Chapter VIII: 'mine's Beer, Too'

Mrs. Hamilton-Browne, of Barton Manor, Suffolk, was worried. Anxiously she scanned her ballroom, now filled with all the youth and beauty of the county. They were dancing and appeared to be enjoying themselves. The band was excellent, the floor perfect, and even her husband, who was popularly supposed to have left his liver in Upper Burma, admitted that there was nothing wrong with her supper menu. To an unbiased eye the party seemed an unqualified success, but still a cloud shadowed her kindly, middle-aged face. Unsatisfied, her gaze wandered round the room, and at last came to rest on a sturdy, cheerful-looking young man, who was standing by the door. With the air of one who clutches at a passing straw, she made her way over to his side.

'Oh, Bobby, have you seen Mr. Doone?'

Bobby Manvers blinked, in some surprise.

'Doone? Is that the black-haired, silent chap? No, I've not seen him for some time. Why?'

'I'm so terribly afraid he isn't enjoying himself. It's all so different for him, you see, poor boy.'

'Is it?' said Bobby helplessly.

'Oh, it must be! I mean, brought up on that island somewhere near Honolulu, or wherever it was. I remember his father so well. Charming, but _too_ erratic! Of course, he was Irish, and that accounts for it perhaps. And when he married he settled down somewhere in the Pacific, you know.'

'It d-doesn't sound a frightfully good place to settle,' said Bobby, with the slight stammer that always attacked him in moments of emotional stress.

After a second's bewilderment Mrs. Hamilton-Browne smiled indulgently.

'Silly boy, Bobby! You know perfectly well what I mean. And so, you see, poor Michael has never had any of the advantages of home, such as his father enjoyed. He ought to have been sent to Eton, but instead of that, he ran wild till he was about fourteen, and then had three years' schooling in some small Australian town. No social training at all. My dear, he never saw anyone, stuck there on that tiny island, except his parents and, I suppose, natives. Patrick Doone ought to have brought the boy home when his wife died, but no!--nothing would make him leave his dreadful little island. And now Patrick is dead, too, and of course he feels it very deeply. I _do_ so understand, don't you?'

'Er--yes,' said Bobby. He realised that an answer was expected of him and, on the whole, 'Yes' seemed slightly more fitting than 'No.'

'I _knew_ you would,' said Mrs. Hamilton-Browne, 'and that's why I want you to go and find him. You're so brilliant with shy people.'

'B-but I don't believe he's shy,' protested Bobby. 'H-haven't spoken to him myself, but I heard Rex tryin' t-to. He looked just ordinary fed-up to me.'

'It's all the same thing,' said Mrs. Hamilton-Browne, with a splendid disregard for such psychological distinctions. 'He needs a friend, Bobby. We must make him feel that this place is going to be a _home_ for him. Sir Toby Ward asked me 'specially to look after him.'

'Oh, d-does he know old Toby?' asked Bobby, with a flicker of interest.

'Indeed, yes. Sir Toby was an old friend of Patrick Doone's and he's Michael's trustee. The boy has come over on legal business. Selling the Irish property, and all that sort of thing. I simply must go now, and look after those people on the terrace. I'm sure they're not enjoying themselves. Do go and find him, Bobby. I think he went into the library.'

Mrs. Hamilton-Browne hurried away and Bobby Manvers set off with a reluctant heart and lagging feet to carry out her orders.

She was right. In the library he found Michael Doone, sitting on his shoulder blades in the largest chair in the room, long legs stretched out before him, chin down on chest, and his shirt-front bulging unbecomingly. His mouth was set in a sullen line, and his black brows were drawn down over his eyes in an uncompromising scowl. He did not look up on Bobby's entry, and Mrs. Hamilton-Browne's envoy slid nervously into a chair, and racked his brains for a suitable topic of conversation.

'Bit of a b-bore, these private dances, what?' he said at last. He was acutely conscious of inadequacy, but felt one must start somewhere.

Michael Doone made no sign of having heard, but continued his sullen contemplation of the empty grate.

'I'm afraid you're f-finding this show a bit of a b-blight,' continued Bobby bravely.

Michael Doone opened his eyes and regarded his companion steadily for some seconds. Then, with a faint, sardonic smile, he returned his gaze to the fireplace.

