"I want to talk to you, Dad."
He gave her a quick look, selected his hat, and followed to the door. In the cab, he put his hand on hers and said:
"Now, my dear?"
But all she could get out was:
"I want to come back to you. I can't go on there. It's--it's--I've come to an end."
His hand pressed hers tightly, as if he were trying to save her the need for saying more. Gyp went on:
"I must get baby; I'm terrified that he'll try to keep her, to get me back.""Is he at home?"
"I don't know. I haven't told him that I'm going to leave him."Winton looked at his watch and asked:
"Does the baby ever go out as late as this?"
"Yes; after tea. It's cooler."
"I'll take this cab on, then. You stay and get the room ready for her. Don't worry, and don't go out till I return."And Gyp thought: 'How wonderful of him not to have asked a single question.'
The cab stopped at the Bury Street door. She took his hand, put it to her cheek, and got out. He said quietly:
"Do you want the dogs?"
"Yes--oh, yes! He doesn't care for them."
"All right. There'll be time to get you in some things for the night after I come back. I shan't run any risks to-day. Make Mrs.
Markey give you tea."
Gyp watched the cab gather way again, saw him wave his hand; then, with a deep sigh, half anxiety, half relief, she rang the bell.
XVII
When the cab debouched again into St. James' Street, Winton gave the order: "Quick as you can!" One could think better going fast!
A little red had come into his brown cheeks; his eyes under their half-drawn lids had a keener light; his lips were tightly closed;he looked as he did when a fox was breaking cover. Gyp could do no wrong, or, if she could, he would stand by her in it as a matter of course. But he was going to take no risks--make no frontal attack.
Time for that later, if necessary. He had better nerves than most people, and that kind of steely determination and resource which makes many Englishmen of his class formidable in small operations.
He kept his cab at the door, rang, and asked for Gyp, with a kind of pleasure in his ruse.
"She's not in yet, sir. Mr. Fiorsen's in."
"Ah! And baby?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll come in and see her. In the garden?"
"Yes, sir."
"Dogs there, too?"
"Yes, sir. And will you have tea, please, sir?""No, thanks." How to effect this withdrawal without causing gossip, and yet avoid suspicion of collusion with Gyp? And he added: "Unless Mrs. Fiorsen comes in."Passing out into the garden, he became aware that Fiorsen was at the dining-room window watching him, and decided to make no sign that he knew this. The baby was under the trees at the far end, and the dogs came rushing thence with a fury which lasted till they came within scent of him. Winton went leisurely up to the perambulator, and, saluting Betty, looked down at his grandchild.
She lay under an awning of muslin, for fear of flies, and was awake. Her solemn, large brown eyes, already like Gyp's, regarded him with gravity. Clucking to her once or twice, as is the custom, he moved so as to face the house. In this position, he had Betty with her back to it. And he said quietly:
"I'm here with a message from your mistress, Betty. Keep your head; don't look round, but listen to me. She's at Bury Street and going to stay there; she wants you and baby and the dogs." The stout woman's eyes grew round and her mouth opened. Winton put his hand on the perambulator. "Steady, now! Go out as usual with this thing. It's about your time; and wait for me at the turning to Regent's Park. I'll come on in my cab and pick you all up. Don't get flurried; don't take anything; do exactly as you usually would.
Understand?"
It is not in the nature of stout women with babies in their charge to receive such an order without question. Her colour, and the heaving of that billowy bosom made Winton add quickly:
"Now, Betty, pull yourself together; Gyp wants you. I'll tell you all about it in the cab."The poor woman, still heaving vaguely, could only stammer:
"Yes, sir. Poor little thing! What about its night-things? And Miss Gyp's?"Conscious of that figure still at the window, Winton made some passes with his fingers at the baby, and said:
"Never mind them. As soon as you see me at the drawing-room window, get ready and go. Eyes front, Betty; don't look round;I'll cover your retreat! Don't fail Gyp now. Pull yourself together."With a sigh that could have been heard in Kensington, Betty murmured: "Very well, sir; oh dear!" and began to adjust the strings of her bonnet. With nods, as if he had been the recipient of some sage remarks about the baby, Winton saluted, and began his march again towards the house. He carefully kept his eyes to this side and to that, as if examining the flowers, but noted all the same that Fiorsen had receded from the window. Rapid thought told him that the fellow would come back there to see if he were gone, and he placed himself before a rose-bush, where, at that reappearance, he could make a sign of recognition. Sure enough, he came; and Winton quietly raising his hand to the salute passed on through the drawing-room window. He went quickly into the hall, listened a second, and opened the dining-room door. Fiorsen was pacing up and down, pale and restless. He came to a standstill and stared haggardly at Winton, who said:
"How are you? Gyp not in?"
"No."
Something in the sound of that "No" touched Winton with a vague--a very vague--compunction. To be left by Gyp! Then his heart hardened again. The fellow was a rotter--he was sure of it, had always been sure.
"Baby looks well," he said.
Fiorsen turned and began to pace up and down again.
"Where is Gyp? I want her to come in. I want her."Winton took out his watch.
"It's not late." And suddenly he felt a great aversion for the part he was playing. To get the baby; to make Gyp safe--yes! But, somehow, not this pretence that he knew nothing about it. He turned on his heel and walked out. It imperilled everything; but he couldn't help it. He could not stay and go on prevaricating like this. Had that woman got clear? He went back into the drawing-room. There they were--just passing the side of the house.