‘It might perhaps be as well, sir, if you glanced at these,’ he suggested. ‘The top one is about the Colton agreement—’
But Rufus Van Aldin held up a protesting hand.
‘I am not going to look at a durned thing tonight,’ he declared. ‘They can all wait till the morning. Except this one,’ he added, looking down at the letter he held in his hand. And again that strange transforming smile stole over his face.
Richard Knighton smiled sympathetically.
‘Mrs Kettering?’ he murmured. ‘She rang up yesterday and today. She seems very anxious to see you at once, sir.’
‘Does she, now!’
The smile faded from the millionaire’s face. He ripped open the envelope which he held in his hand and took out the enclosed sheet. As he read it his face darkened, his mouth set grimly in the line which Wall Street knew so well, and his brows knit themselves ominously. Knighton turned tactfully away, and went on opening letters and sorting them. A muttered oath escaped the millionaire, and his clenched fist hit the table sharply.
‘I’ll not stand for this,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Poor little girl, it’s a good thing she has her old father behind her.’
He walked up and down the room for some minutes, his brows drawn together in a scowl. Knighton still bent assiduously over the desk. Suddenly Van Aldin came to an abrupt halt. He took up his overcoat from the chair where he had thrown it.
‘Are you going out again, sir?’
‘Yes, I’m going round to see my daughter.’
‘If Colton’s people ring up—?’
‘Tell them to go to the devil,’ said Van Aldin.
‘Very well,’ said the secretary unemotionally.
Van Aldin had his overcoat on by now. Cramming his hat upon his head, he went towards the door. He paused with his hand upon the handle.
‘You are a good fellow, Knighton,’ he said. ‘You don’t worry me when I am rattled.’
Knighton smiled a little, but made no reply.
‘Ruth is my only child,’ said Van Aldin, ‘and there is no one on this earth who knows quite what she means to me.’
A faint smile irradiated his face. He slipped his hand into his pocket.
‘Care to see something, Knighton?’
He came back towards the secretary.
From his pocket he drew out a parcel carelessly wrapped in brown paper. He tossed off the wrapping and disclosed a big, shabby, red velvet case. In the centre of it were some twisted initials surmounted by a crown. He snapped the case open, and the secretary drew in his breath sharply. Against the slightly dingy white of the interior, the stones glowed like blood.
‘My God! sir,’ said Knighton. ‘Are they—are they real?’
Van Aldin laughed a quiet little cackle of amusement.
‘I don’t wonder at your asking that. Amongst these rubies are the three largest in the world. Catherine of Russia wore them, Knighton. That centre one there is known as “Heart of Fire”. It’s perfect—not a flaw in it.’
‘But,’ the secretary murmured, ‘they must be worth a fortune.’
‘Four or five hundred thousand dollars,’ said Van Aldin nonchalantly, ‘and that is apart from the historical interest.’
‘And you carry them about—like that, loose in your pocket?’
Van Aldin laughed amusedly.
‘I guess so. You see, they are my little present for Ruthie.’
The secretary smiled discreetly.
‘I can understand now Mrs Kettering’s anxiety over the telephone,’ he murmured.
But Van Aldin shook his head. The hard look returned to his face.
‘You are wrong there,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t know about these; they are my little surprise for her.’
He shut the case, and began slowly to wrap it up again.
‘It’s a hard thing, Knighton,’ he said, ‘how little one can do for those one loves. I can buy a good portion of the earth for Ruth, if it would be any use to her, but it isn’t. I can hang these things round her neck and give her a moment or two’s pleasure, maybe, but—’
He shook his head.
‘When a woman is not happy in her home—’
He left the sentence unfinished. The secretary nodded discreetly. He knew, none better, the reputation of the Hon. Derek Kettering. Van Aldin sighed. Slipping the parcel back in his coat pocket, he nodded to Knighton and left the room.
The Hon. Mrs Derek Kettering lived in Curzon Street. The butler who opened the door recognized Rufus Van Aldin at once and permitted himself a discreet smile of greeting. He led the way upstairs to the big double drawing-room on the first floor.
A woman who was sitting by the window started up with a cry.
‘Why, Dad, if that isn’t too good for anything! I’ve been telephoning Major Knighton all day to try and get hold of you, but he couldn’t say for sure when you were expected back.’
Ruth Kettering was twenty-eight years of age. Without being beautiful, or in the real sense of the word even pretty, she was striking-looking because of her colouring. Van Aldin had been called Carrots and Ginger in his time, and Ruth’s hair was almost pure auburn. With it went dark eyes and very black lashes—the effect somewhat enhanced by art. She was tall and slender, and moved well. At a careless glance it was the face of a Raphael Madonna. Only if one looked closely did one perceive the same line of jaw and chin as in Van Aldin’s face, bespeaking the same hardness and determination. It suited the man, but suited the woman less well. From her childhood upward Ruth Van Aldin had been accustomed to having her own way, and anyone who had ever stood up against her soon realized that Rufus Van Aldin’s daughter never gave in.
‘Knighton told me you’d phoned him,’ said Van Aldin. ‘I only got back from Paris half an hour ago. What’s all this about Derek?’
Ruth Kettering flushed angrily.
‘It’s unspeakable. It’s beyond all limits,’ she cried. ‘He—he doesn’t seem to listen to anything I say.’
There was bewilderment as well as anger in her voice.
‘He’ll listen to me,’ said the millionaire grimly.
Ruth went on.
‘I’ve hardly seen him for the last month. He goes about everywhere with that woman.’
‘With what woman?’
‘Mirelle. She dances at the Parthenon, you know.’
Van Aldin nodded.
‘I was down at Leconbury last week. I—I spoke to Lord Leconbury. He was awfully sweet to me, sympathized entirely. He said he’d give Derek a good talking to.’
‘Ah!’ said Van Aldin.
‘What do you mean by “Ah!” Dad?’
‘Just what you think I mean, Ruthie. Poor old Leconbury is a washout. Of course he sympathized with you, of course he tried to soothe you down. Having got his