Bobby flushed, but persevered with a gallantry worthy of a better cause.

'I suppose all this is f-frightfully different to--er--to what it's like in--er--where you come from?'

Michael Doone's mouth twitched suddenly. Then he rolled over in his chair and faced Bobby, with an expression of suppressed frenzy.

'For the love of God, what's biting you?' he asked.

The words were offensive, but the exasperated grin that lit up his lean face and queer, green-grey eyes was oddly attractive. Bobby smiled guiltily in return.

'W-well, y' see, Mrs. Hamilton-Browne's awfully worried about you,' he said, 'and she--she sent me to ... I s-say, will you have a drink?'

Michael Doone heaved a sigh of relief.

'Yes!' he said, hoisting himself up in the chair with sudden alacrity. 'That's the first intelligent remark I've heard to-night. You'll do!'

'S-say when,' said Bobby thankfully, juggling with decanters on the side-table.

'When. Thanks. Here's luck,' said Doone, raising the tall glass.

'I believe you know old Toby Ward,' said Bobby a moment later.

Michael nodded.

'Good fellow,' pursued Bobby. 'Dashed clever, too.'

'Is he?' said Michael indifferently.

'Oh, rather! He's retired now, of course, but they say he was the most brilliant K.C. of his age. Never lost a case. Pity he had to chuck it, but his health wouldn't stand it.'

'Nice old buffer,' said Michael, 'and human, as lawyers go. I'm staying the week-end at his place. By the way, how far is it from here to High Ash?'

'Twenty-eight miles,' said Bobby. 'I know that road well. W-what did you do it in?'

'Thirty-two minutes.'

'Pretty good! That's your B-bentley in the garage, isn't it?'

Michael nodded.

'You must have let her out on the straight.' Bobby grinned. 'Almost worth c-coming for, that, wasn't it?'

Michael laughed. 'Almost. I was pretty fed-up before I started. Old Toby shoved me into this show; put it so that I couldn't refuse ... he and Mrs. Browne between 'em.'

'You'd better not let her catch you calling her "Browne,"' warned Bobby. 'She's a dear old soul, but that's the one thing that makes her see red.'

'I don't see why it should,' argued Michael. 'It's sheer swank sticking on the "Hamilton" like that. This country's too full of Battenberg-Smiths for me.'

'L-let 'em have their fun,' said Bobby tolerantly. 'It m-makes for a quiet life, in the long run.'

'Quiet life? They've got too much of it. That's their trouble,' said Michael. 'I'd like to maroon 'em on one of the Solomons and see how they'd make out. Of course, it's the fault of their upbringing. They've missed all the fun in life.'

Bobby smiled at the fireplace.

'Out with it!' commanded Michael, watching him.

'W-well, y' know, that's more or less what she feels about _y-you_,' said Bobby. 'It's all a question of the point of view.'

Michael Doone laughed. 'It's too late to reform me,' he said. 'By the way, what's your name?'

'M-Manvers.'

Michael nodded, but any reply he might have contemplated was cut short by the sound of a hurried step in the corridor.

'Here she is!' whispered Bobby.

'Gawd!' said Michael with deep feeling and, setting down his half-empty glass, made for the French windows which opened on the terrace.

'No, d-dash it all!' protested Bobby, rising to his feet abruptly. 'I'm n-not going to be left to stand the racket.'

'Come on, then,' said Michael, and together they slipped out onto the terrace.

It was a perfect May night, clear and starry, and a half-moon showed in the east like burnished pewter. Michael halted for a second, his eyes on the rolling country beneath him, now enchanted in the soft shadows and silver moonlight. Bobby, watching, saw a sudden wistfulness in his face.

'It is rather ... er ... j-jolly, isn't it?' he said tentatively.

Michael looked at him sourly.

'I left my drink in that room,' he said. 'Only half finished.'

'L-let's go and get some supper,' said Bobby hastily.

In silence they walked down the terrace and round the corner of the house to where the doors of the ballroom gave onto the garden. Here were set little tables, lit with twinkling lights, under huge grey beeches, and people moved among them happily, supping, talking and smoking in the cool air. At the nearest table sat a woman of about thirty, tall, slim, and beautifully dressed.

