The Annam Jewel (18 page)

Sylvia stamped her foot, and said:

“Oh, Peter, you've come at last. I thought you were
never
coming. Give it to me, give it to me—quick!”

“Give you what?” said Peter.

She flung back her veil with an impatient gesture.

“The Jewel—the Jewel! Give me the Jewel—give it me at once!”

“I haven't got it,” said Peter.

Sylvia caught his arm.

“You must have it, you must have it; I gave it you. What are you talking about? I gave it you last night at The Luxe—it was wrapped up in my handkerchief—I pushed it into your hand, and you took it. Give it back to me quickly, and let me go.” She was shaking his arm as she spoke, her face very near his own.

Peter saw suddenly that the colour in her cheeks was artificial, and that beneath it she was very white. Her eyes had dark circles under them. Her eyes were very blue.

“Give it me. Give it back to me,” she said.

“I haven't got it, Sylvia,” said Peter gravely.

There was a knock at the door. It opened. Mrs. Jones appeared. “The taxi 'as come,” she said.

“All right. We'll be down in a moment.”

Mrs. Jones sniffed, withdrew, went slowly down the stairs.

“What taxi?” said Sylvia.

“Yours. You can't stay here. You oughtn't to have come.”

“As if I cared!”

Peter took her by the arm.

“We can talk in the taxi,” he said. “I'll take you home.”

In the taxi Sylvia was silent. Twice she took out her pocket-handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. Once, when Peter began to speak, she said, “No, wait, wait,” in a muffled voice. He became aware that she was crying. He was angry with Sylvia, and angry with himself. Sylvia was really crying. The long wait, the hours without food, terrified recollections of this morning's interview with Hendebakker, terrified anticipations of another interview with him tomorrow—these things brought the tears of acute self-pity to her eyes. The recollection of Hendebakker, the sheer strength and weight of the man, his rough, hard voice, filled her with panic. She shrank from the memory of what that voice had said, but no shrinking saved her from remembrance. “You never thought that Anita would count those loose diamonds, did you? Well,
she
didn't; but I did. D'ye get that? I did. You never thought three or four of them would be missed, did you? Well, now, that's just where you slipped up, and I've got the man you sold them to right under my hand and ready to swear to you any day of the week. And
now
will you do what I tell you, my dear?” Sylvia shuddered from head to foot.

When the taxi stopped and he had paid the man, Peter said:

“Look here, I'll come and see you tomorrow and tell you all about it.”

Sylvia gave a little cry that was half a sob.

“As if I should sleep a single wink!” she said. “We've got to have it out.”

Peter went in with her. Sylvia's room was full of yellow roses; they smelt very sweet. She switched on all the lights, and turned impatiently on Peter.

“What have you done with the Jewel? I gave it you. I want it back.”

Peter stood over her, very large. He felt a brute, but was angry enough not to mind.

“It wasn't exactly yours to give, was it?” he said.

The real crimson rose to Sylvia's cheeks.

“How dare you?” she cried.

Peter laughed.

“If it comes to that, how did you dare?” he retorted.

“I don't know what you mean.”

“I'm quite sure you know what I mean. You took the Jewel from your father, and you were going to give it to that brute Hendebakker.”

Sylvia stared at him, flushed and curious.

“How did you know, Peter? How
did
you know?”

He said nothing. After a minute she put out her hand rather timidly and touched him.

“Peter, you're angry. Oh, don't be angry with me. Please, please don't—I'm so miserable.”

She was crying again quietly. Peter began to mind being a brute.

“Look here, Sylvia, what's the use of all this?” he said.

Sylvia made a sudden movement towards him.

“Peter, give it back to me,” she whispered.

“My dear girl, I haven't got it—I told you I hadn't.”

“Then—where is it?”

“I sent it back to your father, of course,” said Peter. “And look here, Sylvia, I may as well make my position clear. I've no idea how much you know about the Jewel, its history, and so forth; but my position is this, either the Jewel belongs to your father or it belongs to me, and I'm hanged if either of us will let Hendebakker have it. I think you'd better get that quite clear.”

“I don't know—I don't know anything,” she sobbed. “Peter, I'm—I'm utterly wretched.”

