GENERAL SIR HUBERT LOVELACE, Bart., V.C., K.C.B., etc., etc., stepped out of his motor-car and ascended the steps to the front door of Lovelace Towers. As its name implies, it was the baronial seat, and its owner, having reached the top of the flight, proceeded to do what he always did do on similar occasions. First he inspected the consistency of the soil in the two large wooden flower-tubs that flanked the door, to make sure that his fool of a head gardener had applied neither too much nor too little water.
Having satisfied himself on this point, and decided that possibly after all he wouldn't sack the man, he faced about and inspected the ground that lay in front of him. Not that he expected to find anything new: in fact, had he done so the result would have been dreadful. He inspected it partly out of habit and partly out of that ingrained feeling of pride of possession which is born and bred of ownership. Even so, in days long gone by, had Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Hubert Lovelace gazed on the glittering ranks of the 10th Royal Lancers, when that magnificent regiment was drawn up on parade.
His scrutiny now was interrupted by a girl's voice speaking through an open window behind him.
"And how is himself? Feeling very much the monarch of all he surveys?"
The soldier's stern, rather aquiline face softened as he turned round.
"Impertinent minx," he remarked. "You'll be for orderly-room tomorrow morning if you talk to the Commanding Officer like that."
With a laugh she came out and slipped her arm through his. The same clear blue eyes, the same clear-cut profile proclaimed their relationship, and the man looked proudly at his daughter as she stood beside him.
"Did you have many for orderly-room today, Daddy?"
"About the same as usual," he answered. "That wretched fellow Griggs been poaching again; two motoring road-hogs; and Mrs. Panding knocked her husband down with a rolling-pin during her weekly drunk. Oh! and one of the usuals, of course."
"Another of them!" cried the girl. "It's funny they all seem to come here."
"They don't," snorted her father. "The scoundrels are just as bad everywhere else. And the trouble is that for swine of that type prison is a good deal more comfortable than knocking about outside. It's what they're after. Free board and lodging, and then they go on to another place and get the same. If I had my way I'd flog 'em. That would soon stop it."
"Still, there must be some genuine cases, Daddy," said the girl slowly.
"Then let 'em produce their papers, and papers that will stand the test of examination," said her father. "Not one man, Una, has been sent to prison by me or the bench without a thorough verification. And as for this impudent rascal today "—the worthy warrior plucked at his collar—"I—why, for two pins I'd have flogged him myself."
The girl glanced at him gravely, though a tiny smile flickered round the corners of her lips. She adored her father: she knew by heart the story of the episode that had entitled him to write those first two letters after his name: and she knew by heart also the real nature of the man. As did all his staff, who would willingly have lain down and let him walk over them. And when a man has reached that position with regard to those around him, what matter if he pretends to be a ferocious fellow?
"Bombastico furioso," she remarked, and her smile broadened. "What did this impudent rascal do today?"
But for once in a way her father failed to respond to her chaff. His face remained stern and set, and the girl realised that he was serious.
"He was begging, of course," said the General after a while. "No visible means of sustenance—the usual thing. But the case was aggravated by the medals he had the impudence to show. At least, by one of them. He dared to wear the D.C.M. 'Where are your discharge papers?' I asked him. He hadn't got any: they were lost. 'What Records Office will substantiate your claim?' I said to him."
"He couldn't tell me; he'd served in a Colonial unit, and didn't know if they even had such a thing as a Records Office. I asked him what Colonial contingent he had been with; he wouldn't say. I asked him where he won his D.C.M.; he wouldn't say. All he would say was that his name was John Brownlow. And then I read the Riot Act over him. I told him that it wasn't because he wouldn't, but because he couldn't. That he was an impudent impostor who had either stolen the medals or picked them up cheap in a pawnshop. I asked him if he realised that the D.C.M. in the Great War was worth many a V.C. before it, and how dare he masquerade with such a medal on his worthless chest?"
"What did he say. Daddy?" asked the girl.
"Nothing; he couldn't. He just stood there silent: a convicted impostor. I ordered him there and then to hand over his decorations, and told him that I would return them to him when he brought me some proof that he was entitled to wear them. And there they are." With a snort he produced them from his pocket.
"What did you give him, Daddy?" said his daughter.
"A month without the option," grunted the General. "Not that there was any option in his case: he hadn't a bean in his pocket. But it was "—he hesitated a moment—"it was the Colonial part that stuck."
Abruptly he turned and went indoors, and the girl, left to herself, sat down on the stone balustrade and stared over the park. It was many moons now since her father had alluded to the great overwhelming sorrow of his life—greater almost than the death, ten years ago, of his wife.
He was not a man who wore his heart on his sleeve, but she knew full well why it had been the Colonial part that stuck. For Jack—her only brother—had gone to France with the Australians and had died there. And in dying he had performed the most meritorious act of his life.
It was just one of those tragedies which sometimes happen so inexplicably. By all the laws of upbringing and heredity, Jack Lovelace should have been a top-notcher. Instead of that he had proved a permanent and continual disgrace and a drunkard. Expulsion from Eton had effectually prevented him from obtaining a commission in his father's old regiment, which would otherwise have been his automatically. And after that had occurred scrape after scrape—drink, always drink the cause. None of them was actually dishonest: in his queer, distorted way Jack had been the soul of honour. Until—there came one: the final one. That had been dishonest—legally. Morally: well—there's a difference. And it happened thus.
Amongst the varied assortment of men with whom he consorted was one Peter Drayton. And Peter Drayton was Jack's own particular friend: the worst of the whole bunch, as Sir Hubert frequently said. Their tastes were similar: their outlook on life the same. And they had been born a hundred years too late: that was their trouble.
In the old East India days they would undoubtedly have gone to that delectable country, amassed huge fortunes by methods of which the less said the better, and finally died in an odour of sanctity and gout somewhere in England. Unfortunately, that particular safety valve was denied them. The spirit was willing: the opportunities weak. London was their hunting-ground, and virgin forest in the tropics is safer.
To come back to it. Peter, finding his need for ready money rather more pressing than usual, went to the old-established firm of Jones & Jones and borrowed—how he did it is one of the world's insoluble mysteries—one thousand of the best at five per cent. Completely staggered at his success he omitted to notice that it was five per cent. per week.
Messrs. Jones & Jones, however, were not so forgetful, and the position shortly became acute. Having paid the first instalment of interest with the last fifty remaining of the capital, a deadlock ensued. And here Jack came in. An elderly aunt had just died, leaving him precisely a thousand pounds.
Now what was Jack's was Peter's, and what was Peter's was Jack's. Together they repaired to Jones & Jones to explain matters and repay the sum borrowed. Unfortunately, as Mr. Jones pointed out, there was a little question of three weeks more interest—a matter of one hundred and fifty pounds. The fact that the rate of interest was monstrous left him cold: had not Mr. Drayton signed the agreement? So with one accord they broke up the office,