'Th-that's Adele Lancaster,' whispered Bobby. 'M-must introduce you to her. G-gives jolly good parties.'

She was opening an elaborate gold cigarette-case, and signed to a hovering waiter to bring her a match. Bobby chuckled.

'She'd make eyes at the shadow of a wooden Indian outside a tobacco shop,' he whispered. 'Watch her bring down that waiter!'

Michael, however, was watching the waiter himself. A tall chap, well-made and light on his feet. Ought to put up a good fight. Queer, that a man like that should choose such a job. The lady was speaking, and her voice was soft and clear.

'I feel sure I've seen you before somewhere.' Her cigarette was lit now, and she looked at the man from under her lashes.

'It's very kind of you to remember me, madam. I have frequently seen you in London. Principally at Lady Wroxham's house, madam.'

'Really? And what were you doing there?'

'Waiting, madam. Her ladyship is good enough to employ me when she gives large receptions.'

'So you're a sort of free-lance waiter? It seems a pity. Wouldn't you prefer regular employment? I might be able to find you a good place.'

'That is very kind of you, madam.'

'But perhaps you prefer this odd-job work?' Her words were commonplace, but her tone provocative.

'It is very interesting, madam,' returned the waiter deferentially.

Bobby stifled a giggle, and the man looked up sharply. The woman, watching him, looked round too.

'Hullo, Bobby!' she said. 'Won't you come and join me? My partner has deserted me, and I hate supping alone.'

'R-rather,' said Bobby, advancing. The waiter drew back chairs for them. 'May I introduce Mr. Doone? D-Doone, Mrs. Lancaster.'

'Mrs. Hamilton-Browne has been looking for you, Mr. Doone,' said the lady, with an arch smile. 'I believe she wanted to introduce you to me. So fatal, to be introduced by Katherine. But I've been hearing so much about you. _Too_ romantic, your living on that wild island in the South Seas. How terribly dull England must seem to you.'

At that moment Michael was absorbed in helping himself to some food offered by the waiter, and made no reply. Bobby grinned, but Adele Lancaster continued gallantly.

'Why have you never brought Mr. Doone to any of my parties, Bobby?'

'Because D-Doone and I have only just m-met,' said Bobby. 'We have a mutual friend in Toby Ward.'

'Oh, Sir Toby. Isn't he charming?' she addressed herself to Michael. 'So eighteenth century.'

'Is he?' said Michael, who hadn't the least idea what she meant, and cared, if possible, rather less.

For a moment the lady seemed disconcerted, and her eyes wandered to the tall waiter, who was now serving the next table.

'Bobby, have you noticed that man?' she said in an undertone. 'Isn't he amazing? I wonder if he's a Russian Archduke in exile?'

Bobby glanced round indifferently. 'My dear Adele, why should he be? I n-never saw anyone so completely English in my life. What makes you think him Russian?'

'I don't know.' She laughed. Thoroughly girlish, Michael decided sourly. 'Perhaps it's that little moustache. And he's too fair to be French, isn't he? I can't think why a man as good-looking as that should be a waiter.'

'I can't think why any man is,' said Michael suddenly. 'It's only one degree better than carrying sandwich boards, or selling ladies' underwear.'

'I n-never can see why it isn't as good to sell one thing as another,' said Bobby argumentatively. 'In this country, Doone, a man may sell cars, but not petrol; houses, but not bricks; and pictures, though never, never, paint or turpentine. We've got a string of the most hopelessly illogical social conventions....'

'Now, Bobby!' interrupted Adele, 'we can't have these sentiments from a respectable, if briefless, barrister. By the way, I know a perfectly fascinating man who sells petrol. He keeps a garage in Bermondsey and talks too thrillingly about revolution and all that. He's coming to my party on Thursday. Mr. Doone, won't you come? Bobby will be there and, I hope, Sir Toby Ward. Bobby, do persuade Mr. Doone to come. Oh, here's Hubert, looking for me. Heavens, I promised him this dance! Hubert, please forgive me. I'll come now, honestly I will!'

She rose and, taking the arm of a young man who had just come up, swept him away.

'Exit Hubert, looking longingly backwards at the food,' said Michael.

Bobby chuckled.

