I am not waiting for Elsie,” said Mr Franklin emphatically.

“Well, the flowers, I mean … it looks odd. And if you are the chap from Box 2A – well, I don’t mean about the squint, but some fellows really do get quite nervous, you know, and change –”

“And I’m not from Box 2A. I’ve never even been in this theatre –”

“You mean you haven’t seen me singing ‘Boiled Beef and Carrots”? That’s my number, you know – a bit vulgar, but if you’ve got a shape for tights, why, that’s what they give you – and it hasn’t done Marie Lloyd any harm, has it? Are you married – is that it?” she asked speculatively.

“No,” said Mr Franklin patiently, “I’m not.”

“Well, then, that’s all right!” she said cheerfully. “Neither am I. And here we are – I’ve been stood up, and I’m starving – and you’re an American visitor, from the wild and woolly west, seeing the sights of London – you are, aren’t you? Well, then, you can’t go home to … to New York, or wherever it is, and say you missed the chance of taking a musical comedy star to supper in a fashionable restaurant – I don’t know about the Troc., though – I had a bad oyster there last time – but there’s the Cri.; no, that’s getting a bit common. Or there’s Gatti’s, that would do.” She smiled winningly at the silent American. “Well – don’t look so worried! It’s only a dinner – and it’s your own fault, anyway, promenading outside stage doors with bunches of flowers – a likely story! Give ’em here,” and she took the bunch of flowers, surveyed them critically, and dropped them on the pavement. “Now, then,” she put a gloved hand on Mr Franklin’s arm. “Where you going to take me?”

Mr Franklin understood that he was being made the victim of a most practised opportunist, but there was little that he could do about it – or, on reflection, that he wanted to do about it. She was a remarkably good-looking girl, and with all his reserve, he was human. However, it was not in him to capitulate informally; he looked down at her, the dark face thoughtful, and finally nodded.

“Very well. May I take you to supper, Miss …?”

“Delys. Miss Priscilla Delys, of the Folies Satire,” and she dropped him a little mock curtsey. “Enchanted to accept your gracious invitation, Mr …?”

“Franklin. Mark J. Franklin.” He found himself smiling down at her.

“Why have all Americans got a middle initial? You know, like Hiram J. Crinkle? Mind you, I’m one to talk – it’s not really Delys – it’s Sidebotham, but when you sing numbers like ‘Boiled Beef and Carrots’” you need all the style you can get. Priscilla’s real, though – Pip, for short. Come on, let’s get a taxi.”

Without any clear idea of how he got there, Mr Franklin found himself on the main street again, surveying the post-theatre bedlam in the vain hope of spotting an empty cab. But Miss Delys was equal to the occasion; she stepped daintily to the edge of the pavement, removed a glove, inserted two fingers in her mouth, and let out a piercing whistle, followed by a shrill cry of “Oi, Clarence!” A taxi swung into the kerb as though by magic, Miss Delys smiled right and left as heads turned, some obviously in recognition, said “Monico’s, Ginger,” to the driver, and seated herself regally, followed by a diffident but grateful Mr Franklin.

He was still collecting his thoughts as they sped towards the restaurant, which was just as well, since Pip Delys talked non-stop. He learned, in short order, of her career in the chorus of Brewster’s Millions, of her brief sojourn at the Gaiety, and of her emergence as third principal at the Folies Satire, where she hoped for even greater things, “’cos Jenny Slater, who’s second, is sure to go into panto somewhere this season, as principal boy – she’s got the thighs for it, you see, like sides of bacon – an’ Elsie Chappell can’t last much longer – stuck-up cow, just ’cos she started in the chorus at the Savoy – well, I mean, that was back before the Flood, practically, not that she hasn’t got a good voice, ’cos she has, but she’s getting on – must be thirty if she’s a day, and dances like an ostrich.” Miss Delys giggled happily, and Mr Franklin took the opportunity to wonder if thirty was so old, after all.

“Well, I’m twenty-three,” said Pip seriously. “Twenty-three, professionally, that is. I’m twenty, really, but I’ve been in the business five years, and you daren’t tell ’em you’re just fifteen, you see. Anyway, I’ve always been plump enough, but I’m small, that’s the trouble – you’ve got to be tall, really, to be a principal – but I make up for it with bounce and bubble – that’s what Mr Edwardes used to say. Here we are – the Monico. All right, Ginger –” she tapped the driver on the shoulder – “double or quits.”

The driver, who was elderly and had no vestige of hair, ginger or otherwise, sighed heavily and glanced at Mr Franklin, who was producing change. Pip snatched a coin from him, spun it and clapped it deftly on her gloved wrist. “’Eads,” said the driver hopefully, and she crowed with delight. “Too bad, Ginge – it’s tails. Better luck next time,” and she skipped out onto the stained velvet carpet which covered the Monico pavement, leaving Mr Franklin to present a tip which more than covered the lost fare.

Within, Monico’s was a glaze of crystal and gilt, with a small covey of flunkeys greeting Miss Delys by name, removing her wrap, and bowing obsequiously to Mr Franklin. It was at this point he recalled a name, supplied by Samson, and felt himself obliged to mention it.

“I’d like to speak to Maurice,” he told the nearest minion, a small Italian who looked puzzled and repeated: “Morris, sir? Ah – Morrees, but of course.” Pip raised a questioning brow.

“What’s that, then? I thought you were a stranger. Never mind, Renzo – table for two on the balcony, for champagne, and a supper-room afterwards.” To Mr Franklin she went on archly: “How d’you know the head-waiter’s name, straight from the backwoods? I can see you’ll need an eye kept on you – flowers at the stage door, too. Well, well! You’re a dark horse.”

He explained, as they were conducted to their table by the balcony rail, that the name had been learned accidentally, but Pip was too occupied to listen; she was making her entrance, keeping an eye cocked and a profile turned for theatrical managers, calling and waving brightly to acquaintances, keeping up a running fire of comment while the champagne was poured, and pausing only to take an appraising sip.

“Not bad for a tanner a glass,” was her verdict, and Mr Franklin, who had tasted French champagne for the first time on the Mauretania, would not have presumed to argue. Privately, he thought it an overrated drink, but he was content to sip while his companion prattled, and watch the well-dressed throng in the dining room below.

“Thin house tonight,” was how Pip described it. “’Course, it’s early yet; there’ll be more later.” Mr Franklin remarked that so far as he could see, every table was full, and Pip clicked impatiently.

“I mean real people, silly – celebrities. They’re nobodies –” and she dismissed the assembly with an airy wave. “Let’s see, though – there’s one or two – see, over there, that dark lady with the pearls, beside the chap with whiskers? Mrs Pat Campbell, that is – you’ve heard of her. They reckon she’s a great actress – in all them grisly plays by Henry Gibson, or whatever his name is. She’s got a new play now, at Her Majesty’s, but I heard tell it was a stinker. False Gods, I ask you!” Pip rolled her eyes and pronounced in a strangled contralto: “‘Desmond, our ways must part – forevah! Yah touch defiles me!’ Honest, that’s the sort of thing they put on – well, how can that run against revues and variety and niggers singing in the bioscope?”

She drained her glass, and twitched at the sleeve of a passing waiter. “Menus, Dodger – I’m peckish.” She suddenly put her forearms on the table and leaned across towards him, smiling impishly, but with a hint of apology. “I’m sorry – I’m dead common, aren’t I? Chivvying waiters and taxi-drivers, shouting out and making an exhibition of myself. Aren’t you ashamed? Sorry you came? But it’s the way I’m made – and being in the show business, you see. I’m just a Cockney sparrow – well, you can tell by the accent. And I squint, too.”

Mr Franklin was spared a gallant denial by the arrival of the menus, imposing documents of several pages in ornate script, most of it in French. Pip seized on hers with satisfaction.

“Oysters! Say a couple of dozen between us? I love oysters – prob’ly comes of having a father in the fish business.”

“He keeps a shop?” said Mr Franklin, idly scanning his menu.

“He had a barrow. Jellied eels and whelks – but you won’t know about those, I guess. He’s retired now. Rheumatism – and rum, too, if you ask me. Poor old Dad. Here –” she suddenly lowered her menu and regarded him seriously “– you all right for a fiver, are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Have you got five quid? – let’s see, that’s twenty-five dollars, your money. ’cos that’s what this’ll cost you, including our private room. Well, we could eat out here, but nobody does who’s anybody in the theatre – and then we could get away for three quid, if you’re stretched.”

“If your standing in the theatre is at stake,” said Mr Franklin gravely, “I think I could manage five pounds without embarrassment.”

“You’re sure?” The pretty face under the blonde tresses was earnest, and Mr Franklin found himself liking this girl a great deal. “’cos if you’re not – we can go dutch, you know. That’s fifty-fifty. Oh, stop grinning like that – “ Mr Franklin realized that he had been smiling at her with pure pleasure. “Just for that, I’ll have the consommé, the salmon stuffed with shrimps in champagne sauce – let’s see, the veal cutlets, the pheasant – and we’ll see about pudding after. That’ll take care of your fiver, all right …”

Five pounds at the Monico … ten cents at Yancy’s if you hadn’t any grub of your own to bring … eggs at a dollar apiece when the boom was at its height at Tonopah … the Indian girl baking bread at Hole-in-the-Wall, and Sundance Harry Longbaugh burning his fingers on the crust … tortillas and flapjacks, and his father frying bacon and corn that morning after the Battle of Shrewsbury on the El Paso road … “No beef this trip, son … ‘I am a great eater of beef, and I believe it does harm to my wit’” … the old man saying grace over the frying-pan … salmon and shrimps in champagne sauce … that steak and fried onions at the Bella Union, with the tin plate on his knees as he sat on the trunk watching the door, looking over a balcony rail just like this one, but instead of the orderly parties of diners in their evening finery, eating off china and crystal and snowy cloths, with waiters hovering – instead of that, the huge crowded bar-room of the big bonanza time, with bearded, booted miners capering on the tables with the sluts, yelling and sprawling and smashing furniture while the fiddlers on the stage scraped out, “Hurrah, boys, hurrah!” and the long bar was three-deep with drinkers, awash with beer and red-eye, while he finished his steak, touching the hilt of his Remington every so often as his eyes ranged over the inferno of celebration, looking for the Kid and his gang, and old Davis snoring drunk on the bed with his britches round his ankles… and he had sat through that thundering, boozing, carousing night on the tin trunk, drinking coffee with his back to the wall, shaking his head at the brown girl with smoky eyes in the red silk dress, and she had tossed her head and spat in disappointment and left him to his determined vigil in the brawling, bawling Bella Union, with a fortune in silver six inches beneath his pants-seat….

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying, have you?” Pip was laughing at him across the table. “Where were you? Renzo wants to know if you want Bordeaux or Burgundy – unless you want to carry on with the bubbly?”

Of course they continued with the champagne, and as they ate their splendid dinner in the velvet-lined little private cabinet on the second floor, Mr Franklin wondered if it was the working of the wine that made him enjoy himself more and more with each passing minute. No, to be fair, he decided, it was Pip herself; she was merry and animated and full of gossip, about the theatre, and herself, and her eccentric parents and their large family, who appeared to live on laughter and a portion of her earnings, and about London, which was all the world to her, and her ambitions, which consisted simply of being the Queen of Musical Comedy some day, and strutting the boards of the West End, singing the latest rude songs, having hosts of admirers waiting at the stage door, preferably in carriages with crests – and marrying one of the richest and most noble of them? wondered Mr Franklin.

“No,” said Pip, and sighed. “I’m not the kind they marry. Oh, plenty from the chorus finish up as My Lady – they say half the heirs to the Lords married Gaiety Girls, and it’s not far wrong. But I like the theatre, you see – couldn’t be happy away from it, and all the noise and chat and fun. I couldn’t give that up. Can’t see me in a stately home, dishing out tea – not while there’s curtains going up and orchestras playing my cue.” She laughed. “I’m just a shameless, painted hussy of the variety stage – common as dirt and glad of it. You have to be, if you want to get to the top of my trade – look at Marie Lloyd, she’s no lady, but she’ll be topping the bill until she drops, no matter how fat she gets. Maybe I’ve got a little of what she’s got – not just the voice, and the figure, and the cheek, but – well, you know, it’s how you put it over. If I’ve got it, then I’ll go on until I drop, too – and if I haven’t, I’ll prob’ly finish up married to some sobersides in Ealing, if I’m lucky, with six kids and a couple of maids.” She chuckled happily. “Sing ’em ‘Boiled Beef and Carrots’” at the church social, too. Meantime, I’m enjoying myself, so who cares? Anyway,” and she stretched a hand across and patted Mr Franklin on the arm, “I’m fed up talking about me, and you must be, too. What about you, Mr American? You’ve just sat all evening, very polite and quiet, listening to me gassing on and on and on, and you haven’t said a word about little ole New York, or Redskins, or anything.” She pushed her plate aside, put her elbows on the table, cupped her chin in her hands, and smiled eagerly. “I’m listening.”

It took him by surprise – but what was even more surprising was that he found himself responding. Later, he was to reflect that in all his life he had hardly ever talked about himself – certainly not to a stranger, and that stranger a woman. Perhaps it was the novelty or, he was prepared to admit, that he was under the spell of that lively beauty hanging on his every word. It did not occur to him that Miss Pip Delys, the professional performer, could be as skilled a listener as she was a prattler. In any event, he found himself talking – about half-remembered Nebraska, and about the time of wandering, with his itinerant schoolmaster father, from one small settlement to another – “I don’t even remember their names, just the wall-paper in the rooming-houses where we stayed; one or two of them didn’t have wallpaper” – and later, the brief years as ranch-hand, railroad ganger, timber-jack, miner, and transient on the dwindling frontier; it was a fairly bald recital, and far from satisfying Pip’s curiosity, which was evidently well-grounded in comic papers and Colonel Cody’s Wild West Show.

“Weren’t you ever a cowboy, with them hearth-rug things on your legs? Didn’t you have to fight Indians, or rustlers? You must have had a six-gun, surely …?”

“Yes, I was a cowboy,” he said, smiling. “Anyway, I worked with cattle – it isn’t all that fun. No, I didn’t fight Indians, or rustlers – there aren’t really many of them about, nowadays. A six-shooter? Yes – mostly for scaring prairie dogs.” There was no point in telling her of that night of waiting at the Bella Union for the Kid and his cronies. But it was in his mind when she asked her next question.

“Outlaws? Now, why on earth should I know any such people? D’you think America’s peopled by bandits and pistoleers? You’ve been reading dime novels.”

“Well, you can’t say there aren’t any!” said Pip indignantly. “I mean, it didn’t get called the Wild West for nothing, did it? Why, I don’t suppose we’ve had an outlaw in England since … oh, since Robin Hood. I just thought – if you’d been a cowboy –”

“That I might have been a road agent myself, on the side? Texas Tommy, with pistols stuck in a crimson sash and a big sombrero?”

This sent her into peals of delight. “Course not! Though you could look the part, you know – you really could! Specially when you come all over grim and thoughtful – like when you were thinking, faraway, down on the balcony. Made me all goose-pimply.” She shuddered deliciously. “You might have been planning to rob the stage to Cactus Gulch, or –”

“You’ve got a real theatrical imagination, I’ll say that for you.” He shook his head. “If you must know, I’ve seen outlaws, one or two – and they look pretty much like anyone else, only a bit more in need of a bath. Matter of fact, my old mining partner, Pop Davis – he’d been outside the law in his time, I guess. But you wouldn’t have thought much of him – looked just like any old tramp. He was all right, though. Good partner.”

“But the other ones,” she insisted. “You said one or two – what were they like?”

“Oh, just ordinary fellows; nothing very romantic, I’m afraid. And yet – I don’t know. You’d have liked Big Ben Kilpatrick, I guess – very tall, good-looking; and Cassidy, too – he must have been the politest brigand that ever was, and quite presentable when shaved. Ever hear of them?” She shook her head, wistfully. “Well, they’re the best I can do for you – and I couldn’t claim more than nodding acquaintance. Old Davis and I stayed with them once for a spell, at a place called Hole-in-the – Wall; he’d once been teamed up with one of Kilpatrick’s gang –”

“Hole-in-the-Wall! You’re making it up!”

“That’s what it was called. And they called themselves the Wild Bunch, if you like. Not so wild, either; they’d robbed a train or two, I guess, but didn’t make much of it. Pretty harmless outlaws, I reckon.” He picked up the menu. “Most of them. Anyway, what are you going to eat for dessert?”

“Oh, never mind that! I want to hear about the Bad Bunch – and the ones who weren’t pretty harmless!”

“Well, you’re not going to – or you’ll wind up with the idea that I’m some sort of crook myself. And I’m not.”

“No, you’re not,” said Pip, dutifully consulting her menu. “You’re a very respectable cowboy, visiting England, wearing silver and diamond cuff-links and studs, and dining in a swish restaurant, as visiting cowboys always do.” She stole a glance at him over the top of the menu. “I’m real cheeky, aren’t I? And it’s none of my business, is it? All right, I’ll keep quiet.”

“I doubt it,” said Mr Franklin drily. “I’d just like you to understand that this dinner is not going to be paid for out of the loot from the … the Cactus Gulch stage-coach. You’re eating the result of a lot of hard, dirty, very ordinary digging in the earth, and an old man’s crazy hunch, and a great deal of luck. Now, what –”

“Ooh!” Her eyes were wide. “You mean you struck it rich!”

“Crepes Suzette,” read Mr Franklin. “Bombe Caligula, whatever that is; Poire Belle Hélène; Macedoine à la duchesse –”

“Mean thing! I just wondered … right-ho, then, I’ll have trifle and a double helping of whipped cream. But you might tell a fellow …”

But Mr Franklin felt he had said enough for one evening, and when Pip had worked her way through a mountainous trifle, and coffee was served, their talk returned to normal channels – in other words, the theatre, and the possibility that she might play Dandini in the forthcoming Gaiety pantomime, but then she might find herself replaced at the Folies, and it was a good billet, with excellent prospects, but Dandini would pay at least an extra pound a week … Mr Franklin smoked a cigar, and nodded attentively, and presently, when the waiter presented the bill, Pip rose and stretched and sauntered in behind the crimson curtain which screened off a small alcove at the back of the supper-room. Mr Franklin paid, and added a handsome tip, and smoked for a few moments more before he began to wonder idly what she was doing. At that moment there came a soft whistle from behind the curtain; he rose, slightly startled, and going across, pulled the curtain aside. There he stopped, stock-still.

The third principal of the Folies Satire had piled her clothing neatly on a chair, all except her stockings, and was reclining on a large couch which filled most of the alcove, observing herself with approval in a large overhead mirror, and humming softly. She glanced at Mr Franklin, smiled brightly, and asked:

“Did you bolt the door?”

“My God,” said Mr Franklin, and then paused. He turned away, put his cigar in an ash-tray, and returned to the alcove, looking down at her.

“Pip,” he said, “you don’t have to, you know.”

Pip stopped in the act of smoothing her stockings. “Course I don’t,” she said, and winked at him. “But I’d rather. Here,” and she patted the couch beside her, “come and sit down. You make me feel all girlish, standing there.”

Mr Franklin frowned. Then, in response to her outstretched hand, he came to the couch and sat down, looking at her steadily.

“I don’t,” he began, and paused before adding: “I just brought you out to supper, Pip.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Pip. “I brought you. And it wasn’t just for supper, Mr American.” She slipped her arms round his neck and pulled his face down to hers, parting her lips and flickering her tongue at him. “You don’t get off that lightly.” She kissed him, slowly at first, then very deeply and lingeringly before drawing her lips away. “Are you looking at my damned squint again?”

A rather dazed Mr Franklin shook his head. “Good,” murmured Pip, “now you’d really better go and bolt the door, so we won’t have any distractions. I want to enjoy myself.”

Which she did, so far as Mr Franklin could judge, for the next twenty minutes, at the end of which time she lay very still, panting moistly into the pillow until she had recovered her breath, when she observed that that was better than working, or standing in the rain.

“Aren’t you glad you bought that bunch of flowers, then?” she added, and Mr Franklin admitted, huskily, that it had been a most fortunate chance. She nodded happily, running her fingers idly up and down his naked back while she studied her reflection overhead.

“I’m losing weight … I think. Here, any more of that champagne left? Oh, good, I need it, I can tell you! Talk about the Wild Bunch – you’re a bit wild yourself, aren’t you, though? Hey – you’re not getting dressed! The idea!”

In fact, it was after two o’clock in the morning before Pip sighed regretfully that she supposed they had better call it a night, because Renzo would be wanting to get to bed, and a relieved but contented Mr Franklin agreed. He was, to tell the truth, rather shaken, and not a little puzzled by the events of the evening, as appeared when they were preparing to leave the supper-room, and Pip was making final, invisible adjustments to a coiffure which had miraculously remained undisturbed through all the hectic activity in the alcove. Mr Franklin in the background, was contemplating his hat and gloves thoughtfully; Pip observed him in her hand-mirror.

“Don’t reach for your note-case, or I might get offended,” she said and as his head came up she turned, smiling, and shook her head at him. “You were going to, weren’t you?”

Mr Franklin cleared his throat. “I wasn’t certain.”

“You don’t give money to actresses,” said Pip, gravely, and kissed him on the nose, giggling at his perplexity. “Don’t you understand, darling? – I do it ’cos I like doing it. With the right one. Girls enjoy it, too, you know, spite of what you hear. You didn’t stand a chance, from the minute I saw you outside the stage door, you poor silly! No, you’re not, either – you’re a nice American, and it’s been a beautiful evening, and I just wish it could have gone on and on.”

“So do I,” said Mr Franklin. “Perhaps another –”

“Careful,” said Pip. “It might get to be a habit.” She frowned, and dropped her voice: “You don’t have to, you know,” and they both laughed. Then she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him again, stretching up on tip-toe before subsiding breathlessly. “That’s enough of that – Renzo’s got to get to bed sometime.”

They went down to the street through the restaurant, where the lights had been turned down, and Pip called “‘Night, Renzo” to the darkened dining-room. Mr Franklin hailed a growler, and they clopped slowly down to Chelsea, where Pip had a room. “Next rise I get, it’ll be Belgravia, and chance it,” she confided. “Mind you, many more dinners like tonight, and I’ll get so tubby I’ll be bloody lucky if I can afford Poplar.”

Mr Franklin thought for a moment, and asked: “Aren’t there lots of dinners like tonight’s?” She turned to look at him in the dimness of the cab, and he heard her chuckle.

“Lots of dinners,” she said. “All the time. But not many like tonight. So you needn’t be jealous.”

He handed her out on the corner. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he was beginning. “I mean, I wish I could express my appreciation …”

“Oh, you know,” she shrugged. “Diamond bracelet to the stage door – couple of emerald earrings. Any little trinket your lordship happens to have lying around spare.” She giggled again and pecked his cheek. “Don’t be so soft. Tell you what – pay your money at the box-office some night and watch my solo. Then you’ll have done your bit.” Her gloved hand touched his cheek. “’Night, Mr American.”

Her heels clicked on the pavement, the white figure faded into the gloom, humming happily:

Boiled beef an’ carrots,

Boiled beef an’ carrots!

That’s the stuff for your derby kell …

Mr Franklin sighed, climbed into the growler, and was driven back to the Waldorf.

5

He left London on the following morning. A four-wheeler was engaged to remove from the hotel the two handsome Eureka trunks containing the clothing purchased the previous day, as well as the battered old case with which Mr Franklin had arrived, and his valise; these were despatched to St Pancras, while the gentleman himself took a cab by way of Bond Street.

