a great mistake.’
‘From your point of view she doubtless is,’ said Van Aldin grimly.
‘Oh, come now,’ said the other; ‘don’t let’s be personal. I really wasn’t thinking of myself at the moment. I was thinking of Ruth. You know my poor old Governor really can’t last much longer; all the doctors say so. Ruth had better give it a couple more years, then I shall be Lord Leconbury, and she can be châtelaine of Leconbury, which is what she married me for.’
‘I won’t have any of your darned impudence,’ roared Van Aldin.
Derek Kettering smiled at him unmoved.
‘I agree with you. It’s an obsolete idea,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing in a title nowadays. Still, Leconbury is a very fine old place, and, after all, we are one of the oldest families in England. It will be very annoying for Ruth if she divorces me to find me marrying again, and some other woman queening it at Leconbury instead of her.’
‘I am serious, young man,’ said Van Aldin.
‘Oh, so am I,’ said Kettering. ‘I am in very low water financially; it will put me in a nasty hole if Ruth divorces me, and, after all, if she has stood it for ten years, why not stand it a little longer? I give you my word of honour that the old man can’t possibly last out another eighteen months, and, as I said before, it’s a pity Ruth shouldn’t get what she married me for.’
‘You suggest that my daughter married you for your title and position?’
Derek Kettering laughed a laugh that was not all amusement.
‘You don’t think it was a question of a love match?’ he asked.
‘I know,’ said Van Aldin slowly, ‘that you spoke very differently in Paris ten years ago.’
‘Did I? Perhaps I did. Ruth was very beautiful, you know—rather like an angel or a saint, or something that had stepped down from a niche in a church. I had fine ideas, I remember, of turning over a new leaf, of settling down and living up to the highest traditions of English home-life with a beautiful wife who loved me.’
He laughed again, rather more discordantly.
‘But you don’t believe that, I suppose?’ he said.
‘I have no doubt at all that you married Ruth for her money,’ said Van Aldin unemotionally.
‘And that she married me for love?’ asked the other ironically.
‘Certainly,’ said Van Aldin.
Derek Kettering stared at him for a minute or two, then he nodded reflectively.
‘I see you believe that,’ he said. ‘So did I at the time. I can assure you, my dear father-in-law, I was very soon undeceived.’
‘I don’t know what you are getting at,’ said Van Aldin, ‘and I don’t care. You have treated Ruth darned badly.’
‘Oh, I have,’ agreed Kettering lightly, ‘but she’s tough, you know. She’s your daughter. Underneath the pink-and-white softness of her she’s as hard as granite. You have always been known as a hard man, so I have been told, but Ruth is harder than you are. You, at any rate, love one person better than yourself. Ruth never has and never will.’
‘That is enough,’ said Van Aldin. ‘I asked you here so that I could tell you fair and square what I meant to do. My girl has got to have some happiness, and remember this, I am behind her.’
Derek Kettering got up and stood by the mantelpiece. He tossed away his cigarette. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet.
‘What exactly do you mean by that, I wonder?’ he said.
‘I mean,’ said Van Aldin, ‘that you had better not try to defend the case.’
‘Oh,’ said Kettering, ‘is that a threat?’
‘You can take it any way you please,’ said Van Aldin.
Kettering drew a chair up to the table. He sat down fronting the millionaire.
‘And supposing,’ he said softly, ‘that, just for argument’s sake, I did defend the case?’
Van Aldin shrugged his shoulders.
‘You have not got a leg to stand upon, you young fool. Ask your solicitors, they will soon tell you. Your conduct has been notorious, the talk of London.’
‘Ruth has been kicking up a row about Mirelle, I suppose. Very foolish of her. I don’t interfere with her friends.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Van Aldin sharply.
Derek Kettering laughed.
‘I see you don’t know everything, sir,’ he said. ‘You are, perhaps naturally, prejudiced.’
He took up his hat and stick and moved towards the door.
‘Giving advice is not much in my line.’ He delivered his final thrust. ‘But, in this case, I should advise most strongly perfect frankness between father and daughter.’
He passed quickly out of the room and shut the door behind him just as the millionaire sprang up.
‘Now, what the hell did he mean by that?’ said Van Aldin as he sank back into his chair again.
All his uneasiness returned in full force. There was something here that he had not yet got to the bottom of. The telephone was by his elbow; he seized it, and asked for the number of his daughter’s house.
‘Hallo! Hallo! Is that Mayfair 81907? Mrs Kettering in? Oh, she’s out, is she? Yes, out to lunch. What time will she be in? You don’t know? Oh, very good; no, there’s no message.’
He slammed the receiver down again angrily. At two o’clock he was pacing the floor of his room waiting expectantly for Goby. The latter was ushered in at ten minutes past two.
‘Well?’ barked the millionaire sharply.
But little Mr Goby was not to be hurried. He sat down at the table, produced a very shabby pocketbook, and proceeded to read from it in a monotonous voice. The millionaire listened attentively, with an increasing satisfaction. Goby came to a full stop, and looked attentively at the wastepaper-basket.
‘Um!’ said Van Aldin. ‘That seems pretty definite. The case will go through like winking. The hotel evidence is all right, I suppose?’
‘Cast iron,’ said Mr Goby, and looked malevolently at a gilt arm-chair.
‘And financially he’s in very low water. He’s trying to raise a loan now, you say? Has already raised practically all he can upon his expectations from his father. Once the news of the divorce gets about, he won’t be able to raise another cent, and not only that, his obligations can be bought up and pressure can be put upon him from that quarter. We have got him, Goby; we have got him in a cleft stick.’
He hit the table a bang with his fist. His face was grim and triumphant.
‘The