'There's no one like her,' he said. 'What's that?' to the tall waiter, who was murmuring something at his elbow. 'Oh, champagne, I suppose. Doone, what will you drink? I'm afraid there's nothing very interesting, but, you s-see, the Colonel isn't allowed it, and his wife's a tee-totaller.'

'It's all a question of taste,' said Michael in a thoughtful drawl. 'Mine's beer.'

'Lager, sir?' asked the waiter in a respectful undertone. Michael glanced up, and their eyes met. Then he nodded, and the waiter sped away.

'You'd b-better come to Adele's party,' said Bobby. 'She's a bit of a sh-shock at first, but her parties are good fun. I m-mean, everyone goes to 'em, and if a fella's got to live in London, he may as well _live_ in London, if you s-see what I mean. By the way, you must look me up. Where do you hang out?'

'Quebec Street. Number 60,' said Michael.

'Got a flat there?'

'Rooms. Two and a bath. Not what you'd call swagger, but it suits me all right. The food's very good.'

'That's the principal thing,' agreed Bobby. 'F-feed me well, and I'll be perfectly h-happy. I've got a flat in Knightsbridge. Ought to have a card on me somewhere. Oh, yes, here we are. D-do look me up some time.'

'Right,' said Michael, pocketing the card. 'Hullo, here's the drink.'

It was not the tall waiter who brought it, but the butler of the house.

'You are wanted on the telephone, Mr. Manvers,' he said. 'A London call, I believe, sir. I have had the telephone switched through to the library.'

'O Lord!' Bobby rose regretfully. 'Forgive me, Doone. Shan't be long. At l-least I hope not, but these long-distance calls are the devil!'

He went off to the house, and Michael sat over his beer in solitude. He was wondering how soon he could leave this wilderness of apes without disgracing Sir Toby. Then he caught sight of Mrs. Hamilton-Browne advancing towards him. She had obviously not seen him yet, but she was peering round in an ominous manner. Michael groaned, and gulped down the last of his beer. Blast the woman! Why couldn't she leave a man alone? He rose to his feet and made a hasty retreat to the house, entering by a side door. Once inside, he looked at his watch. It was only half-past twelve. With savage despair in his heart he made his way to the library. Perhaps he could find a book with which to beguile the weary hours until such time as he could leave with decency. As he opened the door he heard Bobby's voice at the telephone.

'Yes, he's in London to-night. I'll pick him up and bring him along. We'll get there as soon as possible.... Right. Don't lose sight of him till we arrive.... Good.... So long.'

Michael was about to retire, but Bobby hung up the receiver and turned round.

'D-don't go,' he said; 'I've finished. Dashed annoyin'!'

'What's the trouble?' asked Michael, dropping into a chair.

'Well, I was expecting an American fellow to come and see me on Monday--on business, you know--and now I hear he's arrived in London, and wants to s-see me to-morrow morning. Only a Yank would want to do business on S-Sunday morning. I s-suppose he's going to see York Minster and Stratford-on-Avon the rest of the day, and will catch the early boat home on Monday. Well, I shall have to c-clear out right away. _Dashed_ annoying! Can't miss him, though. My first client, an' all that.'

'How'll you go?'

'Oh, by road. I've got my car here. And now I'd better go and say good-bye to my hostess, I suppose. You're c-comin' back to town on Monday, aren't you? Let's forgather, shall we? What about dinner and a show that night?'

'Good scheme,' agreed Michael.

'Right you are, then. So long. Dashed annoying!' And, muttering wrathfully, Bobby went out.

Michael, too lazy to find a book, stretched himself sleepily in his chair, and stared out of the open French window. Beside it hung a long mirror--an ugly mirror, he thought. As he surveyed it, with disapproval, he realised that it reflected another window, behind him; a wide window, half shrouded with heavy curtains. It was open, too, and Michael wondered lazily why he hadn't noticed it before. The library was long and narrow, and must occupy the whole width of that wing. Then, as he watched, he saw the curtain move. There was no breath of wind, and Michael's interest deepened. He sat still, his eyes on the mirror. A man stole out from behind the curtain, and like a flash slipped over the window-sill and disappeared.

Michael leapt to his feet, and crossed the room in three strides. The window was some eight feet above the ground, for there was a basement floor on this side of the house.