Here, at the exclusive jewellers which he had patronized the previous day, Mr Franklin stated his requirements; the manager, who had seen him coming, smoothly set aside the assistant dealing with him – he personally would see to it that nothing too inexpensive was laid before a customer who paid cash for pearl and platinum watch-chains.

“A bracelet, perhaps, sir. For the wrist?”

“I had thought a necklace,” ventured Mr Franklin. “For the … chest. That is – the neck, of course.”

“Of course, sir. Diamond, emerald – ruby perhaps. May I ask, sir, if the recipient is dark or fair?”

“Oh, fair. Very fair – quite blonde.”

“The sapphires, perhaps. It is a matter of personal taste. Diamonds, of course –” the manager smiled “ – complexion is immaterial.”

“How about pearls? You know, a strand – a substantial strand. These collars one sees …”

The manager was too well-trained ever to lick his lips, but his smile became a positive beam.

“The perfect compromise, sir. Pearls – with a diamond cluster and clasp.” He snapped his fingers, and presently Mr Franklin found himself blinking at a triple collar of magnificent pearls, gripped in their centre with a heart-shaped design of twinkling stones; he visualized it round Pip’s neck, beneath the beautiful dimpled chin, imagining her squeals of delight when she tried it on.

“That’ll do,” he said without hesitation, “I’ll take it,” and two fashionable ladies examining rings at a nearby counter paused in stricken silence at the sight of the lean, brown-faced man weighing the brilliant trinket before dropping it on its velvet cushion. Speculative whispers were exchanged, a lorgnette was raised, and Mr Franklin was carefully examined, while he produced his cigarette case, selected a cigarette, remembered where he was, and returned it to its place. The manager made amiably deprecating noises, and asked:

“I trust the case gives satisfaction, sir?”

“What – oh, yes.” Mr Franklin restored it to his pocket. “Haven’t lost a cigarette yet.”

In this atmosphere of good will the pearl necklace was bestowed in its velvet case, wrapped, and tied, and the manager inquired if the account should be forwarded to Mr Franklin’s address; the attentive ladies, busily examining their rings again, were disappointed when he replied: “No, I’ll pay now.”

The manager bowed, a slip of paper was presented, and Mr Franklin gripped the counter firmly and coughed, once. He should, he realized, have inquired about prices first – but his hesitation was only momentary. He could not recall an evening in his life that he had enjoyed so much, or any single human being whom he had liked so well; he had only to think of Pip’s fresh young face smiling at him across the table to find himself smiling, too, and producing his notecase. It occurred to him, too, that visible signs of affluence probably assisted a stage career – and if that career faltered, well, expensive jewellery was realizable.

His note-case required reinforcement from his money-belt – a sight which slightly embarrassed even the manager, and brought the lorgnette into play again. “Ah,” murmured one lady, “Australian, undoubtedly,” and on being asked by her companion how she knew, replied: “His accent, of course.” They watched intently while Mr Franklin, having paid, wrote out a plain card; he simply addressed it: “Miss Priscilla Delys, Folies Satire”, without enclosure, and asked the manager to see it delivered to the appropriate theatre – no, he told that astonished gentleman, he didn’t know which one it was.

None of which escaped the ladies, who concluded that Mr Franklin was either an unusually forgetful individual intent on marriage, or a foreign maniac – probably both; as he swung out of the shop their eyes followed him with some wonder and genteel regret.

He caught the eleven o’clock train to Ely via Cambridge with barely a minute to spare, and spent two and a half hours alternately glancing at the paper and out of the carriage windows at the passing fenland; it was not a cheering prospect, but by the time Ely was reached, and he had changed to the Norwich line, Mr Franklin was in, for him, a positively animated state – from sitting quietly enough, he now leaned forward, hands on knees, to stare out of the window; he shifted position at least three times during the many local halts, and by the time Lakenheath was reached he was actually drumming his fingers on the arm-rest. Beyond Brandon he let down the window; by Thetford he was leaning out the better to see ahead, and at the next stop, where he alighted, he positively hurried along the platform and in his excitement bestowed a shilling instead of the usual threepence on the porter who unloaded his baggage.

But if Mr Franklin was now disposed to haste, he soon discovered that Norfolk was not. The station was a tiny one, and it took half an hour to summon an ancient gig, driven by an urchin of perhaps nine years, and drawn by a horse possibly twice as old. Mr Franklin gave the lad his destination and resigned himself to patience as they creaked off at a slow walk.

Fortunately it was a glorious autumn afternoon, and their way ran through broad meadows and occasional woodland, the brown and yellow tints mellow in the sunlight. Mr Franklin drank it in with a silent eagerness, as though he would have imprinted every leaf and hedge and thicket on his mind; if he did not display visible impatience, he was certainly breathing rather more quickly than usual, and at each bend in the road he would gaze eagerly ahead. At last, after two hours, they topped a gentle rise, and beyond it a village nestled among woods in the hazy afternoon; a scatter of cottages round a little triangular green; a dusty street winding in front of a small inn; a pond, mud-fringed, a pump and a horse-trough; on the farther side, a lych-gate and the square tower of a Norman church rising among elms and yews.

“Cassel Lancin’,” said the urchin stolidly, and Mr Franklin took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Castle Lancing,” he repeated. “Well, now.” He smiled and shook his head. “Think of that. All right, Jehu, let’s go.”

They creaked up the main street, past the mean cottages where one or two poorly-dressed women started at them from the low doorways, and a few children played in the dust of the unpaved street; there seemed to be no one else about, except for a working-man on a bench outside the Apple Tree, who favoured them with a blank stare. Across the green was a small shop with bottle-glass windows and the name “A. Laker” above the door; a dog lay drowsing in the threshold.

They halted outside the inn, and Mr Franklin asked if the man could direct him to Lancing Manor. The man stared in silence for a moment, and then, in a broad drawl which Mr Franklin found surprisingly easy to understand, said:

“’Arf a mile down the road.” His eyes roved over Mr Franklin and the bags in the gig, and he added: “Ain’t nobody ’ome.”

Mr Franklin thanked him, and they drove on, through the village and along a winding way between high hedges, until they came to a pair of lichened stone gate-posts under the trees, and two large rusty gates chained and padlocked. Mr Franklin got down, took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and after some exertion, unlocked the gates and pushed them open. The narrow drive was high with weeds and rank grass, so he ordered the boy to help him down with his baggage in the gateway; he would not need the gig any longer, he said, and presented the urchin with half a crown.

The boy considered the coin, and then looked at Mr Franklin, standing beside the trunks and valise, and at the tree-shaded pathway. He addressed his passenger for the second time in two hours.

“Ain’t nobody ’ome,” he said, echoing the labourer, and Mr Franklin smiled.

“There is now,” he said, and with a nod to the staring boy, walked up the drive. He was aware that his heart was beating as he pushed his feet through the rustling grass, and that he was walking unduly quickly; then he rounded a bend under the trees, and stopped suddenly as a house came into view. For a full minute he stood looking at it. Then:

“I must have been out of my mind,” he said aloud. Then he took off his hat and looked around him. Finally he said: “No, I wasn’t, either,” and walked towards the house.

Mr Franklin had no romantic notions of what a manor ought to look like, so where another might have expected mullioned windows, crenellations, and half-timbering, he accepted without a second thought the solid, unpretentious Georgian structure which could hardly have been over a hundred and fifty years old. It was, in fact, rather a fine house, built on an Elizabethan site, its shuttered windows precisely spaced on either side of a massive, pillared porch. The broad gravel sweep before it was sadly overgrown, and the lawn to his right was a tangle of rank grass and fox-gloves, but even he could see that the structure was sound and the roof good, and the beeches and chestnuts which surrounded it on three sides were nothing short of magnificent. “Beautifully matured grounds of nearly two acres”, the estate agent had said; sure enough, thought Mr Franklin, it’s mature.

There was a little fountain in the middle of the gravel sweep, lichened and full of leaves, and two heavy stone seats, one on either side of the porch. Mr Franklin paused with his back to the front door, surveying the tangle of sweep, lawn and drive and the trees which screened him from the road; the air was full of the still hum of the late autumn afternoon, broken only by the occasional murmur of pigeons behind the house. His hand was shaking as he fumbled the key into the big lock.

Inside it was cool and dim, and slightly chill from a year’s emptiness. The hall was surprisingly spacious, with a stairway curving gracefully upwards, and doors opening on either side into the main reception rooms. “A delightful Georgian residence, charming woodland situation, three reception, four bed, bathroom with patent water-heater, panelled hall and lounge, expensively fitted, every convenience, kitchen garden …” Well, here it was, and the agent had been as good as his word; it was an admirable house and would plainly have been snapped up long ago if it had been more convenient for the outside world. But the agent understood that Mr Franklin was not concerned with that; quite the contrary, in fact.

The American made his way from room to room, taking his time. It was larger than he had expected, for the agent had made nothing of the servants’ quarters, which consisted of two small rooms at the back, off the low, flagged kitchen. There was running water – cut off for the moment – but no electricity, of course, and no gas. Behind the house was the promised kitchen garden, and a small orchard, heavy with the famous Norfolk apples. Mr Franklin picked a couple and ate them as he surveyed the small coach house and stabling for two horses. All was overgrown, but not seriously; the timber stood at a good distance from the house itself, and all was enclosed by a stout ivy-covered wall.

Mr Franklin returned inside, having hauled his baggage up from the front gate, and stood in the hall, finishing his second apple, glancing round in the satisfaction of possession. It was strange, unreal almost, but it filled him with a quiet content; he took off his hat and was about to hang it on the newel post when he stopped himself, smiling, and laid it instead on the settle which stood to one side of the empty fireplace. When in England, he thought … and I am in England, in Castle Lancing and the County of Norfolk, and it’s been a long, long haul. Three hundred years, give or take a little, and who’d ever have thought it? Long way from Tonopah, but a sight easier to come back from than it must have been to get to.

Mr Franklin ranged his baggage beside the settle, picked up his hat again, and left the house.

By that time, of course, every soul in the village of Castle Lancing, pop. 167, knew that there was a new occupant at the manor. The carrier’s boy, refreshing himself at the Apple Tree from Mr Franklin’s half-crown, had spread the word of the arrival, and opined that he was a big-game hunter and definitely not from Norfolk – Lincoln, maybe. He was silent, and rich, from the cut of his duds, but by the look of his bags he’d come a powerful long way. This was sensation, and by the time Mr Franklin, in his eccentrically broad-brimmed hat and dark suit, had reached the village green, Castle Lancing was fairly agog. Curious eyes watched from the doorways, children were hushed, the labourers on the bench outside the Apple Tree suspended their pints and observed in silence the rangy figure swinging up the dusty street, and the landlord cuffed the carrier’s boy and remarked derisively:

“He’s never from bloody Lincolnshire. He’s furrin.”

Mr Franklin was observed to go into the village shop, and five minutes later the news was winging that he had bought a loaf, two tines of corned beef, butter, coffee, a tin of pears, half a dozen boxes of matches, and a tin of paraffin, which he had asked to have left at the manor’s back door. The proprietress, Mrs Laker, had been quite overcome, not least by the fact that the newcomer had made his purchases with a sovereign, dismissing the change and politely asking her to credit it to his account. The prospect of trade thus opened up caused her to sit down, panting, and observing to Mrs Wood, from the dairy, that she’d never been so took aback in her life, and if Mrs Wood was wise, she’d see there was a pint of milk at the manor’s door, too.

Meanwhile, the Apple Tree had been stricken to silence by Mr Franklin’s arrival and request for a glass of beer. Surprised grunts had greeted his “good evening” as he passed the labourers’ bench, and as he stood in the little tap-room, sipping his drink and surveying the collection of horse-brasses behind the bar, the landlord, Mr Herbert, polished glasses with unusual energy, chivvied away those of his offspring who were peering at the prodigy from the back parlour, and maintained a painful silence. Gradually, with heavy nonchalance, the occupants of the bench drifted within and sat down, and after a decent interval began to converse quietly among themselves. Mr Franklin ordered a second glass of beer, and conversation died. He drank it, slowly, but otherwise quite normally, and the muted talk began again, until he turned round, smiled amiably at the small gathering, and asked if anyone would care for a drink.

At this, one startled drinker dropped his tankard, another sent his pint down the wrong way and had to be slapped on the back, and there was some confusion until an ancient, beady-eyed in a corner, licked his lips and told the ceiling that he didn’t mind if he had a pint of bitter. This was provided, the ancient bobbed his head over the foam, grinned a gap-toothed grin, said “Good ’ealth,” and drank audibly. The others stirred, wondering if they too should accept the stranger’s bounty, and then Mr Franklin observed, to the room at large:

“I just moved in at the manor house.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then the ancient said: “Ar. We know that,” and buried his face in his pot. For the rest, half a dozen pairs of eyes avoided Mr Franklin’s; the landlord made indistinct noises.

“I was wondering,” said Mr Franklin, “if any of you could tell me how I turn the water on. Nothing comes out of the taps, and I’m afraid the agent didn’t remember to tell me.”

Further silence, muttered consultation, and then the landlord observed that there would be a stop-cock. The ancient agreed; there always was a stop-cock, where there was taps, like. Someone else remarked that Jim Hanway had done odd jobs at the manor, when Mr Dawson was there; Jim’d know. Mr Franklin’s hopes rose, only to be dashed by the recollection of another patron that Jim had moved over to East Harling last February.

“Las’ March,” said the ancient, emerging from his beer.

“No, t’weren’t. Febr’y, ’e moved.”

“March fust,” cried the ancient. “Fust day o’ March. His lease were up. Oi know. March fust it was.”

At this the other speaker stared coldly at the ancient and said flatly: “It was Febr’y. An’ Oi know.”

“You know bugger-all,” said the ancient, and emptied his tankard with relish. He beamed at Franklin. “Thank’ee, sir. That was foine. March fust.”

The landlord interposed with a reminder that the gentleman wanted his water turned on, no matter what month Jim Hanway had moved, and silence fell again, until a young labourer said there ought to be a key, for the stop-cock, like, and it’d be round the back o’ the house, likely. Mr Franklin acknowledged this; he would look in the outbuildings.

“Stop-cock won’t be round the back, though,” observed the ancient. “Mains water runs by the road; stop-cock’ll be at front. Grown over, an’ all,” he added with satisfaction, as he hopped off his stool and laid his tankard on the bar. “In all that grass, somewheres.” He sighed.

“Would you care for another drink, Mr –” said Franklin, smiling. “Jake,” said the ancient, beaming. “Wouldn’t mind, thank’ee very much.”

“No, you won’t mind, you ole soak,” said the man who had disputed with him. “Mind ’im, sir; there’s a ’ole inside ’im, an’ it ain’t got no bottom.”

There was a general laugh at this, and Mr Franklin took the opportunity to repeat his invitation; this time the tankards came forward en masse, and while they were being filled he said to Jake:

“My name’s Franklin. Mark Franklin,” and held out his hand. Jake regarded it a moment, carefully wiped his gnarled fingers on his jacket, and inserted what felt like a large, worn claw gingerly into Mr Franklin’s palm. “Jake,” he said again. “Thank’ee, sir; thanks very much.”

Mr Franklin nodded and glanced at the man who had disputed with Jake, a burly, middle-aged labourer with a square, ruddy face and thinning hair. The man hesitated and then said, “Jack Prior”, and took the American’s hand. Thereafter, in quick succession, came the others, with large, rough hands that touched Mr Franklin’s very gently; flushed faces and grey eyes that slid diffidently away from his. He guessed that introductions were not the norm, at short notice, that anything like social ceremony embarrassed these men, but that because he was an affable stranger, they were making a concession to him. Also, presumably, they had no objection to free drink. He was not to know that no occupant of the manor within living memory had set foot in the Apple Tree; nor did he know that if he had introduced himself in similar company two hundred miles farther north, there would have been no answering acceptance. He did not know England, or the English, then.

The tankards were filled and lifted; Jack Prior said, “All the best, sir,” and the others murmured assent; Mr Franklin prepared to answer questions. But none came. In the saloons that he knew, he would have been asked where he came from, how long he planned to stay, what brought him here; he would have responded laconically, as seemed proper. But here, where he had gone out of his way to make himself known, had taken for him the unprecedented step of familiarity – here they drank in shy silence, avoiding his eye and each other’s, moving restlessly like cattle in a pen, and trying to appear unconcerned. Mr Franklin knew there was no hostility; he was sensitive enough to recognize embarrassment, but why it should be there he had no idea. Finally, having finished his own drink, he nodded pleasantly, preparing to take his leave; there was a shuffling of feet, almost in relief, it seemed to him, and then Prior suddenly said:

“Franklin.” He was frowning thoughtfully. “There’s a Franklin over’n the Lye Cottage, at Lancin’ End. Old Bessie Reeve – ’er name was Franklin, warn’t it, afore she married?”

In spite of himself Mr Franklin exclaimed: “You don’t say?”

“Oi do say,” replied Prior seriously. “That was her name. Franklin. Same’s yours.” He looked round, nodding emphatically. “Franklin. She’s the only one hereabouts, though.”

Jake cackled. “Ain’t bin round the churchyard lately, ’ave you? Plenty Franklins there.” He wagged his head, grinning, and drained his glass noisily.

The landlord caught Mr Franklin’s eye. “Used to be a biggish family, sir, in the old days. None left now. Wait, though – ain’t there Franklins over at Hingham?” His question hung unanswered in the silence, and Mr Franklin waited hopefully. The silence continued, and finally he broke it himself, indicating to the landlord that another round would be welcome. The tankards were thrust forward again and withdrawn, replenished; there were salutary murmurs in his direction, but beyond that nothing audible except the occasional gurgle and sigh as another gallon of home-brewed descended to its several resting-places. Mr Franklin decided that Prior’s brief conversational flight had probably exhausted the Apple Tree’s store of small talk as far as he was concerned, so he drained his glass, not without some effort, and remarked that he must be getting along.

Again he sensed the relieved shuffling, but even as he straightened his coat and prepared to nod to the landlord, Prior took a deep breath and said:

“You’ll have another, first – sir? On me, like.” Mr Franklin hesitated. With three pints of home-brewed inside him, backing and filling, he felt he had as much as he wanted to carry, and more. It was on the tip of his tongue to decline politely. Then he saw that Prior was standing rather straight, with sweat on his red forehead, and knew that the invitation had been made with considerable effort. Instinctively he sensed that Prior, while a labourer like his fellows, was perhaps of some standing in that humble company, and was in a curious way asserting his dignity; for Prior’s credit, it would be right to accept.

“Thank you, Mr Prior,” he said. “That’s kind of you.”

“Jack,” said Mr Prior, and laid his coppers carefully on the counter; his glass and Mr Franklin’s only were refilled, although Jake ostentatiously drained his few remaining drops, waited hopefully, sighed, and finally announced that he’d better be off to find that stop-cock afore the light went; all growed over, it’d be. Mr Franklin protested, but Jake hopped away, making ancient noises, leaving the American to pledge Prior and attempt his fourth pint of the dark, soapy liquor which seemed to be filling every corner of his abdominal cavity, and possibly running down into his legs as well.

Finally it was done, and Mr Franklin was able to bid the Apple Tree good evening, and escape from that hot, musty atmosphere, apparently compounded of cow’s breath and old clothes; he was to grow to recognize it as the distinctive scent of the English farmhand. He was feeling decidedly bloated, but otherwise at peace with mankind; his feet seemed slightly farther away from the rest of his body than usual, and it took longer to place them one in front of the other, but he was in no hurry to get home on this balmy evening – for one thing, home was half a mile away, and if there was one thing he was certain of, in his slightly soporific condition, it was that he was going to have to shed some of his alcoholic burden somewhere, somehow, before he got there.

A dusty and deserted side-turning off the main street caught his eye; it wound between large, untidy, and concealing hedges, so Mr Franklin followed it with casual deliberateness, and two minutes later was shoulder deep in a thicket at the roadside, leaning his head against a branch and solemnly examining a spider’s web at close range, grunting contentedly as his troubles poured away into the rank grass, and his lower torso began to feel normal again. Thereafter he took a turn farther up the by-road, and presently found himself regarding an ancient lych-gate set in a mossy wall, and there beyond it, half-hidden by the great yews that lined the wall, the square weathered tower of the village church.

Mr Franklin surveyed it, balancing carefully. What was it his father had said, about some old English king bringing yew-trees from Europe, planting them in every churchyard in England so that the country should never be short of the material on which its army depended – the yew wood that made the great long-bows with which the English peasantry had humbled the armoured might of their nation’s enemies.

“Dam’ good idea,” said Mr Franklin approvingly, staring at the massive, ugly black trunks, their shadows falling on the trim grass among the lichened tombstones. “Bully for you, king.” He passed through the gate with its little steep roof, swayed slightly, and leaned on the nearest tree for support, feeling a trifle dizzy. For the moment he was content to rest there; the evening air was warm and tranquil, and he listened to its quiet stirring while he studied the ruddy stone pile of the old church bathed in sunset; from there his attention turned to the gnarled bark under his hand – and an echo was sounding in his mind, assisted by four pints of October ale, an echo from somewhere in memory – the El Paso road? Hole-in-the – Wall? Cassidy’s slow, deliberate murmur … “and you, good yeomen, whose limbs were made in England, be copy now to men of grosser blood, and teach them how to war …”

He disremembered which battle that had been, but he wondered idly if any of its bows had come from this churchyard, or if any of the people who had been there were perhaps now here – under those old gravestones, dark and crooked on the level turf, and decidedly the ale must have been at work on his imagination, for he was suddenly aware of a voice at his elbow, high-pitched and pleasant, and it was saying:

“Well, we aren’t Stoke Poges, you know, but I suppose the lines are appropriate for all that. The rude forefathers of the hamlet … well, I imagine they don’t come much ruder than ours. How d’ye do?”

Mr Franklin realized that he was sitting down, on one of the flat, raised tombs, and was being surveyed by a stout, baldish man in spectacles, with wisps of silvery hair fluttering over his ears; he was an untidy man, with a flannel shirt open at the neck, a huge tweed jacket which fitted where it touched, and knickerbockers insecurely fastened above elderly stockings. He had a sheaf of papers under his arm and a look of whimsical inquiry on his carelessly-shaven face. Mr Franklin made a partially successful effort to rise and beg the newcomer’s pardon.

“Not at all. I should apologize for breaking in on your … ah, reverie. But when I hear Grey’s Elegy, in an American accent …” The short-sighted eyes peered and twinkled.

“Was I reciting?” Mr Franklin made a mental note to steer clear of Norfolk beer in future. “I guess I must have been ready to drop off. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Very proper thing to do. Quite natural. Where else should one recite Grey’s Elegy? Apart form Stoke Poges, of course. Forgive me, but I was correct, wasn’t I? You are American?”

“Yes, sir. I –”

“I wouldn’t inquire, but we see very few visitors, you know, much less transatlantic ones. Not much to attract tourists to our rural retreat, I’m afraid – unless you are interested in runes. We have rather a fine example of one of the stones just inside the doorway there – in fact, while I was at Cambridge I was privileged to assist in deciphering it – curiously enough, it was a learned gentleman from one of your universities – Yale, in fact – who finally made the translation. Splendid scholar; splendid. It was really quite interesting,” went on the stout man, “because the inscription reads: ‘Lanca wrote this rune on this stone”. And of course, this place is called Castle Lancing – well, Lancing means Lanca’s people, so we have the mystery of a stone engraved by a Norseman, Lanca, possibly as early as the ninth century, and our church is only twelfth century. Curious, isn’t it? Or perhaps,” said the stout man anxiously, “you aren’t interested in runes?”

