"What's that to do with it?" asked Job Martin, and Webber turned with a
despairing shrug to Morris.
"For a man who is supposed to have brains----" he said, but Morris
stopped him with a gesture.
"I see the idea--that's enough."
He ruminated again, chewing at his cigar, then, with a shake of his
head---"I wish the girl was in it."
"Why?" asked Webber curiously.
"Because she's----" He hesitated. "I don't know what she knows about
me. I can guess what she guesses. I'd like to get her into something
like this, to--to----" He was at a loss for a word.
"Compromise?" suggested the more erudite Webber.
"That's the word. I'd like to have her like that!" He put his thumb
down on the table in an expressive gesture.
Marguerite, standing outside, holding the door-handle hesitating as to
whether she should carry in the spirit kettle which Mr. Morris had
ordered, stood still and listened.
The houses in Oakleigh Grove were built in a hurry, and at best were
not particularly sound-proof. She stood fully a quarter of an hour
whilst the three men talked in low tones, and any doubts she might have
had as to the nature of her step-father's business were dispelled.
Again there began within her the old fight between her loyalty to her
mother and loyalty to herself and her own ideals. She had lived
through purgatory these past twelve months, and again and again she had
resolved to end it all, only to be held by pity for the helpless woman
she would be deserting. She told herself a hundred times that her
mother was satisfied in her placid way with the life she was living,
and that her departure would be rather a relief than a cause for
uneasiness. Now she hesitated no longer, and went back to the kitchen,
took off the apron she was wearing, passed along the side-passage, up
the stairs to her room, and began to pack her little bag.
Her mother was facing stark ruin. This man had drawn into his hands
every penny she possessed, and was utilizing it for the furtherance of
his own nefarious business. She had an idea--vague as yet, but later
taking definite shape--that if she might not save her mother from the
wreck which was inevitable, she might at least save something of her
little fortune.
She had "nosed around" to such purpose that she had discovered her
step-father was a man who for years had evaded the grip of an
exasperated constabulary. Some day he would fall, and in his fall
bring down her mother.
Mr. Cresta Morris absorbed in the elaboration of the great plan, was
reminded, by the exhaustion of visible refreshment, that certain of his
instructions had not been carried out.
"Wait a minute," he said. "I told that girl to bring in the kettle at
half-past nine. I'll go out and get it. Her royal highness wouldn't
lower herself by bringing it in, I suppose!"