Chapter XVII: Brother John

Betty Carew felt something more than a mental relief in the knowledge that her nightmare experience was at an end. She awoke from a deep, refreshing sleep, and it was significant that her first thought was one of heartfelt gratitude that she had not to appear in that horrible shop window.

She had hardly finished her breakfast before her landlady came into the dining-room and announced a visitor.

Clive! She looked at the clock; it was half-past nine. Then he must have heard what had happened.

One glance at his face confirmed this opinion.

“I’ve just come from that old devil,” he said vigorously, “and I don’t think he’ll forget my visit! The brute! If I’d only guessed what he had done… I thought it was strange that he hurried me out of the house so quickly.”

She arrested an explosive view of the doctor’s conduct with a laugh.

“But why did he do it?” insisted Clive, his brow wrinkled in perplexity.

“I hope you haven’t quarrelled with him?” she smiled. “You cannot judge him by normal standards.”

“Maybe one of these days he will be judged by standards that will be too normal for his health,” said Clive Lowbridge. “Betty, it terrifies me to think that this man could have been so outrageous. You’re not going back to the shop again? I came to insist upon that.”

“I am not going back, anyway,” she said. “The doctor has finished with me as a show-girl. Apparently, having made me a public exhibition, he desired to keep me for private view!”

At his request she told him what had happened since she left Duke Street.

“Holbrook?” he said thoughtfully. “That is our advertising gentleman. He doesn’t seem to be so objectionable as I thought. I owe him one for that. Where is he to be found?”

She laughed softly.

“He not only did not give me his address, but he was most chary of being seen in public with me,” she said whimsically. “Poor man! I fear he thought I had matrimonial designs--he really is funny, Clive.”

“I should say he was,” said the indignant Clive. “Matrimonial designs indeed! He couldn’t even help you without being offensive. What are you going to do, Betty?”

She told him of such plans as she had formed. She was seeing De Fell, the theatrical manager, that day, and hoped to get a part in his new play. He agreed, but with no enthusiasm. He was leaving, when a thought occurred to him.

“By the way, I don’t think I should tell anybody else about Holbrook. You know that the doctor claims he lost a very valuable buckle--worth a fortune apparently?”

“Not the buckle of Isis?” she said in amazement.

“You knew about it, did you?” he asked quickly. “Yes, that is the thing which has been lost. Apparently the old man has had it for some time, and the loss is a very considerable one to him.”

“But when was it stolen?”

“Last night. He went into his study, found his safe open and the buckle gone. That is the second burglary he has had in a week. Obviously, if Holbrook was on the premises, he would be suspected.”

“Then whoever suspected him would be wrong,” she said promptly. “Mr. Holbrook did not know where the study was until I pushed him in to hide from Dr. Laffin. He may be many things, but he is not a burglar.”

“Then how on earth did he get into the house?” he demanded.

It was a question she had asked herself, for she knew something of the precautions which Laffin had taken to avoid a repetition of a previous visitation.

Fortunately, she had not much time to think about things that morning. She telephoned to De Fell at his house, and was given an appointment, and at half-past eleven she was on the deserted stage at the Pallodrome Theatre, waiting an opportunity to speak to the busy young man, who was deep in conversation with a good-looking, white-haired man, oblivious to the rehearsal which was proceeding, and which involved a considerable amount of noise and movement, for the producer was licking his “pony” chorus into shape. Presently he saw her, lifted his hat and smiled, and beckoned her across to him.

“This is one of the most promising of our younger actresses,” he said, to her surprise and pleasure. “Meet Miss Carew. Mr. Stone is an American, who has nothing to do with the theatrical business, Miss Carew. Also he is a confirmed bachelor, one of the richest men in California, and a very good friend of mine.”

Betty took the proffered hand with a little smile.

“You’re not even interested in this production, Mr. Stone?” said Betty, a little awkwardly.

“No, Miss Carew.” Lambert Stone shook his head. “This world is one apart. And, frankly, its only merit in my eyes is its association with De Fell.”

“That is bad news for a fortune-hunting actress,” she said with mock solemnity. “‘Confirmed bachelor’ is a challenge to every self-respecting woman!”

“I shouldn’t think so,” he said. “I was confirmed in my bachelordom many years ago, but if I were shaken at all from my fixed determination to go through life without adding to the natural miseries of any woman, now would be the moment.”

They both laughed together, and for the time being Betty was so absorbed in the personality of her new acquaintance that she forgot her errand. It was De Fell who reminded her.

“I hope you haven’t come for that part, Miss Carew?” he said. “I kept it open until last Saturday, but now it is filled.”

Seeing her crestfallen face, he asked quickly:

“Is it a matter of vital importance to you?”

“No,” she said, with a smile, “if you mean, am I without money!”

“I’m opening in eight weeks’ time at the Grand,” he said. “If you can last till then, I will give you a really good part.”

The news was disappointing, but in a way she was glad. She had worked without a break for seven months--she had come into _The Girl from Fez_ from a road tour--and the month of idleness was welcome. On her way home she decided to call at the Orpheum to collect a few of her belongings. Happily, the theatre was empty, the rehearsals for the new play not having started, and she packed her bag at her leisure, and carried it downstairs to the little hall where the stage doorkeeper kept his vigil.

“I forgot to tell you, Miss,” said the janitor, “there’s been a man here making inquiries about you. He wanted to know where you lived, but, of course, I couldn’t tell him that. And then he asked me if you were any relation to Dr. Laffin.”

This was surprising, for her association with Dr. Laffin was not generally known in the theatrical world.

“Who was he, Jones?”

“I don’t know, Miss, but he’s a very nice-spoken gentleman--a clergyman; at least, he looks like a clergyman,” he added cautiously.

He went out to find a taxi for her, and returned with news.

“He’s waiting on the other side of the road, Miss. Do you want to see him?”

“Who--the clergyman?” she asked, startled.