Mr Franklin had recovered himself by now. “I might be,” he ventured, “if I knew what they were.”

“Teutonic engraving – adaptation of Roman letters to permit them to be carved in stone – Anglo-Saxon, Danish, that sort of thing,” said the stout man. “But I’m so sorry – you must think me extremely rude, breaking in on you … only –” and he suddenly beamed in a way which made him look about ten years old “-one doesn’t often hear Grey being quoted aloud in one’s churchyard.”

“I’m the intruder,” said Mr Franklin. “Is this – I mean, are you the … the clergyman?”

“Heavens, no!” The stout man laughed. “I’m simply a pest who infests the vestry, like death-watch beetle – which we haven’t got, thank God, not yet, touch wood. Parish records, that sort of thing. No – our vicar is a much more useful member of the community, I’m happy to say.” He smiled on Mr Franklin. “Are you staying in the neighbourhood?”

“You could say that,” admitted Mr Franklin. “I just bought Lancing Manor.”

“Good God!” said the stout man distinctly, and dropped his papers. Mr Franklin helped him gather them up. “You’ve bought … the manor? Well, I never! Well, I’m damned! I do beg your pardon.” He adjusted his spectacles, combed his scanty hair with his fingers, and stared at Mr Franklin. “Well,” he said at length, “that is an extraordinary thing. Of course, after Dawson left, one assumed … still, it is unexpected … goodness me …”

“Not unpleasantly so, I hope?” said Mr Franklin.

“My dear fellow!” The stout man looked alarmed. “I assure you – quite the contrary, absolutely. Splendid news. By God,” he added, emphatically, “I’d sooner we had someone in Lancing Manor who quotes Grey in churchyards than … than – well, you know what it is, some awful people buy country property nowadays. Men in loud checked bags and women with Pekinese voices. Drive about in motors, take the local people into service and don’t know how to treat ’em, try to pretend they’re gentry, simply shocking.” The stout man paused for breath. “Damned motors.”

“I won’t be buying a motor,” said Mr Franklin.

“Ha!” exclaimed the stout man, and beamed. “No, I don’t imagine they’d be your style. You look much too sensible. But, I say – we’re neighbours, you know. Well, I live over at Mays Cottage –” he waved vaguely. “Retired, you understand, after forty years lecturing on the sixteenth century to precocious loafers who only want to waste their parents” money on drink, amusement, and young women. No,” added the stout man seriously, “that’s not fair. Some of ’em did want to learn about the Tudors, God knows why. However, I’m Geoffrey Thornhill, I’m delighted to welcome you to Castle Lancing, and what on earth induced you to buy the manor? I’m all ears.”

Mr Franklin frowned, glanced round the churchyard in some perplexity, and sighed. “It’s a long story,” he said.

“Of course it is! Here, sit down –” Thornhill indicated the flat tomb. “There, now. By the way, you’ll get used to me. The villagers think I’m mad, and may be right; I talk compulsively, can’t mind my own business, am undoubtedly eccentric, but can easily be managed by anyone who’ll simply say ‘Shut up, Thornhill’. Right-ho?” His expression invited Mr Franklin to discourse.

“Well …” the American began, and stopped. His head was feeling clearer than it had done a few moments earlier, clear enough for him to be aware that he had not quite been in control of his tongue, and to realize that he had not meant to say to anyone what he was on the point of saying to this perfect stranger. But why not, he was thinking. I’m here now, and there’s no secret, anyway; this is the end of the line, and this fellow’ll find it all out, anyway, for what it’s worth. He looked out through the yew-trees to the meadow beyond the village, where the dying sun was casting a pale haze over the fading green.

“Well, my name’s Mark Franklin, and I’m an American, as you guessed. And I –” he hesitated. “Well, I guess you could say I’ve come back.” He stopped, frowning, and after a moment Thornhill said:

“Back? To England? Ah, you were born here?”

“No,” Mr Franklin smiled. “But my family came from England, and –”

“Franklin, of course. Not a common name, but not uncommon, either, meaning –”

“A free-born landholder, but not of noble blood,” quoted Mr Franklin. “That’s what my father used to say – and the dictionary bears him out. From what they tell me down at the tavern, there’s quite a few Franklins around here.” He gestured at the gravestones.

“At the tav –, ah, the pub. Why, yes, there are Franklins in the old registers, and certainly the name is on some of the graves – but, of course, I daresay you’d find it in most English church records. Your people may not be East Anglian – unless they emigrated recently and you can establish from your own knowledge that they came from a certain area, it would be difficult to –”

“My people,” said Mr Franklin, “left the village of Castle Lancing in the year sixteen-hundred-and-forty-two. That much I do know – and not much besides, except that the man who left, with his wife and children, was called Matthew Franklin, and every descendant since has been named after one of the four gospel-writers. Where they’ve been in between …” He shrugged. “Grandfather was from Ohio, father from Kansas, but farther back is anybody’s guess. Only one thing’s sure, because it was in grandfather’s bible – which got lost in the war; farm in Kansas got burned – and that was that the first American in our family was Matthew, and he came out of Castle Lancing when they made the place too hot for him. Dad used to say old Matthew was a king’s man, and that the local sentiment was pretty Republican round that time …” He laughed and shook his head, while Thornhill bounced up and down, making apoplectic noises which eventually spilled out in a flood of excited words.

“But … but … but … good God! Well, I’m blessed! You mean you’ve – you’ve come back to the very village! But that’s splendid! Well, I’m damned! That is ab-so-lutely splendid, my dear chap! I never heard the like! After all these years – these generations – these centuries …” Thornhill gaped and beamed. “I mean – well, I suppose most of us here have a vague notion where our families hail from – well, my own lot claimed that they were Normans called Tournelle, but since my own grandfather was a swineherd from Dumfriesshire, I imagine that the village of Thornhill in that county supplies a more plausible clue – it was my aunt, actually, who tried to pretend to the Norman nonsense – foolish old woman, snob to the eyebrows, of course … but, my goodness, to be able to walk back, after nearly three hundred years, into your ancestors” own place! Dear me! And there can’t be any doubt, you see – the parish registers will show Matthew – it was Matthew, wasn’t it? – and his parentage … I mean, you’ve got the date – 1642 – Civil War, King and Parliament – yes, it fits, your father was perfectly right, this was very strong Parliamentarian country, yes, indeed, and anyone of royalist sympathies might well clear out … well, I say!”

Mr Franklin became aware that he was being regarded with something like reverence; Thornhill took off his glasses, polished them on a huge handkerchief, replaced them, and viewed the American with delight.

“This is absolutely first-rate! I’m more delighted than I can say! I must calm down, I really must …” He puffed and shook his head. “Steady, Thornhill, steady … but this is my hobby, you see – well, more my passion, I suppose – I told you I was an enthusiast for parish records – and to find you …” he regarded Mr Franklin with a possessiveness that was positively gloating, as though he were some rare species of butterfly “ – why, it’s as though you had walked straight off the page of one of my birth-ledgers – a Franklin of Castle Lancing –” He sprang up suddenly. “But what are we sitting here for – my dear fellow – where’s that blasted key …” He rummaged in his pocket, sending its contents broadcast. “We must look – at once! They’re on the vestry shelves – we can find Matthew, and … and … oh, damn!” He struck his forehead a resounding slap. “The lamp’s empty, and it’s getting dark. But we can get some oil from the shop – it’ll only take a moment –” His voice trailed off as he caught sight of Mr Franklin’s expression, and his face fell. “But perhaps you don’t feel like … I mean, I could probably track old Matthew down in an hour or two, if you’d care to …”

He looked so much like a wistful little boy that Mr Franklin almost agreed; in fact, he had felt his own excitement rising in tune with Thornhill’s enthusiasm. But he was suddenly aware that daylight was fading, and the air was getting chilly; also, Norfolk beer and a brief sleep the previous night had left him feeling suddenly bone-weary, and the tombstone on which he was sitting felt uncommonly cold and hard.

“Well …” he insisted, reluctant to damp the other’s evident eagerness. “I know it must sound downright ungrateful – and real disrespectful to my great-great-however-many-greats-grandfather and all, but –”

“My dear chap!” Thornhill was all contrition. “How thoughtless of me! Of course you must be quite used up – journey, travelling, only this minute here – I am most frightfully sorry! That’s my trouble, of course – off in a burst of sparks like a damned rocket! Like one of your prospectors, what? Tell you what – I’ll see you down the road now, but I’ll be up here first thing, and I’ll have old Matthew pinned to the floor by lunch-time, you’ll see! What a splendid thing! The vicar will be delighted. Well, the whole village will be – the wanderer returns, and all that …” He took Mr Franklin’s arm and was steering him towards the lych-gate, when he gave a sudden galvanized start, and stood quivering. “My God! I think – yes, I’m almost sure … here, it’ll only take a second …”

And seizing Mr Franklin’s wrist, he dragged him off towards the church, and round to the side-wall, puffing through the twilight and muttering, “… certain I saw one … somewhere along here – yes, against the wall there! Come on – you’ll see …”

There was a row of old tombstones, piled shoulder to shoulder against the church wall, and Thornhill threw himself on them like a terrier, peering at the lichen-encrusted surfaces, muttering and swearing while Mr Franklin waited slightly nonplussed. “No … no … dammit all… nothing but bloody Quayles and Plowrights … bred like rabbits … no … oh, blast!…” He crouched from stone to stone, vituperating in an aggrieved whisper, and then suddenly gave an absolute squeal of delight.

“Franklin! Look – come here! Look at that! Damn this dark!” It was almost too dim to see in the gathering gloom at the foot of the wall; Thornhill struck a match, and by its light Mr Franklin found himself looking at a smooth sandstone on which were the faint, spidery letters of an old inscription.

“I knew it! I knew there was one here!” Thornhill’s voice was shaking with excitement. “Look, don’t you see?” And as he pronounced the letters, Mr Franklin could just make them out:

“J-o-h-a-n-n-e-s F-r-a-n … then two blank spaces where the letters are worn away … then i-n. Johannes Franklin – with two squiggly bits afterwards which are probably the letters ‘u’ and ‘s’ – Latin style, you see. Johannes Franklinus. John Franklin. And see here …” His finger traced underneath the name: “Obit 1599 – plain as a pikestaff!” The match went out, but Mr Franklin could see the spectacles gleaming in the dusk.

“That,” said Thornhill quietly, “is quite probably your great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, give or take a ‘great’ or two. Buried somewhere within a few yards of us. I’ll go over this with a fine toothcomb tomorrow, but … well, as your countrymen say – isn’t that something? It’s just a matter of establishing who Matthew’s parents were – if his father’s called John, and the date of death fits – well, there you are.”

Mr Franklin stood up; suddenly he felt cold. It was almost dark now; a moth fluttered past him in the dusk; there were a few stars out in the dim vault of the sky. He suddenly felt utterly unreal, standing there by the church wall, in this strange village – where was it? What was he doing here? Maybe he was asleep, and it was only happening in a dream.

Then he was aware that Thornhill, a bulky indistinct figure in the gloom, was holding out his hand. Automatically he took it, and felt his hand shaken firmly.

“Welcome home,” said Thornhill quietly.

He muttered something by way of thanks, but still the feeling of unreality persisted. But what was it that was unreal? Himself? His being here? No, it wasn’t that – it wasn’t the crowded facts of the past few days, either – the liner, and Liverpool, and the railroad journey, and the Waldorf Hotel, and Pip’s blonde softness in his hands, and the glitter and noise of Monico’s, or the smelly stuffiness of the inn down the road – it was none of that: that was all real enough. Was it the time before, then – the other world he had come from? But he was still Mark Franklin the miner, the ranchhand, the wanderer, wasn’t he? Or was that some other person, someone he’d once known? Had he changed into someone else? That couldn’t be, not with just coming to a new place; only this place wasn’t new. It was old, and whether he stayed or whether he went away, it would remain, in his mind, and there would remain, too, the sense of belonging to it – where did he belong, if not here? There was no one spot anywhere else on earth that he belonged to. Here, in this place he’d never seen until today, he had a house, where his belongings were – and within a few yards of him, under the grass, there were the bones of people who, if they could have come back to life, and could have known all that had happened in three hundred years, would have looked at him and thought, why, that is the son of Luke, who was the son of John, who was the child of Matthew’s people who went to the New World in the time of the Great Rebellion, the King’s War. But they were ghosts, from a long time ago – and yet, his own father was a ghost, too, from only a little closer in time. He had no kin, no one anywhere, who was really any closer than those old bones – and everyone had the old bones of kinsfolk, somewhere. But he knew where his were – they were here. Johannes Franklinus had walked down this same road where he was walking now, with Thornhill prattling at his elbow.

“… time to settle in, at first, bound to. Very quiet, of course, but friendly – anyway, you can be sure that I’m going to be busy tomorrow – and for as long as need be, hounding old Matthew out of his dusty obscurity. There’s a thought, eh – while all your people have been crossing the Atlantic, and building log-huts, and fighting Redskins – and the damned British, too – and each other, and driving wagons, and ‘going West, young man’ – why, all that time, that page with old Matthew’s name on it has been enclosed in that book on that shelf in that same vestry, letting the world pass by for a few centuries, just waiting – for you to come and look at him! Strange thought, isn’t it?”

They came out of the side-road into the village’s main street. There were lights in a few of the houses, and from the Apple Tree; voices drifted across from the knot of men who were walking slowly, arguing, from the pub’s door. As they turned past the village shop, the proprietress was at the door; she came hesitantly forward, and Mr Franklin paused.

“Just to let you know, sir, that I put some sugar in with your order, in case you’d forgot,” Mrs Laker explained. “Just so you know to look for it.”

“Well, thank you, I had forgotten.” Mr Franklin smiled and touched his hat; Thornhill, watching, reflected that in ten years of getting groceries from Mrs Laker he had never been so favoured; if he forgot he went without and that was that.

“And Mrs Wood here –” there was a figure bobbing nervously, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief, at Mrs Laker’s elbow, “she put you down a pint of milk.”

“That was most thoughtful, Mrs Wood,” said Mr Franklin. “And it’s Mrs … Laker, isn’t it? Ladies, you’re very kind. I guess when I get squared away I’ll discover what my requirements are.”

“Ooh,” whispered Mrs Wood, impressed. “Squared away – I never!”

“Well, my dear chap, I can see you’re in good hands,” said Thornhill. “What we would do without Mrs Laker, I can’t think … I wonder, Mrs Laker, if I could trouble you for some paraffin.” He glanced apologetically at Mr Franklin. “It’s no use – I must have a shot at Matthew tonight – shan’t sleep otherwise. No, no, my dear fellow, you get some rest – I’ll look along some time, or if you’ve a moment, you know where I’ll be, at the church. Mrs Laker, you are a ministering angel.” He accepted his paraffin gratefully, and wondered if he would have got it so readily if this imposing American in his long black coat and astonishing hat had not been present, dazzling the senses of the good wives of Castle Lancing.

And not only the good wives, it appeared. As Mr Franklin was preparing to take his leave, a small boy, who in common with his associates, had been observing Mr Franklin from a distance, was heard to exclaim that the Yankee hadn’t got a six-shooter, so there. Mrs Wood squeaked indignantly, and Mrs Laker exclaimed: “Sauce! You get out home, Tommy Marsh, or I’ll get your mother! The idea!”

“Well ’e ’asn’t!” cried the impudent urchin, while his friends giggled in the shadows by the shop’s light, and Mr Franklin half-turned in their direction.

“I never carry it at night, Tommy. I do all my shooting in the daytime. Except for Indians and cattle rustlers, of course.”

At which Mrs Wood and Mrs Laker exclaimed with astonishment, Mr Franklin bade them good-night with another touch of his hat, thanked Thornhill warmly for his welcome, and turned as another voice said: “Goodnight, Mr Franklin, sir.” It was Prior, with his cronies from the Apple Tree – and why, wondered Mr Franklin, as he strode down his homeward road, was it such a good thing that he had been able to recall Prior’s Christian name, and respond with “Goodnight, Jack; good-night all”? It pleased him – and suddenly, as he paused outside the manor’s rusty gates, he felt an overwhelming, warm content; a great happiness of fulfilment, of a kind that he could remember only rarely – after the Sunday School prize, at Omaha, when he’d been all of six years old, and his father had led him away afterwards by the hand, smiling down at him; outside the Homesteaders’ Bank in Carson City, when he had made the big deposit, and walked across to the Star and Garter saloon for a beer – and yes, just last night, lying joyously content with Pip’s breast in his hand, blowing playfully at the blonde tendrils of hair across his face. Such different kinds of placid happiness – and now he was feeling it again, as he walked up the drive, brushing his feet through the grass and weeds, feeling for his key – and checking only momentarily as a dim figure rose from one of the stone seats and hailed him in a beer-roughened croak.

“I foun’ the stop-cock, sir – down yonder by the path. All growed over like anythin’ – but I got the key on her all right. So water’ll be runnin’ right enough, whenever you turn the tap. If I coulda gotten in, I’d ’a lit the boiler like, to warm ’er up.” He sniffed complacently. “But I couldn’t get in. All locked up.”

“Why, Jake, that was very considerate.” Mr Franklin felt in his waistcoat pocket, and found a guinea. “I’m much obliged to you.”

“A’right, now,” said Jake. “Say, though, there’s some weeds aroun’, tough, ain’t there? Like an old swamp, I reckon?”

“Think you could get rid of them?” wondered Mr Franklin, and fingered the guinea aside in his pocket, searching out two half-crowns instead. Despite his euphoria, caution told him that if he overpaid Jake the first time he would regret it. Jake assured him volubly that he would tackle the weeds first thing, and make a right proper job of them.

“Well, not too early; I’d like to sleep a long time tonight,” said Mr Franklin, and when Jake had expressed rapture over his five shillings and hopped away into the dark, promising prodigies of service, the new owner of Lancing Manor let himself into the dim, empty hall.

He stood in the darkness, looking round at the half-seen shadows, feeling the tiredness wash over him. He ignored his trunks, but unbuckled his valise, drew out his blanket, and made a bed by simply spreading it before the empty fireplace. He folded his clothes on the settle, made his valise into a pillow, and stretched out, rolling the blanket round him. For a few moments he lay, looking up at the shadowy ceiling, while he thought of the worn stone up in the churchyard, and of his father, and of dim figures that he could not recognize, although he knew they had once existed.

“Well,” said Mr Franklin aloud. “We’re back.” Then he was fast asleep, in Castle Lancing.

6

Mr Franklin’s arrival at the Manor was something of a nine-day wonder in the neighbourhood. Not only was he foreign, and slightly exotic with his sunbrowned complexion and lanky striding gait, he was also a mystery, and Castle Lancing enjoyed a mystery as much as the next village. Speculation had a field day: as a result of his playful answer to Tommy Marsh it was quickly understood that he had killed a man in the bush, and was in hiding with a price on his head; there followed the rumour that he was the bastard offspring of a Duke, come home to claim his inheritance (this, doubtless, sprang from a chance remark of Thornhill’s anent the American genealogy); finally, the obvious deduction was made that he was extremely rich, and that he intended to buy half Norfolk and reverse the country’s agricultural decline with go-ahead Yankee schemes; this was a popular theory because it was at least comforting in an area which was watching with anxiety the absorption of small holdings into larger farms, and where landlord-hatred was an article of faith.

So interest ran high at the activity observed round the Manor; gangs of workmen arrived from as far away as Norwich to re-gravel the drive, point and sand the stonework, paint the timber, repair the plumbing, and carry out internal improvements to the decoration; local labourers, mysteriously recruited by Jake, who lost no opportunity of establishing his unofficial stewardship and special relationship with the owner, cleared acres of weed and rubbish from the grounds, relaid the flower-bed and repaired the borders; there was a coming and going of pantechnicons and drays with furniture from Norwich – and on two sensational occasions, from London itself – with men in aprons heaving in beds, chairs, sofas, curtains, and mysterious packing-cases whose contents could only be guessed at; for one full day a magnificent new bath, with gleaming taps and a shower attachment of strange pipes and faucets, lay on the gravel before the house, and in Mr Franklin’s absence the entire population of the district came to marvel, and to be kept at a respectful distance by the ubiquitous Jake. All was bustle and concern, great quantities of ale were drunk by the toilers – for Mr Franklin had been prodigal in his provision for the refreshment of his helpers, and the Apple Tree was threatened by drought as the result of its traffic down the Manor road – and it was agreed that the Yankee must have a power of money. The young men spat and exclaimed in respectful envy; the young women and wives were unstinting in their admiration; the gaffers agreed that no good would come of it; and Jake, ensconced on his stool at the inn, cackled knowingly and implied that they had seen nothing yet; let them wait until the Yankee squire – the title dropped into place inevitably with ownership of the Manor House – really went to work (with Jake’s guidance, be it understood). Then they’d see.

Yet Mr Franklin was a disappointment, after the first excitement of his arrival had died down. He kept very much to the Manor, supervising installations in the house itself, occasionally inspecting the work out of doors, stating his requirements civilly but briefly; he knew what he wanted, and that was that. He employed no personal servants, which gave rise to much wonder – who cooked and washed the dishes and kept the house, for one thing? His laundry went to Thetford, his bodily provisions were ordered regularly from Mrs Laker and the dairy, and that seemed to satisfy him. Once or twice he appeared in the Apple Tree, but while he was courteous and affable, he was not communicative, and a natural shyness among the villagers prevented inquiry. Word of his arrival had naturally spread to the more important houses in the district, such as they were, and while there was mild curiosity there was a natural tendency to let the newcomer settle in; the largest estate-owner was an absentee landlord who lived in London most of the year, leaving the management of his estate to a steward whose duties excluded social niceties; the vicar, an amiable elderly soul who studied birds, met Mr Franklin once, and promptly forgot who he was, to the chagrin of the vicar’s wife, who had wished to invite the American to tea but hesitated to do so on such erratic acquaintance.

It followed that initially Mr Franklin’s sole contact with Castle Lancing society – excepting his commerce with the working class – was the eccentric Thornhill, who was himself something of a recluse. They had a brief period of intimacy while Thornhill was busily scavenging the parish records on the American’s behalf: Matthew was duly identified, as was his wife, who proved to have the baptismal name Jezebel – an unprecedented and impossible thing, in Thornhill’s view, but there it was, and how to explain it he could not imagine. Johannes Franklinus of the gravestone proved to be Matthew’s uncle, and Thornhill had no difficulty in tracing the family, and its association with Castle Lancing, back to the Black Death, where the parish records began.

But their relations, though cordial, did not blossom into friendship. Thornhill visited the Manor once or twice, and received al fresco refreshment; he gave Mr Franklin a bachelor supper at his own cosy, deplorably untidy cottage, amidst a litter of books and papers, but although the Burgundy was excellent, and the American was enthusiastic over Thornhill’s researches, they discovered, once the topic of the ancient Franklins had been exhausted, that they had no especial common interest. Mr Franklin was prepared to talk, within limits, about the United States; Thornhill was prepared to talk, without limits, about everything, but he did it with only half his mind, the other half being firmly rooted in that exciting misty area between the accession of Edward III and the Reformation. The truth was that, unless his interest was aroused on his own subject, as it had briefly been in Mr Franklin’s case, Thornhill’s garrulity was a nervous habit; he really preferred talking to himself, which he frequently did, thus provoking cries of “Loony!” from the coarser young spirits of the village.

