Four Strange Women by E.R. Punshon Page B

it said that card indexing is to organization what newspapers are to publicity.”
    â€œWell, there’s something in that,” the colonel agreed.
    He lapsed into silence and for a little they sat and smoked, the colonel with his cigar, Bobby with the cigarette he had preferred. Then Bobby said:—
    â€œI think there’s something, sir, I ought to mention. Lord Henry Darmoor—his father is Lord Whitfield—came to my rooms in London last night, rather late. I had never met him before but I knew his name from seeing it in the papers—he is a well known sportsman; polo, I think. He brought a Miss Gwen Barton with him. He said they were engaged.”
    Bobby went on to describe briefly the interview. Colonel Glynne made no comment, never interrupted, sat so still, his eyes half closed, his neglected cigar smouldering on the table near, one might have thought he was not listening, but for the hard pressure of his clasped hands upon each other, so that the knuckles showed white; but for the air of tension that somehow his humped-up figure in the big arm-chair seemed to show. When Bobby finished he sat for a time in the same silence and immobility, almost as .if he did not even know that Bobby had ceased to speak, and then he got slowly to his feet and went out of the room, coming back in a moment or two with Sir Harold Hannay.
    â€œMight have been a slam,” the old general sighed, blinking mildly around, “if partner had played up. Probably she wouldn’t. Becky’s not as good at bridge as she is at tennis, Glynne.”
    He settled himself comfortably in a chair, refused a cigar the colonel offered him, remarked that he had already smoked his day’s ration, except for the one cigarette he reserved for the last thing before bed, took out a pair of spectacles and fixed them on his long, thin nose. Colonel Glynne said to Bobby:—
    â€œI think you know General Hannay is chairman of the Watch Committee. I consulted him when your appointment was first suggested. I believe Sir Harold intends to recommend its confirmation at the next meeting. Of course, your appointment is outside ordinary routine.”
    â€œGood record,” said the general. He took off his spectacles, looked at them with distaste, and replaced them. “We all come to it,” he sighed. “Lady Markham pressed it. Your father, Lord Hirlpool, isn’t he? I don’t think I ever met him.”
    â€œNot my father, sir,” said Bobby uncomfortably. He knew that to admit any relationship meant that he became instantly open to an accusation of snobbishness, that he at once exposed himself to a suspicion of nepotism, in fact that he would have to suffer all those disadvantages aristocratic birth imposes when there is no cash to support it, since, curiously enough, no blood is blue for long unless its hue is sustained by the yellow glint of gold. All the same, the connection was there and had to be acknowledged. “My uncle,” he explained.
    â€œGood birth,” said the general approvingly. “Nothing in it,” he added, sternly now. “My family’s got a pedigree goes back to the Conqueror. Faked, of course. None of us ever done a thing except nose out good land and buy it up cheap.”
    â€œI want you,” the colonel interposed, speaking to Bobby, “to tell Sir Harold what you have just told me.”
    Bobby repeated his story, as nearly as possible in the same words that he had used before. Both men listened closely. Bobby had the impression that every least word he uttered was to them full of a dark and horrid threat. Neither of them moved or spoke, moved not a finger, breathed not a syllable. The room was brightly lit. There was the ceiling light, a floor lamp, a table lamp. Yet Bobby had the impression, though he knew it was only fancy, that as he talked a darkness crept about them, that his slow speech, for he spoke deliberately and with care, called up