Chapter 2

My life was orderly to the last degree. Nothing was ever out of place. I
never hurried, because I was always in time. The groove I was in was
always swept and garnished. Regularity and Convenience became my gods. I
hated them bitterly, but so often as I offended against their laws I was
plagued with regret and depression within the hour. At such moments I
began to understand why men who have no worries sometimes find life too
much for them.

‘And marry.’

As I drove back to my flat, I decided that she would have to be very,
very quiet. . . .

One advantage of being at a loose end for eleven years is that you and
your servants become mobile. On Wednesday morning all my arrangements
were complete. Banner was to take the big baggage, and Wiseman and I
were to go down to Biarritz by car.

Cicely’s wire was delivered about midday.

_Splendid my dear please bring Judy._

Supposing rather bitterly that the weather at Biarritz was still too hot
to permit of detailed correspondence, I decided that to wire for
information would be to court trouble. Judy was probably a dog—possibly
a lady’s maid, and my arrangements provided for the conveyance of
neither; but if Judy’s instructions were as blunt as mine, it was more
than likely that before the lady reported, I should be on the road.

Indeed, by six o’clock that evening I was growing quite confident. . . .

Then quite suddenly the door bell was rung, and I knew it was all over.
The same bell had been rung quite half a dozen times since Cicely’s wire
had arrived, but there was an ominous resolution about this particular
peal which there was no mistaking.

I sat extremely still on the arm of a chair, listening to Banner’s
footsteps and wondering why on earth I hadn’t gone to the Club.

The next moment the door was burst open by an enormous Alsatian, which
crossed the floor in one bound, put its forepaws on my shoulders,
knocked me backwards into the lap of the chair, and, having me thus at a
disadvantage, proceeded exuberantly to lick my face.

Somebody began to wail with laughter.

When I could do so, I rose.

At the other end of the lead, that is to say, about five feet away,
stood a girl with the finest eyes that ever I saw. They were big and
grey and steady, and once you had seen them it was hard to look away. I
didn’t try. The rest of her fitted in. Her hair was thick and dark and
curly—cut, of course: her eyebrows were straight, and her nose
aquiline. She had a glorious colour and an exquisite mouth. On her head
was a little peaked hat that would have done for Rosalind, and below
that a squirrel coat that came as far as her knees. The rest was pale
silk stockings and patent-leather slippers as small as you please.

“My name’s Sentinel,” she said. “And I know you’re Captain Boleyn. I’m
very sorry.”

“Not at all,” said I, shaking the whiskey and soda out of my sleeve.
“Won’t you sit down?” She took a seat on the table, while the dog
climbed into my chair. I pointed to the darling. “Don’t say that’s
Judy,” I added brokenly.

For a moment Miss Sentinel stared: then she gave a light laugh.

“Good Heavens, no,” she said. She hesitated, regarding me curiously.
Then, “May I have a cigarette?”

“You’re too young to smoke,” said I, opening a box. “But here you are.”

As I lighted a match—

“But I’ve come about Judy,” she said. “What train are you going by?”

“I’m not going by train. I’m going down in the car.”

“I thought perhaps you would,” said the girl, swinging a leg. “Well,
that’s all right. Judy won’t take up much room.”

“I’m not certain she’ll take up any room,” said I severely. “When I know
what——”

“But Cicely said——”

“I know. It’s a way that Cicely has. But I’m not going to travel a maid
six hundred miles by road. Besides, it’s a coupé.”

“Who ever heard of a maid called Judy?” said Miss Sentinel.

“No one,” said I stoutly. “But that’s not my fault. I don’t know what
Judy is. But I know Cicely. And for those two most excellent reasons I
reserve the right, upon being shown Judy, to refuse to convey her.”

Miss Sentinel tilted her chin.

“I am Judy,” she said.

* * * * *

Looking back, I assume I was bewitched.

Of course I refused point-blank. A condemned murderer might as well have
refused to be hanged.

Judy was quiet, smiling and inevitable.

“Cicely said that I should be safe in your hands.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s my point.”

Half an hour later I took her down in the lift, utterly vanquished and
listening to Judy’s terms.

Then I returned and broke the news to Banner.

“Mrs. Rage has asked me to take that young lady with me. She’s got to go
out to Biarritz, and she’s rather too young to travel so far alone.
You’ll take her big baggage with mine.”

“Very good, sir. And the dog, sir? Will the dog go with you?”

“The dog is not going,” I said boldly.

I was quite wrong.

The dog travelled in the coupé.

I hate to advertise my departure from Town. I like to leave for America
with no more outward signs than I give when leaving for Sandown. But
before we started on Thursday most of St. James’s must have known that I
was going to France, and Judy with me.

The most arresting moment of a crowded afternoon was that at which Judy
indicated from about two tons of luggage those pieces which were
indispensable to her convenience for the next three days.

Regardless of the onlookers, we stood on the pavement in Bury Street and
argued it out.

“There’s the car,” I said. “It’s one of the longest chassis built. But
if you can get two cabin-trunks, a hat-box, two dressing-cases and a
chauffeur into that boot——”

“I must have them,” said Judy definitely. “And that suit-case too. My
bedroom slippers are in that.”

There was an awful silence.

“All right,” I said at last. “Wiseman must take it by train and pick us
up each night.”

“If I could repack,” said Judy, “I might get through with a trunk.”

“Make it a dressing-case,” said I.

“Very well.”

The stuff was lugged upstairs, and Judy ‘repacked,’ calling to me for
advice from time to time.

“How many stockings shall I want, Captain Boleyn?”

“Six pairs,” I said glibly. It seemed the easiest way.

It was when we were downstairs again that she remembered her sponge-bag.

As Banner went to find it—

“Could you put it in your pocket?” said Judy. “I’m always so afraid of
its wetting something.”

“So be it,” I said grimly.

That her fears were well founded I saw from Banner’s face. . . . A towel
was fetched, the bag was unpacked on the pavement and a pint and a half
of water was wrung into the gutter. The homely operation was witnessed
and enjoyed by several strangers, some of whom offered advice.

We started at last, an hour and three-quarters late.