So they remained amiable acquaintances, meeting occasionally in Mrs Laker’s or the street, Thornhill pouring out a torrent of small-talk, and Mr Franklin nodding gravely and occasionally observing “Just so”. And gradually Castle Lancing’s interest dwindled, as such interests do; Mr Franklin remained an object of remark, slightly mysterious – but a mystery has to manifest itself mysteriously if it is to claim much attention, and Mr Franklin remained undeniably normal; a minor sensation in September, he was old news by October – and that suited him very well, apparently. He was content, it seemed, to merge into the background of Castle Lancing, far from the great world, and to forget about it, at least for a season. But, although he did not suspect it as he went about placidly improving and perfecting his house, watching the apples wrinkle and wither in his orchard, and the leaves fall to carpet his garden in brown and gold – although he was far from suspecting it in his sought-out rustic solitude, the great world was not prepared to forget him.

It was a raw October day that Mr Franklin unstabled the hack hired from a farrier in Thetford, hitched it expertly to his small trap, and set out on the fifteen-mile journey to the village of West Walsham. He had seen an advertisement in the local paper offering for sale seventy-five feet of Japanese oak panelling, and since his own hall had struck him as being in need of lightening, he had decided to drive over to the country house where the panelling was on view. It was, he admitted to himself, a fairly thin excuse for the journey; he had no real notion of what Japanese oak looked like, but he had not been abroad for a fortnight, and the prospect of a ramble along the back-roads of Norfolk was attractive. Thornhill had recommended a drive by Wayland Woods – the very wood, he assured an amused Mr Franklin, where the Babes of the famous legend had been abandoned by their wicked uncle, whose house at Griston was still to be seen. So the trap carried a large and well-filled picnic hamper, and Mr Franklin bowled off not caring a great deal whether he reached his destination or not.

He ambled very much at random, roughly in what he believed was the West Walsham direction, guiding himself by the orange ball of the sun which shone dimly through the autumn mist, content to admire the golden woods and the pale green meadows on his way. There was an invigorating nip in the air, a damp cosiness about the countryside with its heavy brown earth and dripping hedges, which he found strangely pleasant; in the far distance he caught once or twice the sound of many dogs barking, and wondered what so large a pack could be doing. It was all very peaceful and English, he told himself, and he was enjoying it – was he turning into a Limey, he wondered, smiling at the thought. Even after a few weeks he was aware that his appearance had probably changed a little; the trim tweeds he was wearing, the shooting-hat and gaiters, were all right in the Norfolk character; he laughed aloud and said “Squire!”, shaking his head – how the roughnecks at Tonopah or the barkeeps at the Bella Union would have laughed at that. He didn’t care; it suited him.

He came out of his pleasant daydream to the realization that he had no idea where he was, and that it must be getting close to noon. He chucked the reins, the hack roused itself to a gentle trot, and they came over a rise and down a gentle slop to a bridge among the thickets where, on a clear space by the roadside, a large Mercedes motor-car was parked. It was an imposing machine, with five passengers that he could see: a lady and gentleman seated on camp-chairs by the roadside, having lunch, with another woman in the car, what looked like a servant attending to the tiny camp-table before the diners, and an undoubted chauffeur busying himself at the back of the car. It occurred to Mr Franklin that where there was a chauffeur there would certainly be a map; he slowed to a halt beside the car and raised his hat.

“Good day,” he said. “I wonder if you could tell me if I’m on the right road for West Walsham?”

The gentleman appeared not to have heard him; at least, he did not take his attention from the heaped plate on his lap. He was a stout, elderly man, clad in a heavy caped coat and plaid trousers, with a cap pulled down over his brows, and he appeared to be enjoying his lunch immensely. Mr Franklin glanced at the lady, and immediately forgot all about the male half of the dining party; she had looked up in surprise at his question, and he found himself looking into a face that was quite breath-takingly beautiful. Bright green eyes and auburn hair were a startling enough combination, with that perfect complexion, but there was a liveliness about her expression, and in the sudden brilliant smile which she bestowed on him, that prompted Mr Franklin to bow in his seat as he repeated his question.

“West Walsham?”

The lady glanced at her companion, who carefully wiped his grizzled beard on a napkin before shaking his head.

“Couldn’t say, I’m afraid. Don’t know where we are, for that matter.” And he gave a deep, hearty chuckle.

“Perhaps Stamper knows,” said the lady, and turned to repeat the question to the chauffeur, who consulted a map. He seemed to be having some difficulty, and the lady presently rose to help him; the long heavy motoring-coat could not conceal the grace of her movements, and Mr Franklin was charmed as he watched the lovely face intent on the map which the chauffeur spread on the motor’s bonnet, and the tiny gloved hand tracing on it. The stout old gentleman, having reluctantly surrendered his empty plate to the servant, was now contemplating an unlit cigar; no one else was saying a word, and Mr Franklin politely removed his attention from the beautiful map-reader and remarked that it was a fine day for a picnic.

The old gentleman seemed surprised at this. The grizzled beard and heavy moustache were turned on Mr Franklin; small bright eyes regarded him for several seconds, taking in his clothing, his horse and trap, his person, and (Mr Franklin felt) his standing and moral character. The old gentleman spoke.

“Yes,” he said, and placed the cigar in his mouth. The servant lighted it, and the old gentleman puffed irritably for a few seconds, and then turned to address the lady and chauffeur. “Can’t you find it?”

The lady laughed, intent on the map. “That can’t be it, Stamper – that’s miles away.” She raised her head. “Stamper’s found a North Walsham, but it’s at the other end of the county.”

The old gentleman considered, puffing thoughtfully. “Then look at this end,” he said. “Towards the west. That’s where it’ll be – wouldn’t you say?” he added to Mr Franklin.

“Please,” said Mr Franklin, “I’m putting you to a great deal of trouble, and –”

“It’s no trouble,” said the lady, “we shall find it in a moment. Come along, Stamper – you take that side and I’ll take this …”

The old gentleman sighed, and Mr Franklin sat through an uncomfortable minute, wishing he had passed by without inquiry, while the lady and chauffeur were joined by the second lady from the car; they continued the search, murmuring over the map, but West Walsham proved as elusive as ever, and Mr Franklin was on the point of asking them to desist when the old gentleman said suddenly:

“Had lunch?”

“I beg your pardon – no, no thank you,” said Mr Franklin hurriedly. “Thank you very much, but I’m … ah, lunching farther on.”

The old gentleman grunted, smoked busily, and then said:

“Have a glass of wine, anyway, while you’re waiting.” And before he could protest, Mr Franklin found himself being presented with a glass by the ever-ready servant. He raised it to the old gentleman, searching for the right words.

“Why thank you, sir. Your very good health, and –” he bowed towards the group round the map “ – and your daughter’s, too.”

Why he assumed that the beautiful lady was the old gentleman’s daughter he could not have said; they could hardly be man and wife, and the relationship seemed a reasonable supposition. That he was wrong, offensively wrong, was evident immediately; at his words the murmur of voices over the map stopped dead, and the old gentleman stared at him with his face going crimson. Surprise and anger showed in the little bright eyes staring at Mr Franklin; then the eyes closed as their owner began to wheeze loudly – to his relief Mr Franklin realized that the old gentleman was laughing, and laughing with abandon, heaving precariously on his camp-chair, and finally going into a coughing-fit which brought the beautiful lady to his side. She bent over him, an arm about his heavy shoulders, as the coughing fit subsided and the old gentleman found his voice again.

“Don’t fuss at me!” he said. “There, that’s better – that’s better.” He would have resumed his cigar, but the lady gave him a reproachful look, and with a sigh he tossed it away. “Well – have you found the place yet?”

“I’m afraid not.” The lady gave Mr Franklin an apologetic look. “Really, we are hopeless navigators.”

“Well, I hope Stamper can at least find the way to Oxton,” said the old gentleman. He cleared his throat heavily and addressed Mr Franklin. “And that you find your West wherever-it-is, Mr …?”

“Franklin,” said the American, and the old gentleman reached for his own wine-glass and drained it, his gesture inviting Franklin to accompany him.

“You’re an American, aren’t you?” said the old gentleman; now that he had got over his coughing, he had a surprisingly deep, gruff voice, pronouncing his “r’s” with heavy deliberation. “Yes – I told you he was, when we saw him driving down, didn’t I? Always tell an American with horses. Well, good day to you, sir,” and the old gentleman nodded to Mr Franklin as the servant helped him to rise, the lady taking his arm. She smiled pleasantly as Mr Franklin got down to put his empty glass on the table.

“I do wish we could have helped you,” she said.

“I’m just sorry for putting you to so much trouble,” said Mr Franklin. “You’ve been very kind. And I thank you for a glass of excellent wine, Mr …?”

“Eh?” The old gentleman squared his broad shoulders and the little eyes met Mr Franklin’s again. “Oh … Lancaster. Glad to have seen you, Mr Franklin.”

He stumped off towards the car, the lady moving gracefully beside him. Mr Franklin mounted his trap again, shook the reins, and set off; he glanced back once, and saw that the old gentleman was being settled into his seat by the chauffeur, who was wrapping a rug round his legs. The lady waved gaily to Mr Franklin, and then he was over the bridge and out of sight, puzzling over the unpredictable behaviour of the English gentry: there had been a moment there when the old fellow had looked ready to burst, but he seemed a decent enough sort. And what a green-eyed beauty she had been; Mr Franklin wondered if Englishwomen were really more handsome than any others, or if there was something in the English air that was making him more susceptible.

A mile or two farther on he stopped for his own picnic on a slight rise from which he had a good view of the misty country round, except to his right, where a high hedge obscured a stretch of ploughed land. He unpacked from the hamper some cold cuts and salad and cheese, as well as a bottle of Bernkastler, a wine for which he had conceived a loyalty, if not perhaps a liking exactly, on the voyage from New York; it was, in fact, the first wine he had ever tasted. He spread his old slicker on the damp grass at the roadside, and fell to, munching contentedly and taking in the scenery.

From somewhere across the ploughed land the sound of the barking dogs came again, closer than before, and this time the distant sound of human voices, sharply interrupted by the unmistakeable note of a horn. Mr Franklin stopped eating to listen; the distant voices were shouting, and there was that dull drumming sound which he knew so well, of galloping horses; the baying of the dogs rose clamorously – they must be in the ploughed field beyond the hedge by now, and Mr Franklin was just rising to have a look when something small and frantic burst suddenly through the hedge, there was a reddish blur streaking across the road, swerving to avoid the startled Mr Franklin, then leaping an astonishing height and actually striking the side of the trap with a slight thud. It happened in the twinkling of an eye; the small creature tumbled over the side of the trap in a flurry of bushy tail, fell into a picnic basket – and the lid which Mr Franklin had carelessly left open, fell abruptly, the patent catch clicked shut, and the invader was trapped. The basket jerked and shook, to an accompaniment of squeaks within; Mr Franklin stood astonished, a drumstick in one hand and a glass in the other – and then over and through the hedge came what seemed to be a torrent of dogs, brown and white brutes with long tails and floppy ears, baying and squealing and surging round the trap, threatening to overturn it in their eagerness to get at the basket. The din was deafening, the trap shuddered under the impact of canine bodies struggling against its sides, and the hack, which Mr Franklin had fortunately turned loose to graze, neighed wildly and clattered off down the road.

Mr Franklin considered the situation; it was new to him, but he was not a man given to acting without thinking, except in truly mortal situations; dealing with a swarming pack of excited dogs was outside his scope, and he was relieved at the abrupt appearance of a wiry little man who looked like a jockey in a large red coat, and who fell on the dogs with a long-lashed whip and a tongue to match. There was shouting and cheering from the hedge; riders were trying to find a way through, and now from gates some distance down the road on either side they came clattering on to the road – men in red or black, with top hats, caps, and crops, converging on the trap, where the wiry little man was thrashing at the squealing dogs, swearing shrilly in a jargon which Mr Franklin did not recognize. But the appearance of the new arrivals was at least familiar from prints in books and on saloon walls; this, he concluded, was a fox-hunt.

“What the blazes is happening, Jarvie?” “What is it?” “Where away, then?” “I say, Jarvie, what’s happened?” The riders were reining in round the trap, the frustrated pack, the belabouring huntsman, and the innocent Mr Franklin, with a clamour of inquiry; a burly young man with a heavy moustache was to the fore, flourishing a heavy riding crop.

“Good God, Jarvie, what are the hounds doing?” he demanded, and the sweating little man, having beaten a way through the yelping mass, was springing nimbly into the trap and surveying the jerking picnic basket with astonishment.

“I … I dunno, milord. Why, bloody ’ell – I think it’s gone to ground in this ’ere basket!”

Cries of astonishment and laughter; Mr Franklin noted that a couple of ladies were among the hunters who were pressing forward to see. One horse stamped perilously close to him, and he had to step back, catching at the hedge to prevent his falling.

“What’s that? In the basket? Good God!” exclaimed the burly young man. “Well, I’m damned! Heave it out then, Jarvie – sling it on to the road, man!”

“I think it’s locked, milord,” said Jarvie, eyeing the basket.

“Then break the dam’ thing open, can’t you? Throw it down!”

Mr Franklin was conscious of a slight irritation. It was not only the brutality of the burly young man’s tone, proclaiming as it did an obvious disregard for anyone and anything that got in his way; nor was it the threatened destruction of his property. What ruffled Mr Franklin’s spirit was the fact that no one, especially the burly young man, had even noticed him or apparently given a thought to who the owner of the trap and basket might be. On the contrary, he had been forced into the hedge, and was still in some danger of being trampled as the riders pressed their horses forward round the trap, chattering excitedly.

“In the basket?” “Good lord, it can’t be!” “Open it up, then Jarvie.” “Come on, man!” Jarvie stood perplexed, and was just stooping to the basket when Mr Franklin succeeded in forcing himself between the hedge and the nearest rider, and approached the trap.

“Just a moment,” he said, and the chatting subsided slightly. The riders regarded him with some surprise, and the young man demanded:

“Who are you?”

It was said impatiently, and Mr Franklin found himself disliking the young man. His face was beefy, his moustache was aggressive, and his eyes were staring with that unpleasant arrogant hostility which Mr Franklin had already noted in a certain type of Englishman. He hadn’t put a name to it, but it was the look of a nature that would rather be rude than not, and took satisfaction in displaying contempt for outsiders, and putting them in their place.

“I’m the owner of the basket. And the trap. And the horse – wherever it is,” said Mr Franklin quietly, and a lady laughed among the hunters. The young man stared at Mr Franklin blankly, and then directed his attention to Jarvie again.

“Come on, Jarvie!” he snapped, slapping his crop, and as Jarvie stooped obediently Mr Franklin lost his temper completely. There was no outward sign of this; he simply laid a hand on the side of the trap and said:

“Don’t touch that basket, Jarvie. And get out of the rig, will you – now.”

Jarvie looked, and stopped abruptly, his hands coming away from the basket. He was conscious of a lean brown face and two cold steady eyes staring into his, and what he thought he saw in them took him aback. Still, he hesitated, and then the quiet voice said:

“Step down, Jarvie.”

And to his own astonishment, Jarvie found himself stepping down into the road, while exclamations of surprise and bewilderment came from the onlookers.

“Thank you,” said Mr Franklin, and came round to Jarvie’s side of the trap, where the hounds, subdued and fretful by now, were whining round the huntsman’s boots. It was echoed by a murmur of discontent from the hunt. “What the deuce?” grumbled one stringy old gentleman with a puce complexion, and a stout woman said: “Really!” At this the burly young man, momentarily rendered speechless by his huntsman’s apparent defection, swung down from his saddle and strode towards the trap. Mr Franklin moved to confront him, and the young man stopped, his face flushed with fury.

“What the devil d’you mean by … by impeding the hunt?” he demanded.

“What do you mean,” responded Mr Franklin, “by interrupting my dinner and invading my property?”

“His dinner,” exclaimed a female voice. “Did you hear?” And: “Property?” demanded the stringy man. “What property? Stuff and nonsense!”

“As I said, it is my trap, and my basket,” said Mr Franklin, and the murmur rose to a growl, although one or two of the hunt, struck by the comic side of the situation, laughed. Among them was an angel-faced young lady in a bowler hat with her hair tied back in a large black bow; it seemed to him that her laughter particularly stung the burly young man, who was standing glowering uncertainly.

“Dammit, sir, this is dam’ ridiculous,” exclaimed a fat man whose complexion matched his coat. “You’ve got the dam’ fox in the dam’ basket! What? You – you can’t steal a dam’ fox, dammit!”

“I’m not stealing anything,” said Mr Franklin abruptly; his temper was still high. “The fox arrived uninvited –”

“Well, then, let the dam’ thing go!” exclaimed the stringy man. “Good God, never heard the like in all my life!” He glared suspiciously at Mr Franklin. “Are you some kind of blasted Yankee crank, or what?”

“Shove him out of the way, Frank,” shouted a voice, and the burly young man came a step closer to Mr Franklin; plainly he was measuring the American’s breadth of shoulder and general potential in a roadside brawl, for he demanded: “Are you going to stand out of the way?”

“No,” said Mr Franklin with a coolness he was far from feeling, “and if you lay a hand on anything that belongs to me, I’ll not only sue you under whatever laws you have in England, I’ll also beat the living daylights out of you.”

At this, slight pandemonium broke out; someone suggested getting the police, the young man clenched his fists, Mr Franklin braced himself, but before the young man could do anything rash he was set aside by a blond young giant who grinned amiably at Mr Franklin, tossed his hat away, and cried: “That’s the ticket! Want a turn-up, do you, Yankee! Come on, then, here we are!”

“Arthur, stop it!” cried the girl with the black bow, but Arthur shook his head, his eyes laughing as he watched Franklin. “No, no, Peg, you mind your own business. If this chap’s ready to fight for his fox, good luck to him! Eh, Yankee?”

“If you like,” said Mr Franklin slowly, and at this point another of the huntsmen urged his horse forward; an elderly, intelligent-looking man with a distinct air of authority.

“Stop this dam’ nonsense,” he said. “Arthur, don’t be a fool! And you, sir, what are you driving at? Are you bent on making mischief – you’ve no right to … to make away with that fox, and you know it!”

“I haven’t even touched the fox,” said Mr Franklin. “And I dare say I’d have felt obliged to let him loose five minutes ago – if someone had just troubled to ask me politely.”

“Politely!” echoed the stringy man in disbelief, and the fat man said the fellow was mad. But the intelligent-looking man stared hard at Mr Franklin and then said: “Come sir, this is foolish. It’s not our fault if the creature went to ground in your basket –”

“Not mine, either,” said Mr Franklin. “I didn’t chase him there.”

There were cries of derision at this, and then the angel-faced girl with the bow called out mischievously: “If I say, ‘Please, sir, may we have our fox back?’” will you let him go?”

“Too late, Peg, too late!” cried Arthur, grinning. “Isn’t it, Yank?”

“This is a dam’ farce!” cried the fat man. “Dammit, this is meant to be a dam’ hunt, isn’t it?”

Mr Franklin surveyed the faces in front of him; Arthur, gleefully ready for a fight, the burly man Frank scowling, most of the mounted men plainly annoyed, the angelic girl watching speculatively; one or two of the others grinning. He was dimly aware of the sound of a motor engine approaching.

“All right, then,” he said, nodding to the girl. “I’ll let the fox out – and your dogs can pull him apart. Is that what you want?”

She stiffened, and twitched a hand at her modishly-fitting black riding skirt; a spot of colour showed on her cheek.

“I said ‘if I asked’,” she said. “Well, I’m not.”

“Good for you, Peg!” said Arthur. “Come on, Yankee – either cough up or put them up.” And he assumed a boxing pose, while exclamations of disgust and anger rose again, only to die away very suddenly, and Mr Franklin was aware that the huntsmen were reining back, removing their hats, and making respectful gestures towards the road behind him. He turned, and saw that the large Mercedes motor had pulled up a few yards off; the stout old bearded gentleman and the green-eyed lady were staring at him with astonishment.

“You,” said the bearded gentleman loudly. “I thought you were going to West … West – where was it, Alice?”

“Walsham,” said the green-eyed lady. Her lively glance was taking in the scene, sensing that something extremely odd was taking place. “I rather fancy that Mr Franklin has met with some unexpected delay.”

One of the hunt, an extremely bald and ugly man, had hurried to the motor, hat in hand, and was speaking rapidly to the bearded gentleman, whose comments as he listened were distinctly audible. “What? What? I don’t believe it, Soveral! In where, d’you say? His picnic basket?” And then he began to laugh again, his little eyes shut as he wheezed in helpless mirth – and Mr Franklin noted that the hunt were echoing his laughter, but in a most forced and wary way. It was extremely odd – but then the whole ridiculous incident was odd; Mr Franklin wondered if he were dreaming, but now the bearded gentleman’s laughter had subsided, and he was beckoning, and possibly because he sensed that the bearded man was someone of consequence, or out of politeness, Mr Franklin moved up to the motor.

“Tell me,” said the bearded gentleman, and his small eyes were twinkling with delight. “Were you thinking of adding the fox to your lunch?”

There was a roar of laughter at this, and Mr Franklin smiled. “No, Mr Lancaster,” he said. “But I wasn’t chasing him. I don’t know what these ladies and gentlemen intended by him.”

“Ha!” cried Mr Lancaster, and chuckled. “But they want him back, you know. Can’t interfere with a hunt, eh?”

“Well, sir, all they have to do is ask. But for some reason they don’t seem to want to – they seem to prefer to smash up a man’s things, without so much as a by your leave. We don’t reckon much to that, where I come from. Anyway – I don’t know your English law, but I’d imagine the fox belongs to whoever’s property it’s on, and it’s on mine this minute, no question.” Mr Franklin paused for breath; he was not used to long speeches, but although his temper had cooled by now, the memory of the man Frank’s boorish behaviour rankled. Besides, Mr Lancaster looked like a good man to explain things to, after the heated and inconsiderate attitude of the hunters. “And anyway, this is the King’s highway, I reckon –”

To his astonishment the green-eyed lady clapped her gloved hands with delight, someone tittered, and the bald, ugly man shot a nervous glance at Mr Lancaster, who was regarding Mr Franklin with unmixed amusement.

“You think that, do you?” said Mr Lancaster, and in that moment a frightful suspicion dawned on Mr Franklin, and was immediately transformed into a certainty; he stared at the neat grey beard, the heavy face with the cap set rakishly above it, the burly figure, and above all the bright little eyes in the sleepy, pouched cheeks. There were copper coins in his pocket bearing that face, and child of the Great Republic though he was Mr Franklin experienced a chill shock in his stomach and a momentary weakness at the knees.

“Well, then?” said Mr Lancaster calmly.

“Well, then,” echoed Mr Franklin, somewhat confused. “I guess it is your majesty’s fox.”

“No doubt of that,” said the King, and laughed again. His glance, twinkling maliciously, strayed from Mr Franklin to the assembled hunt. “Going to have a report of this in The Field, Clayton, are you? Splendid headline: ‘Gone to earth in a picnic basket!’” He guffawed at his own wit, the huntsmen laughed with hollow enthusiasm, and the green-eyed Alice smiled at Mr Franklin.

“‘American gentleman’s unexpected luncheon guest’,” she suggested.

“Tell you what, Clayton,” said the King, and Mr Franklin became aware that the intelligent-looking man was at his elbow, smiling respectfully at majesty. “If you don’t want this in the penny papers, I suggest you invite Mr … ah, Franklin, isn’t it? – to dinner. Swear him to silence, eh? Have Miss Peggy persuade him,” and the little eyes warmed as they regarded the angel-faced girl, who bowed in the saddle.

