At this point it may well be asked why the lady members of the Princess Club should betray the smallest interest in Mr. Rubicon, or his remarks, and the matter shall be cleared up at once. Mr. Rubicon was the hall-porter, and daily sat in his office, controlling with genial firmness the destinies of mere men who ventured through the portals, the destinies of the members themselves, and above all, the destinies of their correspondence. And it was the last of these three items on which he prided himself most. Looking back over his ten years' service he could conscientiously say that he had never made a mistake. Letters which should be forwarded were forwarded at once, and letters which were not intended to be forwarded were safely pigeonholed. For it is a regrettable fact that quite a number of letters were wont to arrive for members which were marked "To await arrival" or "Not to be forwarded," and that almost invariably they were in male handwriting. The safety and discretion of Mr. Rubicon were well known, and further comment is unnecessary.
And so it transpired that the next morning, while Mr. Rubicon was still saying unprintable things in Huckleberry Mews, a letter arrived at the Princess Club addressed to Mrs. C. Tranter, and marked with both the warnings given above. Which should have been sufficient. Unfortunately Mr. Rubicon's assistant, who was temporarily holding the fort, was under notice to leave because of his extreme uncleanliness. And Mrs. C. Tranter was one of the several members who had on past occasions commented audibly on the dirt of his finger-nails. So the temporary arbiter of fate seized a pen and, with black malice, deliberately readdressed the letter to Mrs. C. Tranter's home in Surrey. Then, with exultation in his heart, and muttering words, one of which at any rate was more applicable to the canine breed than to Mrs. C. Tranter, he dropped the letter in the post-box. And from that moment cats, Rubicons, and temporary assistants fade out of the picture, and the timbre of the story must change. Up to date, certain levity has been not only permissible but almost necessary; now a more serious note must be struck.
Mr. Charles Tranter was not a very pleasant individual. He was fifty, so that he was in the early thirties when things were occurring in France. And for a man of that age to have made a fortune on indispensable work at home was not a good thing. But Charles Tranter did so, and once again further comment is unnecessary. He made it in something to do with chemicals, and he had the mind and appearance of the conventional chemist of fiction. He wore pince-nez and had a slight stoop, and owing to his being short-sighted he had a habit of thrusting his head forward when he spoke to one, so that he rather resembled a bird of prey.
However, a man cannot be blamed for his physical appearance, though it is frequently a guide to what lies underneath. And it was in his mental make-up that Charles Tranter failed to inspire any enthusiasm. His income was great; his meanness greater. And though, when he wished, he could be quite pleasant, he rarely wished. He was a bad mixer, and very touchy over what he considered his rights. All things which were hidden from Janet Fenton when she married him shortly after the War.
Why she did so is one of those mysteries which none of her friends could fathom. He had money, of course, and she had none. But no one could have put her in that category. Personally, I believe she was genuinely fond of him: it was one of those strange—to the onlooker— aberrations of mind which are unaccountable. But whatever the cause she married him, and in due course became the mistress of his house near Dorking.
The marriage, without being a failure, was not a success. He was still actively concerned in his business and went up to London every day; she, after a brief period of disillusionment, proceeded to make the best of things. Always a cheerful little soul, she realised that though she had made a bad bargain, it was not too bad to carry on with. He was kind according to his lights; in fact, but for one thing, she would have been quite happy. His jealousy was inconceivable.
At first she could hardly believe it. The most harmless conversation at a dinner party with the man next to her was sufficient to upset her husband; an occasion on which she had danced three times with the same partner caused a scene which lasted well into the small hours. And during that scene she told Charles Tranter one or two home truths; she was not a girl who baulked at her fences. She said nothing that caused a break, but she informed him quite clearly that she had not the slightest intention of giving up any of her friends, female or male; and that if he objected to her talking to a man for twenty minutes at a garden party it was his funeral. In fact, she handled the situation exactly as it should have been handled, and outwardly her husband acquiesced. Inwardly the leopard had not changed its spots. And so, when the leopard, who now only went to London twice a week, examined the afternoon post on the day following the events in Huckleberry Mews, he received a very definite shock. Why should a letter addressed to his wife at her club, in a handwriting unknown to him, but which looked more like a man's than a woman's be marked "To await arrival"? Why should "Not to be forwarded" be underlined twice? Obviously the hall-porter had blundered, but that had nothing to do with the letter he held in his hand.
Charles Tranter looked round the hall—it was deserted. And temptation grew on him. Janet was playing tennis with friends and would not be back for hours: it so happened that he himself had taken the letters from the box. And the temptation grew still more.
After a while he put his wife's other letters on the table and went to his study. He opened his own pile more slowly and methodically than usual: he docketed three receipts: he filed two bills. He even read through an advertisement for a patent manure...And all the while temptation grew and grew and grew. "To await arrival": "Not to be forwarded"...Who was it from?
He lit a cigarette, and found that his hand was shaking a little. Who was writing to Janet at the Princess Club? He picked up the letter and turned it over: there was no seal. He studied the postmark: N—something—BURY. Newbury! Janet had been to Newbury races some weeks previously: had stopped with friends. At least, so she had said: he did not know them himself. She had been several times lately: the wife was a very sick woman.
He put down the letter, and found that his hand was still shaking a little. And his mouth was dry. Why had the letter been sent to the club? There could only be one answer to that question—an answer he did not like. A clandestine correspondence which he would never have discovered but for this error on the part of one of the club staff. And Charles Tranter's eyes fumed to the ring of the gas-fire on which stood a kettle of water...Should he steam the letter open?
He pressed out his cigarette: the house seemed strangely still. The servants were at the other end: he would not be disturbed for hours. Time in plenty to do it, and then put back the refastened envelope. Janet would never know: no one would ever know.
Suddenly he made up his mind. If there was nothing in the contents that mattered no harm would have been done: if there was something, then it was his duty to find out about it. It was his plain right as Janet's husband to know what it was. And so Charles Tranter yielded to temptation and lit the gas in the ring.
The envelope opened more easily than he had expected: not the slightest suspicion of a tear, he reflected, with satisfaction. Naturally, the flap was damp, but it would soon dry. And then with the help of a gum bottle no trace of any tampering would be left. Of course, there was nothing in the letter: he knew Janet far too well. Some friend writing about frocks: women always plastered instructions on envelopes. Someone who did not know her home address, or had forgotten it...Someone who...And at that moment the whole room went black: he had seen the opening sentence.
"My utterly adored woman."
The letter dropped from his shaking hands, and lay on the carpet at his feet. A pulse that almost choked him was hammering in his throat: a wave of physical nausea swept over him.
"My utterly adored woman."
That, to his wife, from another man...
At last he controlled himself sufficiently to stoop down and pick up the letter. And then, with a certain grim deliberation, he read, very slowly, every single damning sentence that the man had written. He read them a second time: he read them a third. And having done so, he put the letter on the desk in front of him with hands that had ceased