He added that if she were inclined to consider an offer, he believed that this Major Brand would be a desirable tenant.
The clock ticked away momentous minutes while her future hung in the balance. At that moment she was safe. Miss Loveapple, of the Pond House, Highfield, lived in a different world from that of a gentleman in a darkish flat in the Charing Cross Road. So long as she remained where she was, they were divided by the immensity of Space.
The threat was exclusive to Miss Love-apple of No. 19, Madeira Crescent, London, N.W.
Yet there was a time limit to the danger period, even in her case. If the gentleman called at her London address, according to his schedule, on the following day and found it shuttered and unoccupied he was not likely to waste time over a return journey, which might attract attention. One woman was as good as another for his purpose—and the Telephone Directory was full of other names...
Still a million worlds away from him and secure in the sanctuary of her green-and-white dining-room, Miss Loveapple felt the first stir of her instinct to organise. She believed that she had administrative talent, owing to the fact that she always made a quick decision and stuck to it, regardless of consequence.
In this case, it seemed indicated that she should travel to Switzerland direct from London, in order to save a double railway fare. But while this trip was essential—since she would not accept any tenant she had not first seen and approved—it was necessary to cut her visit as short as possible. There was always extra expense involved in running two separate establishments, although it would not pay her to move her family to town for so limited a period.
Taking up her purse-calendar, she began to calculate dates. That day was the eleventh of August. If she travelled up to London on the twelfth, three days should be sufficient to finish her business. Therefore she would be ready to start on her holiday on the fifteenth, which would allow her a full fortnight abroad.
Although she had not committed herself to a resolution, her mind began to function with fatal ease. First she must telephone to the house agent in London and ask him to arrange a meeting with the Major upon the following morning. When she had received the advance payment—for which she always stipulated—she had to wait until she had passed his cheque through the local branch of the London bank where she had a credit account. Afterwards everything would be in order for her to buy her tickets from Cook.
By this time, details had arranged themselves so tidily in her mind that, unconsciously, they assumed the rigidity of a plan. She waited until nine-fifteen before she put through a call to the house agent's office, when she was annoyed to find that only the staff was present.
After she had expressed her wishes clearly and somewhat in the style of a dictator's ultimatum, she strolled into the garden, to find Elsie.
Although it was still early, the dew had dried even in the shade and the hot air was drawing out the perfume of mignonette and heliotrope from the perennial border. Overblown roses shed their petals in a drift of crimson, yellow and pink over the beds. Patches of clear water amid the lily leaves in the tank reflected the sky in gleams of burning blue.
The maid was not visible, but Miss Love-apple could hear shouts of coarse laughter mingled with the excited barking of a dog. Guided by the sounds, she went through a clipped-yew archway to the drying ground, where Elsie was rolling on the grass with Scottie and David.
At her mistress's approach she rose to her hands and knees and peered up through the hair which covered her eyes, like a lion's mane; the next second she was on her feet, with every permed lock in order and not a wrinkle in her artificial silk stockings.
'David's doing the Lambeth Walk,' she said primly.
'Oi,' responded Miss Loveapple mechanically. 'Elsie, I am waiting for a trunk call. If it is favourable, we shall have to be busy. I must pack for Switzerland to-day—and you must make a copy of the London house inventory.'
Although it was a coveted job, for Elsie was proud of her neat handwriting, the girl looked glum.
'Won't you take us with you?' she asked.
'No, Elsie,' replied Miss Loveapple. 'You'd have to go into quarantine.'
'Yes, madam. Will you be away for long?'
'About three weeks. But I will ask Miss Pitt to call and see if Scottie and David are keeping fit. Captain Brown will advise you about the flowers and if there are any vegetables to spare the rector will be glad to distribute them. You see, you will have no worry. And I know I can trust you to carry on.'
'Thank you, madam.'
Elsie understood the position perfectly. Notwithstanding the fact that her mistress professed perfect trust in her, a village C.I.D. with trained sporting instincts would be on her trail.
Glancing at the maid's gloomy face, Miss Loveapple tickled David on his Prinny-like stomach.
'David says sulking gets you nowhere,' she remarked.
'I don't want to go nowhere,' burst out Elsie. 'But I don't like your going away without me to look after you. All the terrible things happen abroad...You may be murdered.'
'And I may be murdered in England, if that's what you plan for me.'
'Not if I'm there to open the door to strangers and send them away.'
'But why should any one want to murder me? I don't go about in sables and diamonds. And nobody's got a grudge against me.'
'There are criminal lunatics. They aren't particular.'
'But you have to encourage them first. They are usually invited home by the wretched women they murder.'
'Not in lonely places.'
'I'm not going into the woods by myself. The problem will be to find a spot in Grindelwald that's not crawling with tourists...Don't be silly, Elsie. Snap out of it.'
Miss Loveapple spoke in her briskest tone to hide the fact that she was touched by Elsie's devotion. As she looked at the pale face and flat figure, she felt a sudden pang at the thought of separation.
'If I didn't keep up three houses,' she reflected, 'I could afford a good holiday for all three of us.'
Even while she was weakening, she heard the ringing of the telephone bell inside the house. London had come through, to tell her that Major Brand would meet her about noon on the following day at her London address.
It was such convincing testimony to her powers of organisation that she closed her heart against sentiment. She decided to leave Pond House and travel up to No. 19, Madeira Crescent, London, N.W.
CHAPTER THREE. The Invisible Player
Whether she worked in the house or garden, Miss Loveapple's official wear was shorts. These were ready-made and possessed the discretion of the Boy Scout pattern, rather than the frankness of a bathing belle model. All the same, she paid tribute to local susceptibilities by buttoning a grey flannel skirt over them before she went into the village.
She had grown too used to its old-world charm to see it through the eyes of enthusiastic tourists who arrived in their cars and motor coaches. The raised pavements—darkly arcaded with trees—the numerous flights of steps, the Tudor houses on the green, the stocks and the ancient church were accepted by her merely as environment.
That afternoon, everything looked much as usual as she clumped over the little cobbled square to reach the shade of the lime avenue. It was unusually hot and most people were at home, sleeping in darkened rooms or sitting in the privacy of quiet walled gardens.
Yet, in spite of the dusty golden haze which powdered the air—as though the heat had become visible—there must have been active forces quivering behind the thick blue atmosphere. That intangible quantity—Miss Loveapple's Luck—had been threatened by a blind dive into a telephone directory.
It