“A pleasure, sir,” said Clayton, looking as though it would be anything but.

“Capital,” said the King. “See you this evening, Franklin. Play bridge do you? – of course, all Americans do. All right, Stamper,” he gestured to the chauffeur, but even as the car was moving off, the royal memory was stirred. “Wait, though – what about the fox, Franklin?”

“At the moment, he is detained at your majesty’s pleasure,” said Mr Franklin, startling himself by his own readiness.

“Give him time off for good behaviour, then,” said the King, and as the car moved off he called over his shoulder: “Provided he has behaved himself, in among your smoked salmon and foie gras!” His deep laugh sounded as the royal car passed on, the hunt bowing in their saddles respectfully. Mr Franklin found himself being considered by an interested group, in which Clayton, Miss Peggy, the large grinning Arthur, and the bald ugly man were prominent.

“Well, well, old Ted’s in a better temper than I’ve ever seen him,” said Arthur, retrieving the hat he had thrown aside. “How’d you like to be court jester, Yankee?”

“That will do, Arthur!” said Clayton sharply, and turned to Mr Franklin. “My name is Clayton, sir, how do you do? I seem to recall your name – are you by any chance the gentleman who has recently bought Lancing Manor?”

“Yes, Mr Clayton.”

“Ah – Sir Charles Clayton, in fact. My dear, may I present Mr Franklin – my daughter. The Marquis de Soveral –” at this the ugly man inclined his head “ – and my son, Arthur.” Clayton glanced round; the burly young man Frank was standing some distance off, in no good humour. “Lord Lacy, who is a neighbour of yours – Mr Franklin.” The American nodded, Lacy continued to glare. These civilities concluded, Mr Franklin felt that a word of explanation was in order.

“May I say, Sir Charles,” he began “that I had no intention of kidnapping your fox. It just came flying –”

“Not at all,” said Clayton, and Mr Franklin had the impression that he had said something indecent. “I think we may forget the fox. Jarvie! Will you be good enough to take the basket and release the animal – at a safe distance from hounds. The hunt,” he went on with dissatisfaction, “is at an end.”

“Better say ‘please’ Jarvie, or Mr Franklin will certainly flatten you,” called Arthur cheerfully.

“Stop it, Arthur,” said Peggy. “You can think yourself lucky Mr Franklin didn’t flatten you. Are you always so kind to animals?” she went on, innocently, and Mr Franklin had the impression that he was being flirted with, on very brief acquaintance. He was human enough to be pleased; she looked distinctly fetching, in her cute little mannish bowler, and the dark habit setting off her graceful figure. He noted approvingly that she sat side-saddle with unconscious ease. And apart from her obvious attractions, he was prepared to like her for her pert cheerfulness – her brother, too, for that matter, even if Father seemed a bit of a cool stick.

“We shall be delighted if you will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner, Mr Franklin,” Clayton was saying, and it flashed across the American’s mind that he was in a position to cause acute alarm in the Clayton family if he chose to decline the invitation – had anyone, he wondered, refused to dine with the King of England? Probably not – and he was certainly not going to be the first. He murmured his acceptance, was informed that Oxton Hall was a mere six miles from Castle Lancing, and that dinner would be at 8.30.

“And please, try to make the King laugh as much as you did this afternoon,” said Peggy. “Tell him American jokes, or something.”

“Otherwise the curse of the Claytons will descend on you,” said Arthur.

“Until this evening, then,” said their father, effectively cutting off his children’s indiscretions, and as the men remounted, Peggy waved gaily, and the party trotted off down the road after the rest of the hunt, Mr Franklin found his arm taken by the saturnine Marquis de Soveral, who proceeded to examine him carefully, but with extreme courtesy, as to his background, antecedents, politics, and ability to play bridge – the last of which concerned Mr Franklin somewhat, since his card repertoire was confined to pinochle, poker, black jack, and a little whist; of bridge he knew no more than he had picked up idly watching other passengers on the voyage from America.

“Dear me,” said de Soveral, “that is a pity, since his majesty obviously intends that you should play. However, no doubt dear Mrs Keppel will see you through. Remember, only, that his majesty likes to win. And he is very easily bored, which is why – I say it without the least desire to offend, my dear fellow – you will be something of a godsend. You are new, you see – which is why I am finding out all I can about you.” The dark eyes twinkled shrewdly, and it occurred to Mr Franklin that the Marquis de Soveral, with his forbidding looks and bristling dark moustache, was nobody’s fool. “Officially, you understand, I am the Minister of Portugal at the Court of St James’s, but I occupy the much more exalted position of confidant to his majesty, and he will certainly want to know all about you when I return to Oxton Hall. That, of course, is what a diplomat is for. Evening dress, of course – ah, what more? You will be expected to stay the night, so I urge you to bring the necessary changes. You have a man – no? I shall arrange that. Might I presume to suggest that you bring a small gift for Mrs Keppel – the lady in the car with his majesty. It is not necessary, of course, but it would delight her, and what delights her pleases his majesty. She is a truly charming person, in every way, and keeps his majesty amused. You will not, of course, flirt with her – it would greatly embarrass her, and his majesty would be most offended. I merely mention it because she is so extremely attractive. For the rest, if you are in doubt at any time, catch my eye. And when his majesty says ‘No bid,’ and lays his cards flat on the table, do not, I implore you, if you are his partner, bid yourself – not unless you have a certain slam in your hand. Ah, I see Jarvie has recovered your horse. Well, Mr Franklin, it has been a great pleasure meeting you – to tell you the truth –” and the Marquis bared his teeth in a bandit smile “– I was delighted at your disruption of this afternoon’s hunt. So, I gathered, was his majesty. It is good for these squires to be reminded that the pursuit of the unfortunate fox is not quite a sacred ritual. I look forward to this evening.”

He swung gracefully into the saddle and cantered off with a flourish of his hat, leaving an astonished, slightly bewildered, but also rather elated American staring after him. Then, and not until then, did Mr Franklin realize that he was still holding in his left hand a half-eaten chicken leg; he stared at it in consternation, and then, being a practical man, finished it.

7

At eight o’clock precisely by Mr Franklin’s fine gold half-hunter his trap drew up at the gates of Oxton Hall. For the hundredth time he touched his silk hat, stopped himself from fidgetting with the tie which he had adjusted before his mirror with meticulous care, glanced up the drive to the lights of the long, low rambling house among the trees, listened to the coughing roar of motor-cars moving on its carriage sweep, and murmured, “Uh-huh”. He was aware that his neck was prickling under his collar, and his hands were sweating inside his evening gloves. He felt slightly sick.

“Now remember,” said Thornhill. “Spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs – in that order. ‘Solomon has delightful crockery.’ Four of a major suit makes a game, or five of a minor. Three no-trump makes game also. Otherwise it’s just like whist, more or less, God help you.”

“Thank you,” said Mr Franklin. “Start with the outside cutlery and work inwards. Right. Got that. My God, I don’t think I washed my face-did I? Of all the –”

“Yes, you did,” said Thornhill gently, “after you put on your right sock. I distinctly remember. My dear chap, there is absolutely nothing to worry about – there are probably fifty people in there all fretting about their dresses and their hair and their finger-nails and the awful possibility that they may break wind accidentally in the royal presence, and not one of ’em looks as well as you do, take my word for it. Poor old Clayton – not two beans to rub together, and no hostess except that idiot flapper of a daughter, and the whole damned royal circus eating him out of house and home – how he’ll pay for it, heaven alone knows. And having to put up with the county riff-raff as well – atrocious people – and going mad at the thought that his cook’s liable to poison the King-Emperor! So you see – you have nothing to be alarmed about. Just watch the rest of ’em having silent hysterics; gloat, and enjoy yourself.”

“Yes,” said Mr Franklin. “All the same –”

“Nonsense,” said Thornhill firmly. “All right, Jack,” and as Mr Prior, coachman for the evening, snapped the reins, the trap moved smartly up the drive.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Mr Franklin. He had arrived at Thornhill’s door at about five o’clock, wearing an anxious frown, with the news that he was bidden to dine with royalty, and thereafter events had passed in a frantic mist. For perhaps the first time in his life, Mr Franklin admitted, he had been off balance and at a loss; the sudden social horror of his situation had come to him while he was driving back from the hunt – he had realized that his brief acquaintance with England had left him helpless in the face of the ordeal that awaited him; he had no notion of how royalty dined, or what might be expected of him as a guest; for all he knew it might be a banquet with gold plate and footmen in old-fashioned wigs – visions, which he knew were pure fantasy, of an enthroned monarch with people kneeling before him, had flashed across his disordered mind, and he had heard the voice of the town-crier thundering: “Mr Mark Franklin of the United States of America!” while a glittering throng of lords and ladies turned to regard him with amused disdain. At this point he had remembered Thornhill, and decided to appeal to him – and the dishevelled don, after his first bewilderment, had moved calmly and precisely, guiding Mr Franklin back to the manor, explaining that a country-house dinner for the King would be no more formal than a meal in a fashionable restaurant, that the American’s manners and bearing were perfectly equal to it (“damned sight better than most of ’em, moneyed bumpkins and decayed gentry’), and that provided he took care with his dress and behaved naturally, he had nothing to fear.

This had been vastly reassuring – still, it had seemed ridiculously unreal as he dressed himself in full evening rig of white tie and tails (thank God for the expert taste and guidance of Thomas Samson, valet extraordinary – that had been money well spent) while Thornhill had ferretted about finding studs and shoes and discoursing at large of the monarch’s personality, of bridge and billiards, of evening charades and party games, and anything else that Mr Franklin might conceivably find it useful to know.

“Never met our sovereign lord myself,” Thornhill had said. “Remember he came to college to open a new building once; looked bored to tears, poor old thing; can’t blame him. They say he’s genial, but a stickler for dress –” at this point Mr Franklin, adjusting his stiff-front shirt with ponderous care, had thrust his pearl and diamond pin into his thumb “-but you’re all right there, at any rate. Beautiful duds, my dear fellow.” He surveyed Mr Franklin with approval. “Just call him ‘sir’, be respectfully polite, and you’re home and dry.”

Then there had been the problem of a driver – Mr Franklin felt that the less exertion he had on the six-mile journey to Oxton, the better his collar and cuffs would like it, and he guessed that to entrust Thornhill with the reins would mean a short sharp trip to the nearest ditch. They had driven to the Apple Tree at night-fall, Thornhill had gone in and negotiated while Mr Franklin sat in the trap in the darkened village street wondering whatever had induced him to leave Nevada, and presently a crowd of astonished villagers had emerged to gape, with Jack Prior masterfully shouldering his way through them and mounting the trap with no more than a nod to its occupant. And now they were rolling up the drive to Oxton Hall, and Prior was stopping at a discreet distance from the motor-cars, three or four of them parked on the carriage-sweep with their engineers making their way round to the servants’ entrance.

“Got the thingummy for Mrs Keppel? Good for you – in you go then, old man.” Thornhill beamed through the dusk. “Don’t eat too much, and spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs, remember? Right-ho, Jack.”

Mr Franklin watched them drive away, took a firm grip of his small parcel, squared his shoulders, and marched up the steps to be received by an elderly butler, who took his hat, case, cloak, and name, in that order. And he was just glancing apprehensively at an open door across the hall, from which loud voices and laughter were drifting when the daughter of the house, resplendent in what looked like lilac satin, emerged rapidly from a door beneath the stairs, paused for breath, and cried out in relief at the sight of Mr Franklin.

“Thank heavens you’ve come! We thought you’d missed your way, and Kingie’s been asking for you – full of foxy jokes …” Peggy rolled her eyes. “Father has been bearing up manfully, poor old soul. It’s been an absolute frost, you know – the old Teddy Bear got his feet wet, and there were no ginger biscuits at tea – well, how was I to know that they’re practically a drug with him? – but fortunately Jinks Smith slipped on the stairs and fell all the way down, and that put our gracious King in a good temper again – Arthur says Jinks did it on purpose – you’re looking at my hair, what’s the matter with it?”

“I beg your pardon – why, nothing at all.” Mr Franklin had been noticing two things; one was that her hair, which he had thought fair, was a very pale auburn, so that piled up and around her face it looked like a monstrous halo; the other, that the angel face had just a hint of petulance around the small cupid’s mouth, as though a beautiful seraph had grown impatient of posing in Botticelli’s studio. “Your hair’s beautiful, Miss Clayton.”

“Oh, my, how formal!” She pulled a face. “I’m Peggy, you’re Mark, and no nonsense. ‘Miss Clayton’ – you’d think I was a governess, or somebody’s aunt. But come on – the King’s in there, so do your stuff.”

She took him by the arm, guiding him towards the door, stopping en route to make minute adjustments to her hair and the shoulders of her dress before the hall mirror. Mr Franklin remarked that there seemed to be a great many guests, and was disillusioned.

“Oh, the house is bursting with Arthur’s disky friends – we’ve got about twenty for the week-end, but don’t you worry, they’re well out of the way in the west wing. Can’t have them ragging and racketting in court circles, so there’s just about a dozen for dinner. Everyone else takes pot-luck in the old nursery.” Peggy twitched doubtfully at her neck-line. “Too much, too little – d’you think? Oh, it’ll do – Kingie’s stopped leering, anyway. Now, then.”

Clayton himself met them at the drawing-room door, with evident relief; Soveral was smiling at his elbow, and to Mr Franklin’s surprise the packet he had brought for Mrs Keppel was twitched surreptitiously from his hand. There seemed to be about a dozen people in the room, in evening clothes – there was the King, portly but immaculate, seated by the fire, puffing on a cigarette, with Mrs Keppel at his elbow, a Junoesque figure in crimson, with diamonds in her hair and sparkling on her celebrated bosom; Soveral was attracting her attention. Mr Franklin recognised some of the faces from the hunt – the stringy man, the stout man of whom he thought as “Colonel Dammit”, the scowling Lacy, various ladies, but none of them comparable with Peggy or Mrs Keppel. Beside him he was aware that Peggy was bobbing a slight curtsey; he forced himself to make a forward inclination which might pass for a bow if a bow was in order and wouldn’t be noticed if it was not. Then the small eyes were on him, and the other guests were willing him magnetically towards the fireplace.

“Ah, Franklin. Good evening to you.” Majesty was nodding. “Brought any more foxes?” There was polite laughter, and the King went on: “Now, you’re American – you can tell us – what do they say over there about votes for women?”

He isn’t smiling, thought Mr Franklin, but he’s looking affable. Everyone else was watching him, the men attentive, the women with frozen smiles, and he sensed the nervous under-current of the pre-prandial drawing-room. What to say? – he suddenly remembered the militant young lady outside the Waldorf.

“Well, sir, that depends.” His voice was unnaturally loud, and he made a conscious effort to speak normally. “If they’re single men, I guess they know better than to say anything – and if they’re married men, they don’t get much chance.”

In that moment he knew how a comedian feels when his first joke draws a roar from the pit; in fact, he was astonished that his fairly feeble response made the King chuckle, the ladies titter, and the gentlemen laugh aloud. God, he thought, do they expect me to be the droll Yankee? Well, I can’t do it – and at that moment he was rescued by an exclamation of delight from Mrs Keppel; she was turning from Soveral to stoop so that the King could examine the open box in her hands: Mr Franklin felt a tremor of anxiety at having his present submitted for the royal inspection.

“Look what Mr Franklin has brought me! Oh, they’re simply beautiful! How very, very kind of you, Mr Franklin!” The green eyes were glowing with genuine delight as she glanced up at him. “They’re silver – how absolutely gorgeous!”

“What on earth are they?” demanded the King.

“They’re spurs, sir,” Mr Franklin explained. “Mexican spurs – the kind the vaqueros use – Mexican cattlemen, that is.”

He reflected that he hadn’t hesitated a moment that evening when, remembering Soveral’s suggestion of a gift, he had hit on the notion of presenting his spurs to Mrs Keppel. They were silver, in fact, and he had spent twenty minutes, between shaving and putting on his shirt, in polishing them fiercely in the kitchen. They had come from that small collection of personal belongings in his valise, because somehow he had felt that a present with the giver’s brand of ownership on it was better than anything bought – and he had been in no position to buy anything, anyway; Laker’s stores and the Castle Lancing dairy carrying only a limited supply of trinkets for the haut monde, as Thornhill remarked.

“Extraordinary things.” The King had lifted one of the spurs from the box, and was spinning its big rowel which tinkled musically as it moved. “Care to go hunting in those, Arlesdon?”

“Rather not, sir. Bit conspicuous, I fancy.” There were murmurs of agreement, and Colonel Dammit remarked that they were barbarous-lookin’ things; Peggy said:

“Aren’t they dreadfully cruel – to the horse, I mean?”

“Not as cruel as the ones you were wearing today,” said Mr Franklin. “Those big rowels are blunt; they won’t even dent a horse’s hide.”

“Well, I shall certainly wear them, and they will make beautiful knick-knacks of decoration,” said Mrs Keppel, smiling warmly at Mr Franklin. The King was watching him curiously.

“You’ve been in Mexico? What were you doing there?”

Mr Franklin paused, in that distinguished little assembly, and then said with a smile: “Well, sir, I was what they call ‘on the prod’; just moving from place to place, doing this and that; punching cattle – that’s driving them, you know –”

“I know,” said the King. “But you’re not a cow-hand.”

“Why, no, sir. Most of the time, when my partner and I could raise the stake, we went prospecting – mining for silver, gold, in the sierras.”

“Extraordinary. A miner forty-niner, eh?” The King sat back in his chair. “May I have one of your cigarettes?”

Mr Franklin realized that quite unconsciously he had drawn his case from his pocket, and was turning it between his fingers. He hastened to open it; the King took the case and examined its contents.

“What’s this? ‘Colonel Bogey’? Don’t know them.” He put one between his lips, closed the case and examined it, before returning it.

“And then – you struck it rich? Isn’t that the expression?” He looked directly at Mr Franklin while Mrs Keppel lighted the cigarette for him.

“Not too badly, sir. We paid for our trip.”

“And for a trip to England?” The King puffed, coughed, and peered at the cigarette.

“Why, yes, sir. My family was English, a long time back.”

“Yes – Soveral was telling me you’ve brought a house. Now, most of our American visitors ‘do’ the sights, buy up Bond Street, take all the best shooting, and marry into the House of Lords.” The King coughed and chuckled. “Can’t blame the peers – marrying rich Americans is about all they’ll be able to do if Mr Lloyd George has his way. Eh, Halford? But –” to Mr Franklin again “– you mean to stay, I gather?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Remarkable.” The King coughed again, and regarded his cigarette. “Alice, you may stop rebuking me; I shall never smoke cigarettes again.”

“Never, sir!” Mrs Keppel made a pretty grimace of mock surprise. “I can’t believe that!”

“True, though.” The King replaced his cigarette, wheezing. “I shall cease smoking cigarettes, and smoke only ‘Colonel Bogeys’. I’m not sure what they are, but they’re certainly not cigarettes. Eh, Franklin?”

Mr Franklin smiled apologetically amidst the polite laughter, and the King went on:

“Do any hunting in Mexico?”

“Hardly, sir. But I have hunted in the Rocky Mountains.”

“Someone got a grizzly bear in his luncheon basket that time, did he?” The little eyes screwed up in royal mirth, the others applauded dutifully, and his majesty went on to say that that reminded him, what about dinner?

Sir Charles Clayton had been turning anxious glances towards the door for five minutes; Peggy had vanished, presumably to see what was happening in the kitchen. At this reminder Sir Charles looked wretched and muttered an apology, Mrs Keppel covered the embarrassed silence with a bright remark, and the King sat back, grumbling quietly. Mr Franklin, from his place by the mantelpiece, observed the looks that were being exchanged among the guests, marvelled inwardly at the curious atmosphere which, he supposed, must surround royalty even in this democratic age, and decided it was nothing to do with him. Should he offer the King another cigarette? – probably better not; the portly figure had disgruntlement written in every line of it now, and even Mrs Keppel was looking anxious. Clayton, who had aged five years in as many minutes, muttered another apology and fled from the room; there were a few muted whispers, a stifled laugh, and a growl from the King. The minutes ticked by; Mr Franklin wondered if he should offer conversation, but was restrained by a vague sense that one didn’t speak in the presence of royalty until spoken to. He made the most of his time by examining the King surreptitiously: how old was he? Around seventy, and in some ways he looked it; the beard was grey, although the moustache was still dark, but the face was heavily-veined and high living had puffed up the fat round eyes which, Mr Franklin reflected, were probably small and shrewd in a King, but in a commoner might well have been described as piggy. Powerful build, though, and vigorous enough apart from that cough; in the silence he could hear the asthmatic rustle – old man Davis had sounded just the same; come to think of it, if you put a red undervest on Edward VII, and a battered old hat, he’d pass for a Tonopah silver-hog anywhere. What would Davis have thought if he could see his partner now, hob-nobbing with royalty; what would his ghost be saying if it were at Mr Franklin’s shoulder …?

“That the King? The King? King of England? Well, goddamighty! Looks a likely old feller, don’t he? Knows a few songs an’ stories, I bet. And that she-male coo-in’ over him? Say, wherever did you see a pair o’ paps like those? Ain’t those the real artickles, them; and ain’t she the finest piece of meat you ever saw in a skirt? Why, the dirty old goat, she’s wasted on him! Say, wouldn’t I like to squire her to the Bella Union, though, an’ get her playful on whisky-punch? Yessir, she’d be a real playful lady …”

Mr Franklin became suddenly aware that the King was looking at him – God, had he been thinking aloud? But in fact his majesty was merely examining him speculatively; there was even a twinkle in his pouchy eyes. Presumably some happy thought had momentarily banished his sulky impatience for dinner.

“‘On the prod’, was it? Curious expression. Not the same thing as ‘on the dodge,’ though, I fancy?”

“No, sir. No, not at all,” said Mr Franklin, and despite himself he felt a tiny prickle on his spine. It occurred to him that in their brief conversation King Edward had probably found out more about him in two minutes than most people could have discovered in two years, and was even making a little humorous speculation. No, he hadn’t been on the dodge; not really – not until now, at any rate. And this tubby old gentleman had sensed it. It occurred to Mr Franklin that possibly being a king, and presumably spending a lifetime among statesmen and diplomats and ministers, probably did nothing to blunt a man’s native shrewdness; he was certainly nobody’s fool, this one. Fortunately Mr Franklin was spared any further embarrassing inquisition by the announcement of dinner, at which royalty heaved up gratefully, and even beamed at the slightly flustered Peggy.

“Trouble below stairs?” inquired the King playfully, as he took her arm, and Peggy admitted that the cook had had a little trouble with the ptarmigan.

“Oh,” said the King. “Ptarmigan.” It was said with a weight of gloom which caused Mrs Keppel to raise her eyebrows; to Mr Franklin’s surprise she offered her arm to him, and he found himself pacing behind the King with the King’s mistress for his escort, while she enthused again about his gift of spurs. She had, in fact, been rather sorry for Mr Franklin, cut off and presumably out of his depth during the royal sulk, and exerted herself to put him at his ease – and the effect of Alice Keppel, when she set herself to charm, was such that Mr Franklin took his seat at dinner feeling quite ashamed at himself for allowing old Davis’s lewd thoughts to run through his mind.

