he showed no interest in herself.
Sir Julian had already remarked that she was an attractive girl, for he repeatedly tried to catch her eye with the object of putting her into general circulation. But the alderman cast her one penetrating glance from small almond-shaped hazel eyes. It was impersonal, but appraising—and it might have reminded Mrs. Ames of the scrutiny of the poisoners in the Hall of Horrors.
"Thinks me too young," thought Sonia. "How revolting."
As she pressed out her cigarette, the landlady looked across at her young guest.
"Did you have a nice walk?" she asked professionally.
"Yes, thanks," replied Sonia. "I discovered your Waxwork Gallery."
As she spoke, she had an instinctive sense of withdrawals and recoils, as though she had thrown a stone into a slimy pool, and disturbed hidden forms of pond life.
"That's rather a low part of the town," said the landlady. "I'm ashamed to say I've never been in the Gallery myself."
"Neither have I," declared Sir Julian.
"Oh, you should drop in, Gough," remarked the alderman. "I do, myself, from time to time. Just to keep old Mother Ames on her toes. Civic property, you know...Ever been there, Nile?"
"Once, only," replied the doctor. "Ames called me in to see that poor chap the other day. He wanted to know if he was dead."
Sir Julian burst into a shout of laughter.
"That's a good one," he said. "They wanted to make sure he was dead, so they called in the doctor. No hope for him after that."
Sonia saw the sudden gleam in the doctor's sleepy brown eyes. She noticed, too, that Cuttle did not join in the amusement, which was short-lived.
"What did the poor fellow really die of, doctor?" he asked.
"A fit. He was in a shocking state. Liver shot to bits, and so on."
"I know that. But what caused the fit?"
"Ah, you have me there, Cuttle. Personally, I'd say it was the Waxworks."
"How?"
"Probably they frightened him to death."
"Rot," scoffed Sir Julian.
"No, sober fact," declared the doctor. "You've no idea how uncanny these big deserted buildings can be at night. There are all sorts of queer noises...When I was a student, I once spent a night in a haunted house."
"See anything?" asked the alderman.
"No, for a reason which will appeal to your sense of humour, Gough. I cleared out just before the show was due to start. I wasn't a fool, and I realised by then that—after a time—one could imagine anything."
"Now, that's interesting, doctor." The alderman put down his glass and caught Miss Yates' eye. "Time to go Miss Yates."
The red-haired woman got down from her stool and adjusted her hat.
"Now, don't you two hold any business conferences on the way home," advised the barmaid archly.
"No," chimed in the landlady. "You must behave, now you're our future mayor. You'll have to break your engagement with the lady."
"Lady?" repeated the alderman, in a voice rough with sincerity. "I'm not going to meet a lady. I'm going home to have supper with my wife."
The women only screamed with sceptical laughter. As she went out of the hall, Sonia heard their parting advice.
"Good-night. Be good."
"And if you can't be good, be careful."
It struck her that the stale vulgarism might have been the spirit of the place...
Secrecy.
Directly Alderman Cuttle was outside the hotel, he slipped his great hand through his companion's arm. Linked together, they strolled slowly down the deserted High Street, talking in whispers.
At the black mouth of the Arcade they parted. Miss Yates' arms clasped the alderman possessively around his neck as he lowered his head.
"Good-night, my darling," she said.
"Good-night, my girl. You won't forget what I told you?"
"Do I ever? Can't you trust me by now?"
"I do, my sweet. I do."
Their lips met in a kiss. The tramp of official footsteps sounded in the distance, but the alderman did not break away. When Miss Yates had dived into the Arcade, he strolled on until he met the approaching policeman.
"Good-night, officer," he said.
"Good-night, sir."
The man saluted respectfully, but the alderman dug him in the ribs.
"At my old tricks again, eh, Tom?" he chuckled. "Do you remember you and me with that little red-haired piece at the lollypop shop?"
"You bet," grinned the policeman. "You always were partial to red hair, Willie. I remember, too, as you always cut me out."
"That's my Mae West curves." The alderman slapped his broad chest. "We've hit the high spots, eh, Tom? But we're both married now. And there's no one like a good wife. Always remember that, Tom."
The policeman looked puzzled. He and the alderman had attended the local Grammar School, and, in spite of the difference in their social positions, had remained friends. But, even in the old days, he had never been able to fathom the depth of young Cuttle's sincerity; and now, after many years, he remained the same enigma.
"I want you to know this, Tom," went on the alderman. "The people here call me a gay boy. Maybe. Maybe. But, next year, when I'm mayor, remember what I'm telling you now...I've always been faithful to my wife."
He added with a change of tone, "Good-night, officer. Cigar?"
"Thank you, sir. Good-night, sir."
The policeman stared after the retreating figure. The alderman's deep organ voice had throbbed with feeling, even while a dare-devil had winked from one hazel eye. He told himself that William Cuttle still had him guessing.
Almost within the next minute he was a spectator of a distant comedy. The alderman had met one of his numerous flames, and was chasing her round a lamppost.
The girl was Caroline Brown—Dr. Nile's dispenser and secretary. Of mixed parentage—Scotch and Spanish—she had the tremulous beauty of a convolvulus. But, while the surface was mother, the under-tow was pure father.
She drifted round the lamppost before the alderman's clumsy rushes, like a flower wafted by the west wind; and, when at last he caught her, all he got was a stinging slap in the face.
With peals of laughter she broke loose, while he strolled on, chuckling, and humming snatches of "Sing to me, gipsy."
His