Below him he saw the mysterious visitor, running across the lawn in the direction of the stables. The moonlight caught his face for an instant, and Michael recognized him. It was the tall waiter.

Without thinking, Michael flung a leg over the sill and dropped to the ground. It never occurred to him to yell 'Thieves!' and rouse the house. His natural instinct was to give chase, and he ran like a hare, feeling for the first time that evening a spark of interest in life.

'Came in here to pinch something,' he thought as he ran. 'Interrupted by Bobby, and then by me. Saw I was going to stop, and reckoned he'd make a move. Gone away!'

But it seemed the waiter was a fair sprinter, too, for, as Michael reached the gate of the stable-yard, a long, grey two-seater roared past him and down the drive.

For a moment Michael stood still, and then he raced into the yard where his own car stood. It was the hired waiter all right. He had seen his face again as the car shot past him. Michael flung himself into his Bentley, buzzed the obedient self-starter, and swung through the gates and into the drive.

He knew the pace of his machine, and guessed that with any ordinary luck he could overtake the two-seater. Reason for so doing he had little, nor did he bother to consider what he would do when he caught it up. For the first time since he landed in England he was perfectly happy, and he crooned a song to himself as he thrust his car along the narrow Suffolk lanes. Five hundred yards from the lodge gates he came upon a straight strip of road, running without a turn for nearly a mile, and far away ahead he saw a red pin-prick of light.

'Tail lamp!' he said contentedly. 'The bloke can drive! Get on, old lady.'

After a couple of miles he realised that this was going to be a close race. His own car was the better of the two, and on the straight he gained perceptibly, but this other fellow obviously knew the country, and his cornering was superb. Michael's approval increased.

It was a long chase, through the winding country roads. Michael had no idea where he was, and cared less. As long as he could see, every now and then, that red point of light, he was content to follow. Finally his quarry, who was about half a mile ahead, turned off the road down a rough cart-track, scarred deep with ruts, and shadowed by great trees that met overhead. Michael plunged after him, bumping wildly; emerged into broad moonlight--and crammed on his brakes.

Standing by the side of the road was a grey two-seater. Michael backed his car and drew up alongside. The two-seater was deserted. He got out and walked round it. Queer place to stop. He looked about him. Set in the hedge was a stile. Michael went up and looked over it. It led to a footpath, which crossed a meadow to a long, low farmhouse, in which one lighted window flickered like a watchful and suspicious eye.

Michael whistled softly, regarding the house speculatively as he leant over the stile. Then he went back to his car and from the tool-box selected a large and heavy spanner, which he pocketed. There was a happy glint in his eyes as he vaulted the stile and set off briskly across the field.

He had gone about halfway when he heard a sound that made him stop dead. A car was being started in the lane; _his_ car; he could swear to the throb of that engine! Michael took to his heels and pelted back to the road, but it was too late. Only one car stood there--a grey two-seater.

For a moment Michael stood still. Then he grinned and got into the car. 'No fool, that chap,' he thought. 'Hid behind the hedge and let me make him a present of the thing. Hullo, what's this?'

'This' was a visiting-card, stuck in the wheel. He picked it up, and read the neat pencil writing on its blank side:

Forgive me, but my carburettor's possessed of the devil, and I'm in
a frightful hurry. If you will take my bus to Dorset Mews any night
between ten and twelve you will find yours waiting for you. Very
many thanks for your assistance.

Michael's grin broadened. He turned the card over. Printed on the other side were the three words: 'Vive le Sport!' and underneath in pencil: 'Mine's beer, too!'

'Holy Wars!' said Michael thoughtfully. Then he crawled out of the car. 'Well, I reckon we'd better have a look at his carburettor.'

Twenty minutes later he drove the two-seater back to the main road and studied the signpost at the corner. There was no point in going back to Barton Manor. The signpost assured him that the road before him led to Stoneham, and eventually to Bury St. Edmunds. Between the two, he knew, lay High Ash, Sir Toby Ward's house. Contentedly Michael drove on through the summer night. The stable clock was striking three when he finally reached his destination.

'Vive le Sport!' he thought, as he tumbled into bed. 'Stout fella! Looks as if there might be some fun to be got out of this darned country, after all!'