Dinner, to his relief, was far less of an ordeal than he had expected. It was served at an enormous round table in what even Mr Franklin recognized as being a rather shabby dining-room; with frontier insight he guessed that the silver and crockery had probably been hired from Norwich or even London for the occasion; it was rather too splendid for its surroundings. He was seated about halfway round from the King, who was flanked by Mrs Keppel and another lady; Peggy, as hostess, sat approximately opposite the royal chair, next to Mr Franklin. To his surprise, she exhibited none of the nervousness that he would have expected; her slight disorder immediately before dinner, she explained to him sotto voce over the soup, had been the result of what she described as a flaming row with that bloody cook, and the bitch could pack her traps in the morning. Mr Franklin considered this gravely, and remarked that the soup was extremely good.

“D’you think so? Well, I’m glad someone’s pleased. Frankly, I don’t give a damn if the whole meal’s inedible.” Peggy sipped at her spoon and leaned forward, smiling brightly, to answer Lord Arlesdon, seated farther round the table. “I mean, it’s all just too horrid-ino for words, isn’t it?” she went on to Mr Franklin. “Why did he have to come here for the night, when he could have stayed with the Albemarles, or at Elveden? It would have been bad enough, even if Mummy had still been alive, but as it is … well, I’m not up to playing mother-hen, and I don’t care who knows it.” She laid down her spoon and pulled a face. “Poor old Daddy – how he’s suffering!”

Sir Charles was certainly showing signs of strain, Mr Franklin reflected. He was sitting beside Mrs Keppel, smiling mechanically as she talked, but every few seconds his eye would stray towards the King, who had finished his soup and was studying the empty plate with deep melancholy, crumbling a roll. Sir Charles bit his lip and turned back to Mrs Keppel, but by now she was talking to a slight, vacant-looking man across the table.

“That’s Jinks Smith, the royal whipping-boy,” murmured Peggy in answer to Mr Franklin’s inquiry. “And beside father is Lady Topping, and then Lord Arlesdon, who’ll be a duke some day and is supposed to be a prize catch, and then that distinguished American – what’s his name? Franklin, of course – and then Miss Peggy Clayton, who is going mad trying to catch the butler’s eye – oh thank goodness he’s noticed, so with any luck we’ll get the pâté before midnight. Then the Marquis de Soveral you know, and Halford, who’s the King’s equerry, and Mrs Jensen, and Ponsonby, and Smith and Viscountess Dalston. Cosy, isn’t it? The seating is all wrong – that’ll be another fault, no doubt – far too few ladies, and several distinguished gentlemen are not dining – do you know why? Simply because there isn’t room – so the Honourable George Keppel for one isn’t here, nor Lord Dalston, and if it weren’t for Daddy’s sake I wouldn’t be either. It … it makes one feel so small – knowing that things aren’t up to scratch, and that Halford and Ponsonby will be looking at each other later and sighing ever so wearily.” Peggy stabbed moodily at her pâté as though it, too, had sighed. “Arthur’s well out of it – lucky dog. He and the others will be having a jolly good time in the nursery.” She sighed. “Oh, who cares?”

Mr Franklin was not certain whether to take these confidences as a compliment or not; he guessed she would have gone to the stake rather than make them to one of her English acquaintances, but presumably he, not being of that charmed circle, and therefore unimportant, was a suitable recipient. But he could guess that for all her pretended indifference, the strain of preparing for the King’s visit, of minor crises about ginger biscuits and ptarmigan, of anxiety about being thought “not up to scratch”, of imagining arch looks and raised eyebrows, must be considerable even on this self-confident young beauty; it all mattered, in her world.

“I’m sorry your brother isn’t here,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll see him later on, though?”

Peggy giggled. “He’ll probably want to fight you again, if you do. I think he was awfully disappointed that you wouldn’t square up to him this afternoon.”

“I can imagine. And I’d guess he’s a pretty useful scrapper, too.”

“Oh, he was Universities Heavy-weight Champion – before he went to Sandhurst.” She smiled mischievously. “So perhaps it’s just as well you didn’t take him on.”

But Mr Franklin was not to be drawn. “Yes, just as well, I guess. For one thing, he seems like a nice fellow. And I make it a rule never to fight a nice fellow in front of his sister.”

“Why ever not?”

“Well, if he beats you, she won’t admire you – and if you beat him, she won’t like you.”

But Peggy was not to be drawn either. She smiled and sipped her white wine. “I take it your rule applies only with brothers and sisters. If it had been Frank Lacy?”

“Who? Oh, ‘milord”, the polite one. No, I guess I wouldn’t have minded too much if he’d become violent – for a moment this afternoon I thought he was going to.”

“You mean you hoped he was going to. I was watching, remember – do you know, Jarvie said you looked ready to do murder?” She laughed cheerfully. “Were you?”

“Not quite.” He glanced round the table. “Where is he, by the way? – he looked like the kind who would get fitted in somehow.”

“Oh, he was – until the King invited you to dinner. You’re occupying his place, you know.” She eyed him with amusement. “He wasn’t very pleased, I can tell you.”

Mr Franklin studied her thoughtfully. “No, he wouldn’t be. Would this be … his usual place?”

“He thinks it ought to be,” said Peggy carelessly. “And what Frank thinks ought to be – well, ought to be, you know.” She shrugged. “I don’t mind in the least, I may say. Do him good to have his nose out of joint for a change – Frank thinks he owns the earth, as well as half the county.”

“I see.” Mr Franklin nodded pensively, and found himself glancing across at Sir Charles. “Not two beans to rub together,” Thornhill had said, and it was confirmed by what he had seen. Good-looking daughter, wealthy young landowner showing interest – uh-huh. No wonder Sir Charles’s enforced invitation had been chilly. But his daughter didn’t seem to mind; Mr Franklin imagined that she was not the kind to be a dutiful child unless it suited her, or that she would find a nature like Lord Lacy’s to be entirely to her taste. He turned to look at her; she was catching the butler’s eye, and fish was coming to replace the pâté. She met Mr Franklin’s look and sighed.

“Let us pray for the success of poached salmon,” she said solemnly. “Cook wanted trout, but I overruled her, and it would be just like her to ruin it. Oh, well, if Kingie doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like it, and that’s that.”

Mr Franklin considered his fish, and took a sip of his wine. “You don’t care for entertaining too much?”

“Not this sort – well, who would? It’s like having a particularly bad-tempered baby on one’s hands. Oh, I know he can be jolly enough, but he sulks so much, and shows how bored he is, and the people who traipse about after him are the giddy limit. Mrs Keppel’s a darling, and the Marquis is a pet …” She turned to Soveral and said: “I’m just telling Mr Franklin how divvy you are, marquis. Aren’t you flattered?”

Soveral laughed and bowed. “Alas, I am far too fierce-looking, and far too grown-up to be ‘divvy’ any longer, Miss Peggy. Don’t you agree, Mr Franklin?”

“I might if I knew what divvy meant,” said Mr Franklin, and was promptly informed by his hostess that it was short for divine. “I don’t know what we’d do without the Marquis and La Keppel, anyway,” Peggy went on. “But isn’t it ghastly, so many people having to kowtow and scrape and butter up, just to keep one odious old man from being thoroughly ill-natured all the time?”

Mr Franklin stole a glance at the table, but everyone was talking animatedly, presumably to compensate for the royal silence, and Peggy’s indiscretions went unheard. “Well, he doesn’t seem too bad, you know,” he said. “I guess when I’m his age I’ll be pretty cranky, too.” Privately, he thought on short acquaintance that his majesty had probably had too much of his own way all his life, but no doubt that went with kingship, he decided. The King, after a mouthful of his fish, had laid down his fork and was muttering to Mrs Keppel, who preserved her bland smile in the face of what was obviously a royal complaint.

“Wait till he’s had the ptarmigan pie, and he’ll wish he’d eaten his fish,” remarked Peggy. “Did you ever see anything so disagreeable? I mean, honestly, even if the fish is rotten, would you sit mumping like that if you had Alice beside you, positively slaving to cheer you up?”

“I hope not. I’d try not to, anyway.”

“I think she’s a gorgeous creature,” said Peggy, looking across the table. “And one of those lucky people who are even nicer than they look.”

He smiled at her. “You don’t need to be jealous, you know. She’s not the prettiest girl in this room.”

“Oh, come off it!” Peggy glanced at him sidelong, and her mouth took on the tiny sneer which he had noticed in the hall, but she looked pleased nonetheless. “Every woman would be jealous of looking like that, including yours truly. Anyway, look where it’s got her.”

“Is that such a happy position? I wonder what Mr Keppel thinks about it.”

She turned to stare at him, and the little sneer seemed to him even more marked; at that, he decided, that angel face was still something that Mrs Keppel, for all her beauty, might have envied.

“Don’t tell me you’re shocked? A Puritan Uncle Sam? Really!” She shrugged. “Well, I suppose he feels quite honoured, don’t you?”

“I can’t imagine it. Can’t see that any man would be. In fact, I feel sorry for him. And for Mrs Keppel. Don’t you? I mean, would …” He realized what he had been going to say, and stopped. “I beg your pardon. I …”

“You were going to say, ‘would I, if I were Mrs Keppel’, weren’t you?” He was slightly shocked to see that she was regarding him with amusement. She glanced across the table. “It’s a dreadful thought. Still, if I were her age, I suppose I might. I don’t know.”

Mr Franklin felt decidedly uncomfortable. He was far from being a prude, by his own lights, but that had nothing to do with it. What he disliked was what seemed to him a deliberate display of cynicism, assumed by this lovely young woman presumably because it was the smart, advanced thing to do; it was so much part of the hard, artificial atmosphere which he could feel round that dinner-table, and it annoyed him quite unreasonably. How old was she? Nineteen, perhaps twenty, and she was trying to pretend that she held the views and values of the women who made up the royal circle – well, he didn’t know what they were like, but he could guess. Peggy was so obviously not their sort, and he felt somehow demeaned that she should try to convince him that she was. Still, she was young, and no doubt it was natural enough that she should want to appear worldly; it couldn’t be easy for a young girl, having to play hostess to the smartest set in the world for a week-end. Mr Franklin began to eat his ptarmigan pie. It was awful, and automatically he glanced towards the King, to see how it was being received there. Sure enough, his majesty was looking displeased; his pie was untouched, and he was staring round the table, frowning.

“Thirteen,” said the King suddenly; he said it loudly, and everyone stopped talking. “Thirteen,” he repeated, and then to Mrs Keppel: “Alice, there are thirteen of us at dinner.”

“Oh, dear,” said Mrs Keppel brightly. “I never noticed. Well …”

The King muttered irritably, picked up his fork, glared at his ptarmigan pie, put down his fork, and pulled his napkin away fretfully. “I don’t like having thirteen at dinner,” he exclaimed petulantly. “Don’t people know that?”

There was dead silence round the table, broken by a sharp clatter as one of the servants at the buffet dropped a spoon. Everyone was looking at the table-cloth, except for Sir Charles, who was gazing in consternation at his daughter. Mr Franklin raised his glass and stole a sidelong glance at her; she was looking straight ahead, her face pale. Mr Franklin was beginning to wonder if he had heard right; was the King seriously objecting because the guests made up an unlucky number? Evidently he was, for Mrs Keppel suddenly said, looking across at Peggy:

“Perhaps we could have another place set, my dear? If your brother would join us? Then we should be fourteen, and …” She made a gesture that combined apology, appeal, and whimsicality all in one, but the King was growling beside her, apparently indicating that his dinner was spoiled.

“Oh, stop it, Alice. It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, but it does! I feel ever so uncomfortable myself when there are thirteen.”

“Unlucky,” said one of the men helpfully. “Thirteen.”

“I’ll send for Arthur,” Peggy was beginning, and Mr Franklin could hear the trembling snap in her voice; careful, King, he thought, or you’re liable to get a plateful of ptarmigan pie where you won’t like it. He suddenly wanted to laugh aloud; it was too foolish for words, but although there was a variety of expressions on the faces round the table, astonishment was not among them. Sir Charles, who had been so cool and precise and assured this afternoon, was literally pulling at his collar, and preparing to get to his feet, but he was forestalled from an unexpected quarter.

The insignificant-looking Smith was rising. “No, no, not necessary; I’ve a much better idea.” He bowed towards the King. “With your permission, sir, I’ll take my dinner over there, on that corner table. Then there’ll only be twelve, what?”

“Shall I join you, Jinks?” said Soveral quickly, and Mrs Keppel, laughing, cried: “No, no, Jinks, it’s too silly!” but Smith was on his feet, beckoning one of the servants, telling him to mind and not spill his glass, indicating the corner table, and people were laughing as though at some excellent joke. Mr Franklin sat stupefied, watching Smith bustling about, directing the servants, until they had transferred his place to the small table by the buffet, and he had seated himself, pulling comical faces, holding his knife and fork like a caricature of a hungry small boy, and then waving to Peggy and calling: “Toodleoo, old thing! It’s ever so jolly over here!”

The King had slewed round in his chair to look at him. “Jinks,” he said, “you’re an ass.”

“Of course, sir!” cried Smith. “Here, where’s my ptarmigan pie?”

“You can have mine, if you like,” said the King, and taking up his plate he placed it on the floor beside his chair. “Come on, Fido!” he snapped his fingers. “Come, boy! There’s a good doggie!”

Smith said “Woof! woof!”, and Mr Franklin almost expected him to drop on all fours and crawl across the floor, but at that moment the King turned back to the table. He was laughing, and of course the table was laughing, too, including Peggy. Mr Franklin suddenly realized that his own features were twisted into an expression of mirth – he hurriedly took a drink, and plunged into conversation with Lord Arlesdon. What he said, he had no idea, but it occurred to him later that his lordship was almost certainly not listening. What Mr Franklin was thinking was, I don’t believe this, but I know it’s happening. Presently he took stock of the table again; the flow of conversation had resumed, the King was actually eating heartily and talking loudly to Mrs Keppel while he shovelled away at his plate, Peggy was laughing at something that Soveral was saying – and over by the buffet Smith was clamouring for another helping, and being treated to various sallies from the male guests on that side of the table. Mr Franklin continued his meal, determined not to meet anyone’s eye.

“You see what I mean?” murmured Peggy quietly. “Do you know what I think I should do, if it weren’t for Daddy? I think,” she went on dreamily, “that when the ices came I should take one and smear it all over his fat, ugly, piggy, nasty little face. Wouldn’t that be splendid?”

“Don’t they put you in the Tower for that sort of thing?” wondered Mr Franklin.

“They put you on the front page of the Express,” said Peggy. “Ah, well, daydreams, daydreams. However, he seems happy enough for the moment, the old beast.” The King’s deep laugh boomed across the table, and a moment later Peggy was laughing animatedly with Mrs Keppel, and calling across a gay inquiry to the distant Smith a fatuity about his not wanting an ice since he was dining in Siberia, which provoked a royal chuckle.

His majesty was equally affable when the time came for the ladies to rise, bowing to Peggy as they withdrew and complimenting her on a capital dinner, absolutely capital; she in turn bestowed on him a dazzling smile and curtsied magnificently in the doorway with a rustle of skirts and a gleam of white shoulders and bosom as she sank beneath the approving monarchial eye. As the door closed the gentlemen moved in to those seats nearest the King’s, Mr Franklin making haste to follow. But when Smith would have joined them, he was waved away by the royal hand.

“No, no, Fido; dirty little doggies don’t sit round for their port. Here, come to heel – come on, there’s a good boy.” He took up a decanter and saucer, turning his chair and stooping with difficulty to fill the saucer at his feet. “Now then, Fido,” the King beckoned with the cigar which Ponsonby had lit for him, while the others crowded round his chair, “come and get drinkies, there’s a good dog! Come on!”

Smith dropped obediently on all fours, and scuttled across the carpet making joyful barking noises. As he began to lap up the port, his face in the saucer, the King gravely tilted the decanter and poured its contents over the courtier’s head. There were roars of laughter as Smith shook himself like a retriever, splashing port broadcast, the King crying out in disgust and protesting boisterously that he was a dirty dog, and not fit to be in a gentleman’s dining-room. Then, good humour at its height, Soveral chuckling genially while his dark eyes strayed watchfully, Sir Charles wearing a fixed grin, and the rest chortling loudly at Smith’s discomfiture, they settled down to their cigars and conversation. Smith was permitted to take a seat, amidst much boorish banter and shoving, and was soon deep in animated talk with his neighbour, oblivious of the sticky, plastered condition of his hair, and the wine which continued to trickle down his face on to his soaked shirt-front. Mr Franklin contemplated the wine-sodden figure, the pallid face, and the nervous, unnaturally bright eyes which occasionally met his own only to slide quickly away – and wondered.

They were not long over their port. The banalities of conversation soon bored even the King, who presently heaved himself up and led the way to the drawing-room, where the ladies were assembled. Here his majesty took a fresh cigar, coughed resoundingly and announced: “Bridge. All right, Soveral? And let’s see – Alice, are you ready? That’s three –” and as he surveyed the company Mr Franklin was conscious of a tremor in his stomach. With luck one of the others … “No, no, Halford, I haven’t forgotten – you trumped my queen last week. Where’s our American friend? Ah, there you are, Franklin – come on!”

He stumped across to the card-table in the alcove where packs and pads were already laid out; Mr Franklin preserved an unmoved countenance, despite a grimace and commiserating wave from Peggy across the room, and followed. As he pulled out a chair for Mrs Keppel, and Soveral moved to join them, the King flicked over the top four cards – “Alice, Soveral, Franklin, and the head that wears the crown – uneasily, too, since I’ve got you as partner, Alice. Come along, then – England versus the United States and Portugal, what? Stakes – no, none of your two penny whist stakes, Soveral –” he nudged the Marquis ostentatiously – “heavens, your partner’s a silver millionaire, and you can pay up out of diplomatic funds! Shilling a point, eh?” He beamed genially over his cigar while Mrs Keppel cut and Soveral dealt, and the game began.

For Mr Franklin it was a disconcerting experience. He had a reasonable knowledge of whist, picked up in the parlours of those dimly-remembered Western school-houses where he and his father had sometimes played with a local doctor and his wife, or it might have been a parson and his sister – but that was a long time ago. Thanks to Thornhill he knew that the principle of bridge was to bid for tricks, and he kept trying to remember the little mnemonic about suit seniority: “Solomon has …” What did Solomon have – some kind of crockery – spades, heart, something, and clubs; well, it must be diamonds, then … He arranged his cards carefully, conscious of the heavy bulk of the King at his right elbow, the heavy asthmatic wheezing, and a subtle mixture of cigar smoke and pomade; to his left, even more distracting, was the perfumed beauty of Mrs Keppel, which at a range of two feet was positively overpowering; whatever he did, he must not allow his glance to rest on the white splendour of her superb bust, which was difficult, since it seemed to project alluringly halfway across the table. He shifted his legs, accidentally touched her shoe, muttered an apology, received a sweet smile of reassurance, and heard the King mutter: “If you must kick someone, Alice, kick me – right shin for major suits, left for minors, remember!” followed by a throaty chuckle.

“Club,” said Soveral, and the King promptly said: “A heart,” and replaced his cigar, his small eyes turning challengingly in Mr Franklin’s direction.

Mr Franklin examined his cards – he had the ace, queen, ten, and two other hearts, the king of clubs, and nothing else. Which, in view of his majesty’s bid, was interesting, but to a novice like Mr Franklin, of no particular use; he hesitated a second, and then for no good reason said: “Two clubs,” at which Mrs Keppel gave a little fluttering sigh and smiled winningly round the table.

“Well, well, come on, Alice,” growled the King. “They’ve got clubs, we suspect. What have you got to say?”

“Let me see …” Mrs Keppel puckered her flawless brow and tapped her lips thoughtfully. “I think …. one diamond – oh, no, of course, two diamonds. Yes, two diamonds.”

“Double two diamonds,” said Soveral, to Mr Franklin’s total bewilderment – did that mean Soveral was bidding diamonds himself? (Thornhill’s instruction had not gone the length of doubling.) The King growled cheerfully, and leered across the table.

“Shall I leave you, Alice? Or redouble, eh?” In reply to her squeak of protest he grumbled happily, said “Two hearts,” and squinted at Mr Franklin.

“Double two spades,” said Mr Franklin, in total confusion.

“You mean double two hearts?” said the King, staring.

“Oh – yes, sir. I’m sorry. I should have said hearts,” said Mr Franklin hastily; he had no idea what he should have said, but he was not going to contradict royalty.

“Just so,” said the King, frowning. “Two hearts doubled, Alice – but at least we know where the spades are,” he added contentedly, puffing at his cigar – his notions of bidding etiquette were evidently informal, when it came to communicating with his own partner. Mrs Keppel surveyed her hand in pretty consternation, while the King grunted impatiently, tapping his cards and puffing audibly.

“I’m not … I don’t … oh, dear!” Mrs Keppel hesitated, and shot a glance of entreaty at the King. “Three … hearts?” she wondered. “Really, I …”

“About time, too!” exclaimed the King, surveying his hand with satisfaction. “Come on, Soveral!”

“Double three hearts,” said the Marquis smoothly, the black eyes smiling across at Mr Franklin, and there was a mutter of alarm from the royal seat. “Double, eh?” The King lifted his cards and frowned at them. “Double, you say. I think you’re bluffing, Soveral … very well, then, I’ll larn you. Re-double!” His cigar jutted out at Franklin in a manner that dared contradiction. “Three hearts, re-doubled. Come on, Alice.”

Mrs Keppel toyed nervously with an earring. “Perhaps Mr Franklin would like to bid again?” Her face was a picture of comical despair – not entirely comical – as she laid a hand on Mr Franklin’s. “Please, dear Mr Franklin, are you sure you wouldn’t like to bid again? Just a teeny little bid – to please me?”

“Stop that!” said the King testily. “He doesn’t want to bid, so keep your wiles to yourself, and let’s see dummy.”

Mr Franklin shook his head in apology, and Mrs Keppel gave a great sigh. “Oh, well,” she said, and laid down her cards. “God save the King.” And added, with a flustered giggle: “And heaven help Mrs Keppel.”

“My God!” The King was staring at her cards in disbelief. “And you said … three hearts! Are you entirely out of your mind, Alice?”

When Soveral had discreetly nodded to Mr Franklin to start leading, the slaughter commenced. Mrs Keppel’s fine diamonds were so much decoration in a hand devoid of trump; it soon became clear that the power lay with Soveral, and the King’s hearts, strong in themselves, fell easy prey to Mr Franklin’s, lying in ambush for them. It was plainer sailing now to the American, and he collected the tricks as they fell and the King writhed and muttered; at the end of the hand, only five tricks lay before the royal place, and the storm broke over Mrs Keppel’s beautiful head.

“And why didn’t you double first time round?” demanded the King of Mr Franklin. “Every heart in the pack, dammit, and you said clubs!”

“And thereby informed me of his heart strength,” said Soveral quickly. “Correct, partner?” Mr Franklin tried to look knowing, and the King muttered testily that he supposed it was another of these blasted new conventions. But he shot Mr Franklin a look in which respect was equally blended with annoyance and suspicion, before returning to the demolition of Mrs Keppel, who bore it with sweet contrition.

The rubber continued, Mr Franklin playing in a fog as regards the finer points of bidding, but manfully assisting Soveral simply by declaring the strongest suit in his hand when he got the chance, and thereafter leaving the marquis to his fate. Since Soveral was an extremely good bridge player, and their initial disaster had reduced the King and Mrs Keppel to growling recklessness and twittering lunacy respectively, the Soveral-Franklin axis prospered, with the assistance of rather better cards than their opponents. Mr Franklin even developed a psychological trick of his own; when he knew he was going to pass he took his time about it, eventually saying “Pass” in a soft, thoughtful tone which did not deceive Soveral for a minute but filled Mrs Keppel with alarm. The result was that the marquis and the American took the rubber in two straight games, Mr Franklin having to play only one hand, an easy two spades in which he made a couple of over-tricks. The King crashed heavily on a five-diamond bid which emerged from pure frustration and left Mrs Keppel biting her necklace in dismay; his majesty’s temper was not improved on the next hand, when she passed in terrified silence after his one-club opener, and they made six.