“Oh, for the Lord's sake, Sylvia, don't cry.” He patted her shoulder. “Look here, my dear girl, I mean—oh, I say, Sylvia, what is the use of crying? You'd much better make a clean breast of the whole thing and tell me why you did it.”

Sylvia leaned against him, and felt that his arm was strong and comfortable.

“He—he told me it was only a copy,” she sobbed.

“Who did?”

“Virgil Hendebakker.”

“Good lord, you didn't believe him?”

“Of course I did—anyone would have. How was I to know which was the real one? I thought it was only a sort of joke—I did really. And now my father will never forgive me. Why, he wouldn't even let me explain. And you—you hate me for it.” She trembled as she spoke, her head against his shoulder. She looked up at him for a moment, and then down again. Her eyes were very blue indeed.

“I don't hate you,” said Peter gruffly.

“Don't you?” said Sylvia, with a quiver in her voice. “Are you sure? I—I didn't mean to cry or make a fuss, but I'm very unhappy and—and worried.”

“What's worrying you?”

Sylvia turned from him. “What's the good?” she said hopelessly.

“Well, I might be able to help.”

She half put out her hand, and drew it back again.

“No, it's no use. I must just go under. Nothing much to make a fuss about after all, is there?” She faced him with the tears running down her cheeks. “I shan't be the first or the last, shall I?”

Peter put his hands on her shoulders.

“Don't talk like that, Sylvia,” he said quickly. “There's always a way out. I'll stand by you; I swear I will.”

“Will you?
Can
you? No, you don't care enough. You did once, but you don't now. You used to be fond of me long ago.”

“I'm fond of you now; you know I am. Besides, I'd do my best to help any woman out of a hole.”

Sylvia looked up at him with brimming eyes.

“Peter, are you really fond of me—really?” she said.

“Yes, I am,” said Peter. “I said so just now.”

“And you'll help me?”

“I'll do my best.”

She came just a little nearer.

“Peter, only one thing will help—and oh, I do want help so badly—you don't know how badly. Peter, you said perhaps the Jewel was yours. What did you mean?”

Peter frowned.

“My father left it to me in his will,” he said.

“Then it's yours, it's really yours?”

“I'm not sure.”

“But—I don't understand.” She stared at him in frank astonishment. “If it's yours, why did you send it back to my father?”

“I tell you I'm not sure; but, anyhow, your taking it—” his frown deepened—“it was a beastly thing to do. What made you do it?”

“I've told you,” said Sylvia. “But if it's yours, Peter, can't you get it?”

“I don't know. Don't let's talk about it any more.”

“But you'll help me?”

“Yes, I'll help you.”

Sylvia put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

CHAPTER XXI

Sylvia was having breakfast in bed next morning when she was called to the telephone. She recognized her father's voice before he announced himself.

“That you, Sylvia? Oh, all right. I only want an address—young Waring's address. Oh, and by the way, is he on the telephone? Good. Just give me his number—will you—and I'll ring him up.”

Sylvia gave him the address and the number.

“What do you want with Peter?” she asked, with an attempt at lightness.

She heard Coverdale laugh.

“Oh, just a little matter of business,” he said, and rang off.

She went back to her room, frowning. The Jewel had reached her father, and he wanted to thank Peter for sending it back. If that was all, would he not have written? Why was he so pleased at being able to telephone? Was he going to try and see Peter?

The telephone bell rang again; Hendebakker this time, hard and cool.

“That Lady Moreland? Well, have you got it?”

“No,” said Sylvia. “No.”

“Well, now, that's a pity.” There was no change in the tone. “Suppose you come round and see Anita right away. She's just wearying to hear all about it. Ask for her, and come right up to our private suite.”

He rang off. Sylvia leant against the wall for a moment, her heart beating hard. She had her orders, and knew very well that she must obey them.

In a little over half an hour she was being ushered into the drawing-room of the Hendebakkers' private suite at The Luxe. Anita was not there; Virgil P. Hendebakker was. He waited until the door was shut, and then said sharply:

“Well, what about it?”

“I couldn't get it,” said Sylvia.

“Why?”

