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We drove off ten minutes later. I looked out of the motor as we swung round into the main thoroughfare. Behind the window of the little sitting room I saw the pale, almost ghastly face of Lord Porthoning. He caught my eye and waved his hand weakly. On the pavement in front of the striped awning stood Mr. Bundercombe large, beaming, both hands outstretched. Eve waved her handkerchief.
"My boy," he said, "there will be nothing but just a little incident that you can tell to Eve and laugh about on your way to the station. That I promise you." I nodded and crossed the hall. Lord Porthoning was preparing to leave. "Have my car called up!" he ordered the footman from the doorstep. "Mind, I'm not going to hang about on the pavement in this sun for any one.
I could see that he suddenly became limp in Mr. Bundercombe's grasp. His eyes were fixed on the jewels and his amazement was undeniable. Mr. Bundercombe winked at me over his head. "What is the meaning of this, Lord Porthoning?" I demanded as sternly as I could. My courage was failing me. I felt that the joke, after all, had been a severe one.
"Some one pointed him out to me. I asked who on earth it could be. No offense, mind," Lord Porthoning continued; "but I hate all Americans and our connections with them. I have been looking at your presents, Paul. A poorish lot a poorish lot! Now I was at Dick Stanley's wedding last week married Colonel Morrison's daughter, you know. Never saw such jewelry in my life!
I asked. "It means," Mr. Bundercombe explained, "that this gentleman, who finds my daughter's presents so inadequate, was actually leaving your house with an emerald brooch belonging to Eve in the righthand pocket of his coat!" Lord Porthoning was once more incoherent. This time, however, I stopped him. I was already heartily sick of the affair, but at this stage I could not back out.
"Sir," he concluded sternly, "for the sake of the conventions of the country in which I find myself, and bearing in mind your connection with my son-in-law, I have kept the police out of this interview. Be so good as to hand over to Paul the emerald brooch you have secreted in your coat pocket!" The pall of silence seemed suddenly removed. Lord Porthoning leaned forward. Then he began to talk.
You know they send you things because they've got to. You've been through it yourself. Must have cost you a pretty penny in your time sending out wedding presents! Now you reap the harvest." "I suppose," I observed dryly, "that yours is the reasonable point of view." "Absolutely, my dear fellow absolutely!" Lord Porthoning declared.
"It's sending me mad, Paul; for, as I live, I never put hands on that brooch!" "How long has this been going on?" I asked, almost mechanically. "Perhaps you are the reason that it has become the fashion to send detectives to guard wedding presents." "I am the reason!" Lord Porthoning confessed, his voice shaking. "Paul, somehow I believe I believe this has stopped it. You'll kill the instinct.
He leaned over toward me. "Paul," he declared earnestly, "on my honor I put nothing into his pocket except the brooch. I knew no more of those things," he added, pointing to the table, "than you did!" I was speechless. Lord Porthoning looked up. I had never seen a face quite like his in my life. One side of it seemed drawn with pain. He checked a sob. His fingers gripped at the air as he spoke.
"Well," I said, "I rely upon your discretion, Mr. Bundercombe. A little lesson would certainly do Porthoning no harm." Whereupon Mr. Bundercombe, fearing apparently that I might change my mind, vanished among the crowd; and the matter, to tell the truth, disappeared from my mind for a short time.
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