“And some idiots want to give them the vote!” observed the King acidly as Soveral totted up the score after the first rubber. “Pray notice, my dear Alice, that when Mr Franklin says ‘Pass’ it does not necessarily mean that his hand is utterly void; he and the Marquis pay heed to each other’s bidding, which is the usual practice in this game.”

“I know,” said Mrs Keppel, “but I am so fearfully stupid, and when Mr Franklin fixes his cards with that baleful stare and says: ‘One heart’ as though he were going to eat it, I quite lose my wits. Never mind,” she added cheerfully, lifting her evening bag, “I shall pay for the rubber – please whisper what we owe you, Marquis, so that I am not too shamed.”

“Nonsense!” said the King, and rummaged in his pockets; he pushed sovereigns on to the table. “Can’t have our womenfolk stumping up for us,” and he even unbent so far as to wink heavily at Mr Franklin, who realized that next to winning his majesty probably enjoyed playfully brow-beating his partner – fairly playfully, at any rate. “Play a bit, do you?” went on the King. “Thought so; I don’t quite get the hang of your bidding yet, but it’s damned effective, eh, Soveral?”

“Mr Franklin has the American gift – his face tells one nothing,” said Soveral blandly; he might have added that his partner’s bidding didn’t tell him much either, but tactfully forebore. “Shall we cut for partners for the next rubber?”

“Please do,” said the King heavily and Mr Franklin prayed that he would not be drawn with his majesty; the cards gave him Mrs Keppel, and the King said: “Thank God for that” gallantly, and changed places with Mr Franklin. “Now, Soveral,” he said, lighting a fresh cigar, “let’s have no more nonsense; we want some Yankee dollars from the rubber, what?”

But he did not get them in the two rubbers that followed. Mrs Keppel, sparkling at Mr Franklin across the table, ran into a succession of those hands which bridge-players dream about; aces and kings dropped from her dainty fingers at every hand, long runs from the honours down seemed drawn to her as by a magnet, her singletons invariably coincided with Mr Franklin’s aces, and when their opponents played a hand her queens were always there over his majesty’s knaves and her kings over his queens. Twice when Mr Franklin opened in no trump she took him straight to three, and when her dummies came down – lo, there were the slams ready-made. The King growled and muttered about under-bidding, Soveral sighed and shook his head, Mr Franklin began to enjoy himself, and Mrs Keppel gleefully exclaimed: “What? Is that another rubber to us? Splendid, partner! God bless America!” and raked in her winnings, assuring the King that it was all in the run of the cards.

“Don’t be so confounded patronizing, Alice!” snapped the King. “No, Soveral – never mind cutting. We’ll stay as we are and break these Klondike sharpers yet.” He growled impatiently at the deal, picking up his cards as they were dealt, and exclaiming with disgust at each one. “Whoever saw such rubbish! What’s that, Franklin? One no-trump? Oh, lord, they’re doing it again!”

Another two rubbers went by, and Mr Franklin began to feel uncomfortable. Bad hands he had seen, in his time, but what his majesty was picking up was past belief; he seemed to have a lean note of everything from seven downward, and Mr Franklin found himself picking up his own hands with a fervent prayer that they might be bad for a change – but no, there was the usual clutch of pictures, with a couple of languid aces among them to round things off; he even resorted to the shameful expedient of passing when he knew he should have bid, to save royalty from further humiliation. But that could be dangerous, too; once he passed a powerful hand only to have to lay it down as dummy for Mrs Keppel; she shot him a quick glance over her cards, and Soveral’s silence spoke louder than words, but the King only said: “And how the deuce is one to lead into that? Go on, Soveral, let’s get it over with.”

It was well past midnight when the fifth rubber ended, and Mrs Keppel artlessly suggested a change of partners; once again, to Mr Franklin’s relief, he drew Soveral, and another two rubbers were played, both of them marathons; the cards still favoured Franklin and his partner, but he sensed that Soveral was now deliberately underplaying, skilfully and subtly, and the games ran on endlessly. But still nothing could contrive the King a rubber, and Mr Franklin noticed with interest that as the royal temper grew shorter, so its owner became quieter; he had ceased berating Mrs Keppel, which obviously troubled her, and played his cards with a grim, desperate intensity.

During one of his own dummy hands Mr Franklin took the opportunity to survey the rest of the party. Another bridge game was in progress; Smith and Lady Dalston were playing backgammon; Peggy was turning the pages of a magazine, and Sir Charles was talking to one of the other gentlemen – or rather, he was listening, with half an ear, for his attention was anxiously fixed on the royal table. Presumably he knew the King was losing; his eyes met Mr Franklin’s for a moment, and seemed to be saying: “Please, forget about those unpleasantnesses of 1776 and 1812, and do me the great favour of allowing his majesty to win now and then.” Mr Franklin would have been glad to; he was not only embarrassed but extremely tired. Did no one go to bed – not even the ladies? He was unaware that protocol demanded that no one should retire until his majesty did, and that the more experienced courtiers were perfectly prepared to be there at four in the morning.

At one point Peggy approached the table to announce that a supper was being served in the dining-room; thank God, thought Mr Franklin, at least we can stretch our legs, but to his dismay Mrs Keppel said quietly: “Do you think we might have sandwiches at the table, my dear? – it’s such an engrossing game, you see.” His majesty was at that point intent on trying to make one diamond, and going down below the nethermost pit in the process; when the sandwiches came he engulfed them steadily without a break in the play; there was a hock to go with them, but the King gruffly demanded whisky and soda. Mr Franklin stirred to ease his long legs, and received a warning glance from Mrs Keppel; the rubber finally petered out with Soveral winning a three-bid in spades which was virtually a laydown.

He’ll have to call it a day now, thought Mr Franklin; the King was looking old and tired, his cough was troubling him, and he wheezed and went purple when he exchanged his cigar for a cigarette. Mrs Keppel was prattling carelessly about the next day’s programme, in the hope of reminding his majesty that a night’s sleep might be in order, but she was far too clever to press the point. The King emerged, coughing and heaving, from the depths of his handkerchief, took a long pull at his glass, and said huskily: “Cut ’em again.” Mrs Keppel did so, and this time Mr Franklin drew the King.

And, as is the way with cards, the luck changed in that moment. Not that the hands began to run loyally to the throne, but they evened out, and they became interesting – the occasional freak deal in which three players each had only three suits, or all the strength lay in the hands of two opponents, their partners having rags. Mr Franklin had gradually got the hang of bidding during the evening, and knew enough not to disgrace himself; his play would have caused raised eyebrows in any well-conducted club, but in the slightly eccentric game in which he found himself, it served – just. He and the King squeaked home in the first rubber, to universal satisfaction, and then lost the second by the narrowest of margins; his majesty cursed the luck, but he did it jovially, and even congratulated Mr Franklin on his defence against Soveral’s two-no-trump on the last hand – this came as a gratifying surprise to Mr Franklin, who had dutifully followed suit throughout.

“Final rubber,” announced the King. “This time, eh, Franklin? Here, let’s have another of your – what-d’ye-call-em’s? – Colonel Bogeys, will you? Never you mind, Alice, just mind the business of shuffling and leave me alone – and you needn’t shuffle the spots off ’em, either. It won’t do you a bit of good.” He coughed rackingly on the cigarette, mopped his little eyes, and chuckled with satisfaction as he picked up his cards.

He was less satisfied five minutes later, as Soveral totted up a grand slam in spades; on the next hand Mrs Keppel made five clubs having bid only two, which slightly restored the royal temper. “Had the rubber then, if you’d had the courage,” he reproved her. “Let off for us, partner. Come along, then, we’ll have to fight for it. What d’ye say, old monkey?”

To Mr Franklin’s surprise, this was addressed to Soveral – he did not know that the Marquis’s unusual ugliness had led to his being christened “the blue monkey”, nor did he know, of course, that Soveral disliked it intensely. But he did become aware that a change came over the marquis’s play – Mr Franklin had the decided impression that the Portuguese was out to win at last; there were limits, apparently, to leaning over backwards in and for royalty’s favour. Mrs Keppel may have sensed it, too; she became nervous in the next hand and badly underbid, but Soveral, playing in earnest, pushed their partnership relentlessly towards game; once he was within two tricks of the rubber, and Mr Franklin, with two cards left, and Soveral’s last trump staring up at him, hesitated in his discard – nine of hearts or six of spades? He had no idea of what had gone, but as he prepared to throw down the spade some perverse bell tinkled at the back of his mind and he dropped the heart instead. Soveral sighed, swept up the trick, and led – the four of spades. Mr Franklin played his six, Mrs Keppel squealed as she and the King played rags, and his majesty thumped the table in triumph and cried “Well, held, sir! Oh, well held!” before going off into a coughing fit that had to be relieved by a further application of whisky and water.

“He had ’em counted, Soveral!” the King exulted, and Mr Franklin wished it had been true. Mrs Keppel smiled her congratulations, the cards went round again, and the King clinched the game with a bid in no-trump.

He was thoroughly boisterous now, as they went into the final game, and the other guests, sensing that he was poised for victory at last, came to surround the table at a respectable distance and lend sycophantic support. The King snapped up each card as it was dealt, his face lengthening as he assembled his hand; he stared hopefully across at Mr Franklin, but Soveral went straight to four clubs and made the contract. Again he and Mrs Keppel stood within a trick of the rubber, and the King was leaning back wearily, gnawing his cigar and staring dyspeptically before him, his momentary good humour banished by the prospect of defeat. Peggy came to stand beside Mr Franklin’s chair, and he glanced up at her and smiled; she was looking apprehensively towards the King, and suddenly, conscious of his own cramped limbs and slightly aching head, he thought, oh, the blazes with this: why must everyone be on tenterhooks just because one peevy old man isn’t getting it all his own way in a stupid game of cards? What does it matter, whether he wins the rubber or not?

He glanced at the people behind the royal chair, the deferential figures, the concerned aristocratic faces, the ladies trying to look brightly attentive, Clayton’s worried eyes seeking his daughter’s – and with a sudden insight realized that it did matter, to them. In their peculiar world, royal disappointment and ill-temper, with their implications of lost favour, were vitally important. How much face would Clayton lose among his Norfolk neighbours, among the sneering, artificial London “society”, if this royal week-end were a failure? How much might it hurt Peggy, for all her brave pretence at indifference? And it could easily depend on whether the King got up from that table a winner – on something as trivial as that. But to them it wasn’t trivial – only Soveral, in that courtly assembly, didn’t seem to care a damn whether the King was kept sweet or not – couldn’t the man see that it mattered to Peggy and Clayton and the others? Or didn’t he care? Mr Franklin felt a sudden unreasoning dislike of the marquis, and with it a reckless determination to contrive the King a winning rubber in Soveral’s teeth, to send the royal old curmudgeon happy to bed, and do the Claytons a good turn – and if he failed, well, it didn’t matter, he was an outsider here anyway. He was sick of this false, uncomfortable, stuffed-shirt atmosphere and pussy-footing deference. With that reckless imp in control he leaned forward, rubbed his hands, and said:

“All right, your majesty, we’ve gone easy on them long enough, I reckon. This is the hand where we wring ’em out and peg ’em up to dry! Spread ’em around and let’s go!”

He heard Peggy gasp, saw the stunned disbelief on the faces round the table, and Mrs Keppel holding her breath at such vulgar familiarity. The King stared, and then his eyes puckered up and he began to heave and cough, laying down the pack and leaning back to guffaw while the shocked faces relaxed and joined in his mirth. When he had recovered and mopped his eyes he shot the American an odd look, half amused and half resentful, and concluded the deal, shaking his head.

“Very good, partner. Let us go, indeed. I trust I have … ah, spread them to your satisfaction.”

There were relieved faces behind his chair, and Mr Franklin was aware that Peggy’s hand had momentarily touched his shoulder, and was now being withdrawn. The King fanned his cards, muttering “Peg ’em up to dry, though!”, frowned uncertainly at Mr Franklin, and then announced: “One club.”

Soveral said “One spade” quietly, and Mr Franklin surveyed his hand – six hearts to the king, the ace of spades, a singleton diamond, and rags. By his lights, hearts were in order, so he bid two of them, and the King grunted and sat forward. Mrs Keppel, obviously wishing to pass, but uncomfortably aware that her hand was visible to the watchers behind her, smiled nervously and said “Three diamonds.”

The King shot her a quick, doubtful look, glanced at his cards, and grinned. “No use, Alice.” He leered playfully at her. “Struggling against fate, m’dear. Three hearts.”

Soveral studied the score-card, his face impassive. “It’s not a game bid, monkey – yet,” said his majesty, with a glance at Mr Franklin which was a royal command if ever there was one. Soveral smiled with his mouth and said: “Four diamonds.”

There was a strangled noise from his majesty, and an anxious glance at Mr Franklin, who promptly did his duty with a clear conscience, and said: “Four hearts.”

“Ha!” said the King, relieved. “Excellent. Very good, Alice, lead away.” His glance invited Mr Franklin to gloat with him. “Come along, Alice, come along.”

“Pass,” said Mrs Keppel, smiling sweetly, the King grunted his satisfaction, and Mr Franklin realized beyond doubt that Mrs Keppel would cheerfully have gone five diamonds in normal circumstances, but had desisted because she knew the King desperately wanted the rubber. Soveral, however, had plainly made the same deduction, for as the King passed he said without hesitation: “Five diamonds.”

There was a buzz of astonishment round the table. The King, on the point of laying down his hand as dummy, stared at Soveral in disappointment and deep suspicion. Mr Franklin felt his stomach muscles tighten a fraction. It might be a spoiling bluff – but was it? Looking at his own hand, Soveral could have five diamonds for him … on the other hand, the King had supported Mr Franklin’s hearts … dammit, the old man must have something going … but five. Mr Franklin took another sip of hock. What the hell, anyway … “Five hearts,” he announced and the King’s eyes widened in dismay.

“My goodness,” said Mrs Keppel, and seemed about to add a light remark, but a glance at the King made her change her mind. He was busily excavating his cards again, breathing heavily, and when she passed he stared anxiously across the table, passing in turn. Soveral lighted a cigarette, musing, and then the ugly face turned to smile thoughtfully at Mr Franklin. “Five hearts?” he said softly, and placed his finger-tips together. “I do believe that you want to … wring us out, Mr Franklin. Mmh? Six diamonds.” And in that moment the game changed, for Mr Franklin, and he thought: showdown.

“Dealer folds,” as Cassidy threw in his cards. “Too many for me,” from old Davis, and the greasy cards being pushed away; across the table Kid Curry with his wolf smile and eyes bright through the smoke of the oil lamp, matching him. “What about you, Mark? Had enough?” The jeering smile, disdaining him with his pair of kings, an eight, and an ace on the table; in front of Curry lay two tens and two threes – was there another ten or three in the hole? On the face of it, two pairs against his one, and Curry might have a full house – the cagey, greasy bastard with his sly smile, he’d seen him go the limit on a single pair, and men drum their fingers and throw in better hands, and Curry with his jeering laugh raking in the pot – and never failing to face his cards and show the pikers how he’d bluffed them. But then, he was Kid Curry, the Mad Dog, with the Colt in his armpit and ready to use on anyone who turned ugly; not even Cassidy, or Longbaugh, was quicker than the Kid, and everyone knew it. Deaf Charley throwing in, Jess Linley’s watery eyes sliding to his cards and away again as he too folded. “Had enough, Mark? Why don’t you quit, little boy? I got you licked!” Old Davis’s dirty face under the battered hat, his mouth working: that’s our stake, son, that’s to take us to Tonopah, don’t fool with Curry, son, it isn’t worth it; fold and call it a day. His own voice: “A hundred, and another hundred,” Davis muttering, oh Jesus, that’s it, and the smile freezing on Curry’s face, the long silence before he covered and called, and Franklin turned over his hole card, a second ace – and the snarling curses as Curry swept his own cards aside and came to his feet, and Cassidy snapping: “That’ll do, kid!” And it had done, too; Curry had taken his beating and old Davis had scooped in the pot, cackling and swearing, and Franklin had tried to keep the relief from his face as, under the table, he quietly uncocked the Remington that he had held trained on Curry’s chair, and slid it back into his boot.

Instead of Kid Curry – the Marquis de Soveral, smiling confidently, and Mr Franklin, with four to five sure losers in his hand, met the smile with a composure which he certainly did not feel. If I’d any sense I’d let you go down the river on your raft of diamonds – but would it be down the river? Suppose Soveral made it? Suppose nothing, this was the hand, as Soveral had reminded him, when he’d vowed to wring the opposition out. The King, slumped in his seat, was eyeing him morosely; Mrs Keppel was absently fingering a flawless eyebrow; the faces behind the royal chair were waiting expectantly – and it crossed his mind, who’d have believed it, here I am, with the King of England, waiting on my word, and an Ambassador calling the shot, and the flower of the mighty empire’s nobility waiting to see what the Nevada saddle-tramp is going to do about it. And it was pure five-card stud training that made him ask for another glass of hock, while the King writhed and muttered impatiently (the words “double, double, for heaven’s sake!” being distinctly audible), and only when the wine was being poured did Mr Franklin say casually: “Six hearts.” Smith jerked wine on to his sleeve, and the King stared across in stupefaction.

“D’you know what you’re doing?” he demanded. “Six … oh lord! Well, I hope you’ve got “em, that’s all! Six …” mutter, mutter, mutter.

“Double six hearts,” murmured Soveral, and “Re-double,” said Mr Franklin, in sheer bravado; he had a sketchy idea of what it would mean to go down, in points, redoubled and vulnerable, but that didn’t matter. Money was the least of it to that bearded picture of disgruntled alarm across the table, losing, and Soveral’s smoothly apologetic satisfaction, and (worst of all) Mrs Keppel’s nervous condolences – that was what he couldn’t stand. He was glooming apprehensively over his cards, as Mrs Keppel led the ace of clubs; the King spread the dummy and sat back, staring resentfully at his partner.

Ace and four hearts, king of spades, king of clubs – and one hideous rag of a diamond. They were one down, for certain; Mrs Keppel’s ace of clubs took the first trick, Soveral scooped it in, and waited for the inevitable diamond lead that would break the contract. But Mrs Keppel, possibly because she had in her own hand a profusion of diamonds to rival Kimberley and feared that Mr Franklin might be void, led a spade instead; Mr Franklin dropped his ace on it, and then – in the view of Sir Charles, who was standing apprehensively behind his chair – began to thrash his way through trump with reckless abandon. In fact, Mr Franklin, having bid himself into an impossible situation, was simply going down with colours flying; he could not get rid of his diamond loser, and there was nothing for it but to plough on to the bitter end, with occasional sips of hock along the way. The King would not be pleased. Well, it had been interesting meeting royalty, anyway.

He paused, with the last three cards in his hands – two trump and that singleton diamond leering obscenely at him in its nakedness. He knew from Soveral’s discards that Mrs Keppel had the ace and king; the problem, more akin to poker than to bridge, was to make her discard them both, and short of wrenching them from her hands he could see no way of doing it.

“Three to get,” muttered the King, presumably in case Mr Franklin had not noticed. His majesty had roused slightly from his gloomy apathy, and was regarding the table as a rabbit watches a snake: there were nine tricks in front of the American – perhaps the age of miracles had not passed. His majesty’s asthmatic wheezing rustled through the room as Mr Franklin led a heart, and Mrs Keppel dropped her diamond king. Perspiring freely, Mr Franklin led his last heart and smiled hopefully at Mrs Keppel, who frowned pathetically and said: “Oh, dear.”

She fingered her cards and bit her lip. “Oh, it is so difficult … I never know what to play. And I always get it wrong, you know.” The green eyes met Mr Franklin’s, and his tiny flickering hope died; they were smiling quizzically – she knew perfectly well he had a diamond, it seemed to him. She toyed with her cards, hesitating – and played the ace of diamonds. The King choked, Soveral sighed, Mr Franklin gathered in the trick, played his nine of diamonds, and Mrs Keppel emitted a most realistic squeal of dismay as she faced her queen of clubs. There was an instant’s sensation as Soveral’s last card went down – a spade – and the King was roaring with delight, coughing and slapping the table: “Well done, Franklin! Oh, well done indeed! Game and rubber! What, Soveral? Pegged out to dry, hey? Oh, Alice, you foolish girl! The Yankee sharper bluffed you into the wrong discard, didn’t he? Oh, my!”

That’s what you think, reflected Mr Franklin, as Mrs Keppel feigned pretty confusion and exclaimed: “Oh, I am such a goose! I always get it wrong – if only I would count the cards, but I always forget! Oh, marquis, what must you think?”

What the marquis thought was fairly obvious, at least to Mr Franklin, but of course he gallantly brushed her penitence aside, and said seriously that it must have been an extremely difficult decision; he was not sure that she had not, in theory, been right. Mr Franklin wondered if there was irony in the words, but if there was, the King did not catch it; he called for whisky nightcaps, clapped Mr Franklin on the shoulder and said they must play together again, and twitted Mrs Keppel unmercifully as he led her to the centre of the laughing group at the fireplace. Mr Franklin offered his arm to Peggy.

“Thank goodness you won at last,” she said. “I shudder to think what he’d have been like at breakfast if you hadn’t. Daddy said he was sure you must go down.” She studied him sidelong. “Do you do everything as well as you play bridge?”

“I hope not,” said Mr Franklin, and as Soveral joined them, he added: “Mrs Keppel was the one who played well, I thought,” and Peggy wondered why Soveral laughed. By the fire the King was being noisily jovial at Mrs Keppel’s expense as he sat back, contented, whisky glass in hand, cigar going nicely, and the beautiful Alice, sitting gracefully on the rug by the royal knee, laughed gaily at what she called her own feather-brain; her expression did not change when she met Mr Franklin’s eyes, and he wondered, with a momentary revulsion, if it was always like this in the royal circle – the petty deceits and subterfuges to keep the monarch amused, to order events for his satisfaction. Was the King himself deceived, or did he, too, join in the pretence? Perhaps it was the warmth of the room, the smoky atmosphere, the long game, the over-indulgence in hock, but Mr Franklin felt vaguely uncomfortable, even ashamed – not for himself, really, but for being a part of it all. It was so trifling, and yet – he listened to Mrs Keppel’s tinkling laugh at one of the King’s sallies, and realized that once again he, too, was smiling mechanically and making approving noises. Soveral, score-card in hand, was announcing smoothly that the last rubber had comfortably levelled up his majesty’s score over the night, and Mr Franklin received a handful of sovereigns from the marquis and polite applause led by Mrs Keppel, tapping her palm on her wrist and smiling up at him. He bowed and pocketed the coins, reflecting that she probably considered it money well spent, and the game well lost, if it ensured his majesty a happy repose.

8

Finally, it was over; the King, yawning but affable, withdrew, a collective inward sigh was heaved, Sir Charles Clayton was smiling a tired smile of pure relief, and the party drifted out into the hall, the dinner guests to go to their cars, and one or two, like Mr Franklin, to be shown their rooms for the night. He, having arrived late, had not yet had one assigned to him, and Peggy summoned her brother from the other end of the house, whence came a sound of distant revelry; the younger set, it seemed, kept hours just as late as their elders, but probably a good deal more happily.

