Anthony Lyveden Part 10

"Perhaps you're right, Miss French," said the girl. "I'll go and ring up."

She slipped out of the hospital, through the garden, and presently into her office.

It was perhaps ten minutes before she could speak with London. Then--

"Is that Lord Banff's house?" she inquired.

"Yes. Who are you?" said an unpleasant voice.

"Oh, can I speak to Mr. Lyveden?"

"_Who?_"

"Mr. Lyveden."

An exclamation of surprise came to her ears.... Then an oath.... Then a smothered laugh....

The girl frowned with impatience. At length--

"Hullo," said the voice.

"Can I speak to Mr. Lyveden?" she repeated.

"No, you can't. He's--he's out."

"Oh! Well, it's rather important. Could you give him a message?"

"Try me," said the voice.

"Will you tell him that his dog is not so well?"

"What dog?"

"_His_ dog. His Sealyham. Mr. Lyveden will understand."

"Oh, will he?" said the voice. "And where do I come in, Mabel?"

For a moment the fair-haired girl stared at the instrument. Then she flushed angrily and rang off....

At the other end of the line Lord Pomfret replaced his receiver with a hideous leer.

The superintendent returned to the hospital.

"Did you speak to him?" said Valerie.

"No, Miss French. He was out. I had to leave a message."

Valerie rose to her feet.

Observing her movement, the Irish terrier rose also and got shakily upon his legs. The effort set him coughing again, poor fellow, and he had to submit to the paroxysm before he could wag his tail. How stiffly this moved, his mistress, whose eyes were full of tears, did not remark. Nor did she notice the suggestion of impotence about his hindquarters. With her practised eye, the fair-haired girl noticed both symptoms and bit her lip.

Valerie caressed her favourite and turned to a grey-headed kennel-man who had just entered the room.

"Are you going to wash his face?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The Irish terrier was plainly pleased to see his old nurse.

"How is the little Sealyham?"

"'Tis a sick dog, ma'am."

Valerie turned away.

The superintendent escorted her back to the house.

"I'll be down to-morrow morning," she said.

"Very well, Miss French."

As she walked down the drive, Valerie wondered miserably whether she was treading it for almost the last time.

When upon Sat.u.r.day morning Anthony received no bulletin from Hertfords.h.i.+re, he did not know what to think. In the ordinary way he would have telegraphed, but telegrams cost money, which he really could not afford, and he was, in any event, to visit the Dogs' Home that afternoon.... He decided to do nothing. All the same, he was far from easy, for Friday morning's report had said that his terrier was not so well.

He went about his work abstractedly, glancing at the faces of the clocks times without number.

At five-and-twenty minutes past two, just as he was going to change, Lord Pomfret sent for him. Anthony ground his teeth. The man was his evil genius.

Mercifully the interview was a short one.

His lords.h.i.+p produced two pounds and curtly instructed the footman to expend the money upon the purchase of roses.

"They've got to be good ones, and you ought to be able to get stacks for two quid. I shan't want them till to-morrow morning, so they've got to be fresh. You'd better get them as late as you can, and put them in water directly you get in. That's all."

"Very good, my lord."

Lord Pomfret returned to the perusal of _La Vie_, and Anthony stepped to the door. As he was pa.s.sing out--

"Lyveden," said his lords.h.i.+p sharply.

"Yes, my lord."

"I shall want to see the bill."

Anthony hesitated, inwardly raging. Then--