can’t move,’ she said again.
Then she slipped past him and fled headlong from the room to fall fainting into Dick Windyford’s arms.
‘My God! Alix,’ he cried.
Then he turned to the man with him, a tall stalwart figure in policeman’s uniform.
‘Go and see what’s been happening in that room.’
He laid Alix carefully down on a couch and bent over her.
‘My little girl,’ he murmured. ‘My poor little girl. What have they been doing to you?’
Her eyelids fluttered and her lips just murmured his name.
Dick was aroused by the policeman’s touching him on the arm.
‘There’s nothing in that room, sir, but a man sitting in a chair. Looks as though he’d had some kind of bad fright, and—’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, sir, he’s—dead.’
They were startled by hearing Alix’s voice. She spoke as though in some kind of dream, her eyes still closed.
‘And presently,’ she said, almost as though she were quoting from something, ‘he died—’
‘And that’s that!’ observed George Rowland ruefully, as he gazed up at the imposing smoke-grimed façade of the building he had just quitted.
It might be said to represent very aptly the power of Money—and Money, in the person of William Rowland, uncle to the aforementioned George, had just spoken its mind very freely. In the course of a brief ten minutes, from being the apple of his uncle’s eye, the heir to his wealth, and a young man with a promising business career in front of him, George had suddenly become one of the vast army of the unemployed.
‘And in these clothes they won’t even give me the dole,’ reflected Mr Rowland gloomily, ‘and as for writing poems and selling them at the door at twopence (or “what you care to give, lydy”) I simply haven’t got the brains.’
It was true that George embodied a veritable triumph of the tailor’s art. He was exquisitely and beautifully arrayed. Solomon and the lilies of the field were simply not in it with George. But man cannot live by clothes alone—unless he has had some considerable training in the art—and Mr Rowland was painfully aware of the fact.
‘And all because of that rotten show last night,’ he reflected sadly.
The rotten show last night had been a Covent Garden Ball. Mr Rowland had returned from it at a somewhat late—or rather early—hour—as a matter of fact, he could not strictly say that he remembered returning at all. Rogers, his uncle’s butler, was a helpful fellow, and could doubtless give more details on the matter. A splitting head, a cup of strong tea, and an arrival at the office at five minutes to twelve instead of half-past nine had precipitated the catastrophe. Mr Rowland, senior, who for twenty-four years had condoned and paid up as a tactful relative should, had suddenly abandoned these tactics and revealed himself in a totally new light. The inconsequence of George’s replies (the young man’s head was still opening and shutting like some mediæval instrument of the Inquisition) had displeased him still further. William Rowland was nothing if not thorough. He cast his nephew adrift upon the world in a few short succinct words, and then settled down to his interrupted survey of some oilfields in Peru.
George Rowland shook the dust of his uncle’s office from off his feet, and stepped out into the City of London. George was a practical fellow. A good lunch, he considered, was essential to a review of the situation. He had it. Then he retraced his steps to the family mansion. Rogers opened the door. His well-trained face expressed no surprise at seeing George at this unusual hour.
‘Good afternoon, Rogers. Just pack up my things for me, will you? I’m leaving here.’
‘Yes, sir. Just for a short visit, sir?’
‘For good, Rogers. I am going to the colonies this afternoon.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Yes. That is, if there is a suitable boat. Do you know anything about the boats, Rogers?’
‘Which colony were you thinking of visiting, sir?’
‘I’m not particular. Any of ’em will do. Let’s say Australia. What do you think of the idea, Rogers?’
Rogers coughed discreetly.
‘Well, sir, I’ve certainly heard it said that there’s room out there for anyone who really wants to work.’
Mr Rowland gazed at him with interest and admiration.
‘Very neatly put, Rogers. Just what I was thinking myself. I shan’t go to Australia—not today, at any rate. Fetch me an A.B.C., will you? We will select something nearer at hand.’
Rogers brought the required volume. George opened it at random and turned the pages with a rapid hand.
‘Perth—too far away—Putney Bridge—too near at hand. Ramsgate? I think not. Reigate also leaves me cold. Why—what an extraordinary thing! There’s actually a place called Rowland’s Castle. Ever heard of it, Rogers?’
‘I fancy, sir, that you go there from Waterloo.’
‘What an extraordinary fellow you are, Rogers. You know everything. Well, well, Rowland’s Castle! I wonder what sort of a place it is.’
‘Not much of a place, I should say, sir.’
‘All the better; there’ll be less competition. These quiet little country hamlets have a lot of the old feudal spirit knocking about. The last of the original Rowlands ought to meet with instant appreciation. I shouldn’t wonder if they elected me mayor in a week.’
He shut up the A.B.C. with a bang.
‘The die is cast. Pack me a small suitcase, will you, Rogers? Also my compliments to the cook, and will she oblige me with the loan of the cat. Dick Whittington, you know. When you set out to become a Lord Mayor, a cat is essential.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but the cat is not available at the present moment.’
‘How is that?’
‘A family of eight, sir. Arrived this morning.’
‘You don’t say so. I thought its name was Peter.’
‘So it is, sir. A great surprise to all of us.’
‘A case of careless christening and the deceitful sex, eh? Well, well, I shall have to go catless. Pack up those things at once, will you?’
‘Very good, sir.’
Rogers hesitated,