“You ought to have the chamber of honour,” said Arthur, as he led Mr Franklin upstairs. “Peg says you saved the day. Good scout.” And he patted the American affectionately on the shoulder. “But this is the best we can do, I’m afraid –” He led the way along a narrow corridor which seemed to lead to the very end of the gloomy upper floor. Mr Franklin noticed that the doors they passed had visiting cards pinned to them; his own, when they reached it, had a sheet of paper marked “Mr Franklin’.

“If you need anything, pull the bell, but don’t be surprised if it comes out of the wall,” said Arthur cheerfully. “We’re rather in need of repair, I’m afraid. Someone’ll bring your shaving water in the morning. Good night, old chap.”

Repair was about right, thought Mr Franklin, as he prepared to undress; the room was decidedly shabby – much shabbier than he’d have expected from the comfort of the rooms downstairs. Probably the Claytons hadn’t had so many guests in living memory, and of course all the attention would be lavished on royalty’s apartments. But he remembered the hired cutlery and crockery and wondered again, idly, if old Clayton was perhaps pretty well stretched. None of his business, of course, but they seemed nice folk – Peggy was an uncommonly attractive girl, not just for her seraphic beauty, but for the spirit that lay underneath; she looked like an English rose, but there were some pretty sharp thorns on that shapely stem, or he was much mistaken.

What a strange day it had been – how long since he set off to West Walsham? Eighteen hours? And then the ridiculous fox business, and his frantic preparations with Thornhill, and the dinner, and that astonishing game which he still didn’t know how to play properly – and he’d met and talked to the King of England, and shared that intimacy of bridge partnership – that was the odd, unbelievable part, that for a time he had occupied the King’s thoughts, and been the object of his attention: he, Mark Franklin, nobody from nowhere. And yet he was just as much somebody as the King was, after all – just not so many people knew him. And he’d sniffed the air of a court, and in its way it was just like the history his father had taught him – about the Caesars, and the Italian tyrants, and Henry VIII, who slapped people in jail because their faces didn’t fit, or clipped their heads and ears off. Would he have bid six hearts with Henry VIII sitting over the way? There was a thought, now. He turned down the lamp, rolled into the creaking bed, and felt his head throb and spin as soon as it hit the pillow. He knew he wouldn’t sleep easily.

From far off, below him, he could hear the distant murmur of voices, and music, amd muffled laughter; Arthur’s friends were still whooping it up down there. No doubt they were at a safe distance from royalty; it was quite a soothing murmur, anyway, and Mr Franklin must have dozed off, for suddenly he was conscious that the voices were sharp and clear and much closer – in the corridor outside his room, feet clattering, and laughter, and the squeal of feminine laughter. “Where’s Rhoda? Oh, Jeremy, you utter idiot – well, you’ll just have to go back for it!” “Which is my room, then?” “I dunno, can’t you read, Daphne?” “I say, Connie, old thing, give us a ciggy.” “Oh, lor’, look at my dress?” “What is it – custard?” Squeals of laughter, young men’s babbling, idiot catch-phrases: “Oh, a divvy party!” “Oh, Jeremy, how too horridino! Take it away!” Squeak, giggle, clatter, at the tops of their shrill voices, doors slamming – Mr Franklin groaned softly and wondered how long it would be before they shut up. After a few moments it subsided, with only occasional cries and laughter muffled by the walls; then whispers and stifled giggling, furtive rustlings as later arrivals hurried along the passage; Mr Franklin dozed again, uneasily …

His door opened and closed, feet swiftly crossed the room, and in one instinctive moment he was out of bed before he was even awake, crouched and ready, his hand automatically snaking under his pillow. A lamp was turned up brilliantly, dazzling him, a female voice cooed playfully: “All right, Frankie, here’s a little coochy-woochy come to get you!” and Mr Franklin had a horrifying vision of a plump, dark-haired young lady throwing aside her frilly dressing-gown and sprawling naked on the bed he had just left. “Where are …” she began, surveying the empty bed, and then her eyes met his, a yard away, and she squealed aloud, putting her knuckles to her mouth. “Oh, my God! You’re not Frank! Oh! Oh, my God!”

“I’m Franklin,” he said mechanically, and the young lady squealed again and belatedly snatched the sheet up to her chin.

“Oh! Oh, my God! What are you doing here? This is Frank’s room! Go away!”

“It’s my room!” Mr Franklin crouched, appalled. “Franklin. You’ve made –”

“What?” The dark eyes stared in panic. “Oh, my God, my God! But the door …” She squealed again. “That bloody Jeremy! He’s changed the cards! The swine! Oh, God!” She dived completely under the covers. Her voice sounded muffled. “Go away!”

“I can’t.” Mr Franklin, standing in his nightshirt, observing the heaving sheet with alarm, was at a loss. “This is my room – I … I … can’t just … here.” He walked round the bed, picked up the discarded flimsy gown, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Take your … your robe, and get out, quick. Before someone comes.”

“What?” An eye peeped from beneath the sheet. “You mean you’ve got someone …”

“I don’t mean anything of the dam’ sort!” hissed Mr Franklin. “Look – take it and vamoose, will you?”

“No! I can’t! Oh, God, why don’t you go away! If Frank finds out he’ll …”

“Will you get out of here – please?” whispered Mr Franklin, desperately. “Look, you can’t stay here –”

“Damn that rotten little toad Jeremy!” Suddenly her head came out. “My God – I wonder whose name he’s put on Frank’s door? Here, who are you, anyway?”

“That doesn’t really matter!” He was beginning to get thoroughly annoyed. “Will you please go?”

“You’re American,” said the young lady. “I say, what an utter frost!” She brushed the hair out of her eyes, still keeping the sheet firmly in place. Then, alarmingly, she giggled; Mr Franklin wondered was she going to have hysterics. But she seemed to have regained her composure remarkably.

“That little brute! Of all the mean tricks!” She giggled again, considering Mr Franklin. “You weren’t in the crowd downstairs, were you? I’d have seen you – I mean, I’d have noticed you.” She nibbled the top of the sheet. “You’re rather divvy, really.” And she giggled once more, infuriatingly.

Mr Franklin took a deep breath. Then he dropped the dressing-gown on the bed, walked to the door, took hold of the knob, and jerked with his thumb. “Out,” he said.

The young lady looked at the robe and tossed her head. “You’re not very gallant! I mean, it’s not my fault I mistook your rotten room, is it?”

“Out!”

“Well, it isn’t! So there’s no need to be horrid. I mean, it could happen to anyone.” Again the giggle. “It’s rather a lark, really – gosh, what would Frank say?” And to his alarm, the young lady snuggled down in the bed. “Anyway, it’s awfully comfy here.”

Mr Franklin felt the hairs rise on his neck. He was not a prude, and faced with Pip Delys in a similar situation, he had been human enough not to hesitate above a moment. But that had been entirely different: Pip had known precisely what she was doing, and he doubted if this young woman did. This was a silly, feckless, no doubt promiscuous but completely irresponsible little piece of … of English upper-class stupidity – or so he supposed. My God, was the country just one great cat-house? Or had he got her wrong? Was she just so dam’ stupid that she didn’t realize what she was doing? Was she drunk – probably under the influence, slightly, but not so that it mattered. No, she thought it was just a great lark – and since she’d been going to roll in the hay with someone – Frank, whoever he was – well, presumably the next best thing would do. Mr Franklin swore softly, and at that moment there were feet moving in the passage, and a voice was whispering irritably:

“Poppy? Poppy? Where the devil are you?”

There was a muted squeak and giggle from the bed. “Oh, golly – that’s Frank!”

“Poppy? Oh, come on! What are you playing at?” The voice was louder, and impatient. “Poppy! Damnation! Poppy!”

“Poppy’s killed in South Africa,” called a distant male voice, and a girl laughed shrilly. The footsteps paused outside Mr Franklin’s door, and he heard a match being struck; a distant door opened and a young voice called: “What on earth’s up, Frank? Why the blazes can’t you go to bed?”

“Which is Poppy’s room?” The questioner was on the other side of the panels, loud and truculent. “Blast! Oh, go to hell, Jeremy!”

Convulsive rustlings came from Mr Franklin’s bed; he could hear Poppy giggling hysterically. The young voice was coming closer, laughing: “Oh, leave off, Frank! You’re tight, you silly ass! Poppy’s fast asleep by …”

“Shut up!” Another match scratched, followed by heavy breathing. “What? This is my room – but it’s not … what the hell?”

“Well, if it’s your room, Poppy’s probably in there, don’t you think?” The malicious amusement in the young voice was evident, and then abruptly the door was thrust open almost in Mr Franklin’s face, and in the bedside light’s gleam a large young man in evening dress shirt and trousers stood framed in the doorway. As Mr Franklin had deduced from the voice, it was Frank, Lord Lacy, his acquaintance from the foxhunt.

“What the hell?” Lacy glared at him, blinking in the light. Behind him a fresh-faced young man was doubling up with laughter, and on the other side of the passage another man’s head was emerging.

“You!” Lacy stood, his face blank. “Oh! Where’s Po –” He broke off, his eyes bulging, as he looked beyond Franklin to the bed. “Christ! Poppy!”

“Take it easy,” said Mr Franklin, but Lord Lacy seemed to be having difficulty in taking in anything at all. He stared from the bed where Poppy, eagerly apprehensive, was huddled up bright-eyed, hugging her knees beneath the sheet, to the American.

Mr Franklin spoke quickly. “The young lady mistook my room for yours. The names seem to have got switched.” He looked past Lacy at the fresh-faced young man. “She just this minute got here, and was on the point of leaving.”

“Leaving?” His lordship gurgled. “Leaving? She bloody well looks like it, doesn’t she?” He plunged forward towards the bed before Mr Franklin could stop him. “You dirty little bitch!” he roared, and made a grab at the squealing Poppy who slithered frantically out of the other side screaming: “No, Frank, no! Leave me alone!” She was pulling the sheet with her, but Lacy caught it, dragging it from her grasp. Left naked, Poppy covered her eyes and dived wildly towards the door, Mr Franklin obligingly side-stepped to let her past. She stumbled into the fresh-faced young man, bringing him down, the corridor was suddenly full of staring faces, female shrieks, cries of astonishment, and hurrying feet, and Mr Franklin took his forehead in his hand and swore, with feeling. Someone began to have hysterics, and then he was aware of Arthur, half-dressed, emerging from the confusion. “What on earth’s happening?”

Mr Franklin explained rapidly; Arthur glanced quickly from the door-card to the errant Poppy, now huddled in semi-decency in someone else’s gown, to Lacy, who was still gaping foolishly at the sheet in his hand, and nodded, grinning. “I see. Just so. Poppy, you half-wit, what the –”

“Twasn’t my fault!” Poppy, with several people between her and her bewildered lover, was prepared to enjoy the excitement. She tossed her head. “I wasn’t to know, was I? Jeremy, you pig, you changed the cards – I know you did! Beast!”

“What happened?” “Poppy, what on earth?” “The wrong room?” “A likely story!” “Whose room was it?” “Oh, crumbs! Isn’t it priceless!” The babble of the bright young things was drowning Poppy’s giggling protestations when there was a sudden roar from Lacy. His lordship might be slow on the uptake, but a thought had evidently occurred to him. He turned on Mr Franklin, his face working in rage, and before Arthur could intervene, he flung himself at the American, head down and fists swinging.

Mr Franklin became impatient. He had had a trying day; several things had happened which were outside his experience, and he was not used to being at a loss. It irritated him. Now, however, a problem had arisen with which he was equipped to deal; furthermore, the angry man intent on murdering him was a man for whom he had formed an instinctive dislike. He almost welcomed the opportunity of expressing his own feelings, which he did by side-stepping quickly and hitting Lord Lacy hard on the jaw as he went past, thus diverting him head-first into the wall. But to his surprise the peer merely shook his head, swore luridly, and resumed the attack, so Mr Franklin, who had learned his self-defence in an irregular school, kicked him sharply in the stomach. Lord Lacy doubled up, fell into the corridor, and was profoundly sick.

“Here, you can’t do that!” cried Arthur indignantly. “Can’t kick a chap!”

Mr Franklin did not reply. He did not feel like discussing the ethics of rough-housing, and with the corridor resonant with cries of disgust, alarm, and – unless his ears deceived him – raucous amusement and excited cries of female glee, it would have been a waste of time. He stood over Arthur, who had dropped to one knee beside the groaning Lacy.

“You’d better get him to bed,” said Mr Franklin, shortly. “His own, for preference. And since I’m a guest in your father’s house, Mr Clayton, and don’t wish to cause him embarrassment, I suggest you tell Mr Lacy – oh, no, Lord Lacy – that if he comes near my room again I’ll break his goddamned neck. I might –” he paused with his hand on the door “– even kick the chap. Good night.”

He closed the door with unnecessary violence, surveying his room and the wreckage of his bed. Outside the babble of voices, giggles, and groans gradually died away, with Arthur supervising the assistance of Lord Lacy to some distant haven. Mr Franklin swore again, pondering on the ways of English house-parties, and the morals of the younger generation, as he restored his bed to some order. Poppy’s gown still lay on the floor; he picked it up and marched to the door, intending to throw it up the corridor, which was now presumably empty – but on opening the door he found Poppy herself, fetchingly swathed in her borrowed garment, in earnest whispered conversation with Arthur. They started.

“Your robe,” said Mr Franklin, holding it out.

“Oh, thank you,” said Poppy brightly. “I say, I am sorry – but you see, I wasn’t to know –”

“Jeremy had switched cards,” said Mr Franklin heavily. “I know.”

“He’s a horrid little beast,” said Poppy, and giggled again. “It was quite fun, though, wasn’t it? I say, that was a dreadful thump you gave poor Frank – serve him right for getting in such a wax over nothing. He’s a bit of a spoilsport, isn’t he?”

“Just a bit,” agreed Mr Franklin.

“I’m awfully sorry, old chap,” said Arthur. “Our guests don’t usually have their rooms invaded, I assure you – oh, shut up, Poppy! It’s all your fault, anyway; go on!” He pushed her playfully away, and she tripped up the corridor to the open door of a bedroom. “No harm done, anyway,” went on Arthur. “Except to Frank – and he’ll be right as rain in the morning. Don’t worry about him, by the way. I mean, he won’t –”

“No,” said Mr Franklin, “I don’t think he will.”

“No.” Arthur laughed. “Gosh, I’m glad the guv’nor didn’t hear us, though. Phew! Or Peg. There’d have been hell to pay, I can tell you.”

“Or the King, I imagine.”

“Don’t mention it! Oh, shut up, Poppy. I’m coming.” He gave Mr Franklin an apologetic grin. “’Night, old chap.”

“Night-night,” called Poppy softly, and fluttered a hand at Mr Franklin. She vanished into the bedroom hastily, and Arthur, with another slightly sheepish look at Mr Franklin, shrugged and followed her.

Mr Franklin closed his door, a trifle shaken, and retired to sleep for what remained of the night. But even that was denied him; he was aware of stealthy peregrinations in the corridor, and once all hell broke loose shortly before six – it transpired that Poppy, intent on revenge, had stolen into Jeremy’s bedroom, and emptied a jug of cold water over the occupant – or rather, occupants, neither of whom, it turned out, was Jeremy at all. None of which surprised Mr Franklin when he heard about it next day.

That day began for him at the most unsatisfactory hour of eight-thirty, when he had just fallen into a deep sleep; a nondescript person knocked and entered with a can of hot water which he emptied into the wash-stand bowl, pulled back the curtains, and without a by-your-leave turned out Mr Franklin’s case and cast a critical eye over his tweed suit.

“Ought to been hung up last night,” he observed coldly. “I’m sorry, sir, I shall attend to it while you shave. I would ’ave run you a ’ot bath, sir, but hunfortunately some of the young gentlemen ’ave been playing pranks with the soap and boot-polish, and the bath ain’t fit to be used. Disgustin’, it is; one of the guests can’t even get dressed, covered with muck, ’e is. I don’t know; you’d think they’d learn ’em better at their expensive schools. Your tea is on the bedside table, sir. Thank you.”

Mr Franklin drank his tea and shaved, and was ready in his underwear when the servant returned with his suit. He thanked the man and asked if the King was in the habit of going down to breakfast.

“It is ‘is majesty’s custom to break ’is fast with the other guests – at the better country ’ouses, sir,” was the astonishing reply, and Mr Franklin paused in pulling on his trousers.

“Not here, you mean?”

“I could not say, sir, not bein’ conversant with the routine of this hestablishment.”

“But don’t you work here?”

“No sir, I do not.” The nondescript man stiffened slightly. “I am ’ere on a pro tem basis honly – I am ’appy to say.” He hesitated. “I beg your pardon, sir, but would you be a transatlantic gentleman?”

Mr Franklin hid a smile and said that he would be.

“I see, sir. I ask because I would not wish you to be hunder any misappre’ension, or to carry away a false himpression. This is not what I am haccustomed to. Do you know, sir, that I ’ave five other gentlemen to valet besides yourself, and ’alf of them I daren’t go into the rooms –” he dropped his voice “ – on account of their not bein’ alone? Fair scandal it is; I don’t know what the country’s comin’ to – it is not like this at such as the Duke of Devonshire’s residence, I can tell you. But nowadays, with ’is majesty bein’ so generous of ’is presence, an’ very free an’ easy about where ’e stays –”

“You work for the King?” Mr Franklin was astonished.

The man smirked. “Very kind of you to think that, sir, but no; I ’ave not ’ad that honner. I am not in regular employ at the moment, but occasional, like now.” Mr Franklin noted the bottled nose and slightly shaky hand, and guessed the employ was very occasional. “What I meant to say, sir, was that with ‘is majesty bein’ so easy, Society ’as enlarged nowadays, an’ there is country ’ouses which he honners with ’is presence that wouldn’t ’ave smelt so much as ’is equerry’s cigar smoke in the old Queen’s time, God bless ’er. That is a very fine suit, if I may say so, sir; reg’lar pleasure to lay out. An’ the trouble is, sir, they ’aven’t got the money nor the dignity, ’arf of ’em. Oh, fine old families, no doubt – but not up to the top mark, you see. An’ some rather queer fish, too, that didn’t ought to be in Society at all – Jews an’ rich foreigners and that like – not Americans, of course, sir, they not bein’ foreigners – you know what I mean, though, sir – Eyetalians, an’ so forth. Well, what can you expect? Standards go down, and the young people’s behaviour is fair shockin’; it’s this new music, if you ask me, sir, an’ them motor cars. Even the young ladies – well! Young ladies, did I say?” He shook his carefully-pomaded grey head sorrowfully. “It’s my belief that ’alf of them goes to the altar knowin’ more than their mothers do. But it’s the same everywhere, sir, isn’t it?” He adjusted Mr Franklin’s pocket handkerchief. “Excellent, sir. Now, was there anythin’ else, sir?”

“No, thanks. Hadn’t you better be seeing to your other … er … gentlemen?”

“‘Er … gentlemen’ is about right, sir.” The man chuckled beerily. “They can wait their turn, sir – an’ get them little hussies out their rooms, an’ all, afore I attend to them! I wouldn’t neglect a real gennleman like yourself, sir, not on their account. Oh, thank you, sir; most kind of you.”

Mr Franklin made his way downstairs thoughtfully, and was rather taken aback to find the King planted before the hall fireplace, smoking a cigar and talking to one of his equerries. He hailed the American genially.

“Morning, Franklin. Sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you, sir,” lied Mr Franklin gamely, wondering if he should inquire in kind. The King settled it for him.

“More than I did, then. Draughts seem to follow me about these days. Getting too old for all this gallivanting, sitting up to all hours getting fleeced by Yankee card-sharps, what?” He beamed over his cigar; for all his complaints about draughts, and the fact that he could not have had more than four hours’ sleep, he was looking remarkably spruce in his check breeches and jacket, hideously offset by his pink tie; his eye was clear and his face ruddy with health. Mr Franklin wondered how he did it.

“Hardly fleeced, sir,” said the equerry, warming Mr Franklin with his smile. “Soveral complains that you and Mr Franklin gave him a very rough passage indeed.”

“We’ll give him worse than that, you’ll see. Eh, Franklin? Now, look,” said his majesty, “you’ll come down and see us at Sandringham next month – what’s the date of that, Halford? Ne’er mind; let Franklin know in good time. We’ll have some shooting, and plenty of time for bridge and so on. You’ll enjoy it; nothing like this –” and his majesty frowned and waved his cigar at their surroundings with a deprecating gesture that would have given Sir Charles Clayton heart failure. “Small party, good fun – some interesting people for you. You ought to meet them, get to know your way about.” The little eyes twinkled kindly, and Mr Franklin was amazed that he could ever have thought this charming old gentleman spoiled or ill-tempered. “We’ll have Jackie Fisher down, perhaps Churchill, we’ll see. Which reminds me – excuse me, Franklin; no, don’t go.” The King turned to his aide. “Jackie ought to know that he has to pack up at last; if he wants to do it gracefully, Asquith’ll give him a title. But one way or the other, he’s got to go. It’s up to him. Where the devil,” his majesty resumed, “is Alice? Women! Is there any one of ’em who can be on time? Had your breakfast yet, Franklin?”

“No, sir – I shall in a moment.” Mr Franklin was looking for words. “I thank you for inviting me next month; I’ll be delighted –” He wasn’t sure that he would be, but it had to be said.

“My dear chap! Now, go and get your breakfast before the wolves descend. I gather there are young people whom we don’t know about.” Mr Franklin nodded gravely. “I shan’t see you again,” added the King, “but we look forward to next month.”

Mr Franklin had a feeling of being dismissed from audience, and wondered if he should back across the hall to the dining-room. Common sense triumphed in a slight bow before he turned away; as he reached the opposite door the King called: “Oh, Franklin!”, adding in a conspiratorial growl which echoed round the hall: “Don’t touch the haddock. Ghastly.”

Thus advised, Mr Franklin went in to breakfast, which in its way was the biggest ordeal he had struck yet. There were four or five people round the table – Arlesdon, Lady Dalston, Ponsonby, Smith, someone else; they called “Good morning!” loudly, and he went on to help himself from the buffet (Thornhill had briefed him on the etiquette of country-house breakfast). Being in no condition to attempt a cooked meal, he ignored the bacon, eggs, ham, kidneys, chops, and condemned haddock beneath the silver covers, contenting himself with fruit, toast and coffee, and sliding quietly into a seat beside Lady Dalston. She smiled automatically and made the usual formal enquiries before rejoining the conversation at large, which was well over Mr Franklin’s head – some society children’s party which was to take place at the Savoy, shooting at Quiddenham the following week, the new roller-skating craze. Mr Franklin concentrated on not crunching his toast, and studied the marmalade dish; once, Lady Dalston tried to draw him into the conversation by asking if he intended to visit Scotland before Christmas; she caught him with a mouthful of toast and apple, and he risked serious injury getting it down while she regarded him with cool interest; the hoarse “No” with which he eventually succeeded in answering her seemed a poor return for her attention.

He was pondering the curious fact that the informality of breakfast was infinitely more trying than the formality of dinner had been when they all got up and went out – the King was leaving. Mr Franklin, cup poised, supposed that etiquette demanded that he should go out, too, to speed the departing monarch, and then thought, the hell with it, he can make it without me. So he lingered, in solitary enjoyment, over his toast and coffee, and wished he hadn’t, for the King’s departure evidently meant that the house was now free for the younger set, and presently he was invaded by a chattering horde who swarmed round the covers, loaded their plates, shouted and squealed at each other, and turned the quiet morning-room into something like a juvenile picnic.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.