“He hasn't got it—he sent it back to my father.”

Just for a second the large, smooth surface of Hendebakker's face changed. It seemed to crumple up, as the smooth surface of water will change and become convulsed by some violent, unseen force. The bright eyes alone remained unaltered; their gaze never shifted from Sylvia's face. It was all over in a moment, and Hendebakker said in his usual voice:

“He did that? He had the Jewel, and he sent it back to Dale? If that don't beat the band!”

“He sent it back at once—early, before I could see him. It wasn't my fault.”

“Oh, I'm not blaming you—not for that. As to your blame foolishness in giving it to him at all, you've got to make that good—you know that without my telling you—you've
got
to make it good.”

“I don't see how I can,” said Sylvia, with a sort of gasp. And as she spoke, an inner door opened and Anita Hendebakker came in. She wore a thin wrap of exotic scarlet embroidered all over with blue and violet butterflies.

“Sylvia! But what a surprise!” she said.

Hendebakker waved her back with the smooth, well-kept hand which had the scar upon it.

“Presently, Anita; just now I am busy.”

She cast one glance from him to Sylvia, and went out again.

“What will she think?” said Sylvia hotly.

Hendebakker smiled.

“Anita never thinks,” he said. “It would not be worth her while; I would have no use for a wife who let herself think about my affairs. Anita knows when she is well off. And now—you were saying that you did not know what to do next. You have seen this young Waring? You are quite sure he sent the Jewel back?”

“Oh yes. And then this morning …” She told him about the telephone call from Sunnings.

Hendebakker began to pace up and down the room.

“I think he must want to see him, or he would have written,” she concluded.

He nodded.

“That's right smart of you. Yes, it's likely. I'll see to it. Well, now, this is what you've got to do. Is this young man in love with you?”

“Oh, well …” Sylvia shrugged her shoulders.

“What's that mean? That he is, or that he isn't?”

She shot a furious glance at him.

“How do I know?”

“You quit this foolishness and come to business. Is he or isn't he?”

“I don't know. I don't think he knows himself. He's fond of me.”

“Has he told you so?” His tone was businesslike in the extreme.

“Yes, he has.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“When you were sobbing on his shoulder, I guess.” Her discomfiture appeared to please him. “Well, you keep right on that way—plenty of sob-stuff—and ‘I'm a poor, weak woman with no one to protect me'—with a dash of ‘There's no one in the world like you.' That's the goods. You keep right on until you've got him so that he goes down on his knees and begs you to take the Jewel for a keep-sake.”

“He's got to get it first,” said Sylvia a little scornfully.

“If he don't I shall.” Hendebakker's laugh was quite genial. “And now, my dear, you sit right down and get that young man of yours on the 'phone.”

“Why?”

“Well, I'd just as lief know whether he's going to see Dale or not; guessing's not good enough, and you can get it out of him all right. Fix it so he'll have to say what he's doing.”

“He won't be in,” said Sylvia, rather sulkily.

“You sit right down and try. There's nothing like trying.”

He set a chair as he spoke, and pushed the table instrument nearer to her. Sylvia took off the receiver, gave the number, and frowned when she heard Peter's voice saying, “Hullo.”

“It's Sylvia,” she said. In spite of the frown, her tone was sweetness itself.

Hendebakker laid a piece of paper on the table before her. Across it he had scrawled in blue pencil, “Repeat his answers so I can follow.” She nodded and went on speaking.

“It is you, Peter, isn't it? Yes, it's Sylvia. I was wondering—” she broke into just a hint of self-conscious laughter—“well, just wondering if we were going to meet today. I can't remember if we fixed anything. Oh, you can't! You're going where? Oh, out of town—to the
Gaisfords
'? Did you really tell me that? How stupid of me! Do you know, I can't remember it a bit. Was it last night? My dear boy, I was so tired I didn't know what I was doing. But—but, as a matter of fact, my father rang me up this morning, and I got an idea that you were going to see him—a matter of business, he said—no, he didn't tell me what it was, only that he hoped to see you at Sunnings—oh, you
are
going there? What about the Gaisfords, then—lunching with them on your way? My good Peter, how frightfully energetic!”