“It comes to this, then,” Francis pronounced deliberately, “that you stage-managed the whole affair.”
Sir Timothy smiled.
“It is my belief, Mr. Ledsam,” he said, “that you grow more and more intelligent every hour.”
Sir Timothy glanced presently at his thin gold watch and put it back in his pocket regretfully.
“Alas!” he sighed, “I fear that I must tear myself away. I particularly want to hear the last act of ‘Louise.’ The new Frenchwoman sings, and my daughter is alone. You will excuse me.”
Francis nodded silently. His companion’s careless words had brought a sudden dazzling vision into his mind. Sir Timothy scrawled his name at the foot of his bill.
“It is one of my axioms in life, Mr. Ledsam,” he continued, “that there is more pleasure to be derived from the society of one’s enemies than one’s friends. If I thought you sufficiently educated in the outside ways of the world to appreciate this, I would ask if you cared to accompany me?”
Francis did not hesitate for a moment.
“Sir Timothy,” he said, “I have the greatest detestation for you, and I am firmly convinced that you represent all the things in life abhorrent to me. On the other hand, I should very much like to hear the last act of ‘Louise,’ and it would give me the greatest pleasure to meet your daughter. So long as there is no misunderstanding.”
Sir Timothy laughed.
“Come,” he said, “we will get our hats. I am becoming more and more grateful to you, Mr. Ledsam. You are supplying something in my life which I have lacked. You appeal alike to my sense of humour and my imagination. We will visit the opera together.”
CHAPTER XV
The two men left Soto’s together, very much in the fashion of two ordinary acquaintances sallying out to spend the evening together. Sir Timothy’s Rolls-Royce limousine was in attendance, and in a few minutes they were threading the purlieus of Covent Garden. It was here that an incident occurred which afforded Francis considerable food for thought during the next few days.
It was a Friday night, and one or two waggons laden with vegetable produce were already threading their way through the difficult thoroughfares. Suddenly Sir Timothy, who was looking out of the window, pressed the button of the car, which was at once brought to a standstill. Before the footman could reach the door Sir Timothy was out in the street. For the first time Francis saw him angry. His eyes were blazing. His voice—Francis had followed him at once into the street—shook with passion. His hand had fallen heavily upon the shoulder of a huge carter, who, with whip in hand, was belabouring a thin scarecrow of a horse.
“What the devil are you doing?” Sir Timothy demanded.
The man stared at his questioner, and the instinctive antagonism of race vibrated in his truculent reply. The carter was a beery-faced, untidy-looking brute, but powerfully built and with huge shoulders. Sir Timothy, straight as a dart, without overcoat or any covering to his thin evening clothes, looked like a stripling in front of him.
“I’m whippin’ ‘er, if yer want to know,” was the carter’s reply. “I’ve got to get up the ‘ill, ‘aven’t I? Garn and mind yer own business!”
“This is my business,” Sir Timothy declared, laying his hand upon the neck of the horse. “I am an official of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. You are laying yourself open to a fine for your treatment of this poor brute.”
“I’ll lay myself open for a fine for the treatment of something else, if you don’t quid ‘old of my ‘oss,” the carter retorted, throwing his whip back into the waggon and coming a step nearer. “D’yer ‘ear? I don’t want any swells interferin’ with my business. You ‘op it. Is that strite enough? ‘Op it, quick!”
Sir Timothy’s anger seemed to have abated. There was even the beginning of a smile upon his lips. All the time his hand caressed the neck of the horse. Francis noticed with amazement that the poor brute had raised his head and seemed to be making some faint effort at reciprocation.
“My good man,” Sir Timothy said, “you seem to be one of those brutal persons unfit to be trusted with an animal. However—”
The carter had heard quite enough. Sir Timothy’s tone seemed to madden him. He clenched his fist and rushed in.
“You take that for interferin’, you big toff!” he shouted.
The result of the man’s effort at pugilism was almost ridiculous. His arms appeared to go round like windmills beating the air. It really seemed as though he had rushed upon the point of Sir Timothy’s knuckles, which had suddenly shot out like the piston of an engine. The carter lay on his back for a moment. Then he staggered viciously to his feet.
“Don’t,” Sir Timothy begged, as he saw signs of another attack. “I don’t want to hurt you. I have been amateur champion of two countries. Not quite fair, is it?”
“Wot d’yer want to come interferin’ with a chap’s business for?” the man growled, dabbing his cheek with a filthy handkerchief but keeping at a respectful distance.
“It happens to be my business also,” Sir Timothy replied, “to interfere whenever I see animals ill-treated. Now I don’t want to be unreasonable. That animal has done all the work it ought to do in this world. How much is she worth to you?”
Through the man’s beer-clogged brain a gleam of cunning began to find its way. He looked at the Rolls-Royce, with the two motionless servants on the box, at Francis standing by, at Sir Timothy, even to his thick understanding the very prototype of a “toff.”
“That ‘oss,” he said, “ain’t what she was, it’s true, but there’s a lot of work in ‘er yet. She may not be much to look at but she’s worth forty quid to me—ay, and one to spit on!”
Sir Timothy counted out some notes from the pocketbook which he had produced, and handed them to the man.
“Here are fifty pounds,” he said. “The mare is mine. Johnson!”
The second man sprang from his seat and came round.
“Unharness that mare,” his master ordered, “help the man push his trolley back out of the way, then lead the animal to the mews in Curzon Street. See that she is well bedded down and has a good feed of corn. To-morrow I shall send her down to the country, but I will come and have a look at her first.”
The man touched his hat and hastened to commence his task. The carter, who had been busy counting the notes, thrust them into his pocket with a grin.
“Good luck to yer, guvnor!” he shouted out, in valedictory fashion. “‘Ope I meets yer again when I’ve an old crock on the go.”
Sir Timothy turned his head.
“If ever I happen to meet you, my good man,” he threatened, “using your whip upon a poor beast who’s doing his best, I promise you you won’t get up in two minutes, or twenty…. We might walk the last few yards, Mr. Ledsam.”
The latter acquiesced at once, and in a moment or two they were underneath the portico of the Opera House. Sir Timothy had begun to talk about the opera but Francis was a little distrait. His companion glanced at him curiously.
“You are puzzled, Mr. Ledsam?” he remarked.
“Very,” was the prompt response.
Sir Timothy smiled.
“You are one