From out the Vasty Deep | Page 4

he is! I'm glad that you see that now, Pegler." Miss Farrow
spoke with a touch of meaning in her voice. "I did a very good turn for
myself when I got him out of that queer scrape years ago."
"Why yes, ma'am, I suppose you did." But Pegler's tone was not as
hearty as that of her lady.
There was a pause. "Then what have you settled to do about to-night?"
"If you don't mind, ma'am--I'm arranging to sleep in what they call the
second maid's room. There is a bell through, ma'am, but you'll have to
go into the next room to ring it, for you know, ma'am, that it's the next
room that ought to have been your room by rights."

"I wish now that I'd taken it and put you in here," said Miss Farrow
ruefully.
"They're going to keep up a good fire there. So when you go in you
won't get a chill."
"That does seem luxurious," said Miss Farrow, smiling. She loved
luxury, and it was pleasant to think that there should be a fire kept up in
an empty room just so that she shouldn't feel a chill when she went in
for a moment to ring for her maid!
"By the way, I hope there's a fireplace in your room, Pegler"--the words
were uttered solicitously.
"No, there isn't, ma'am. But I don't mind that. I don't much care about a
fire."
"There's no accounting for taste!"
Miss Farrow took up her book again, and Pegler, as was her way, slid
noiselessly from the room--not through the door leading into the
haunted chamber, but out on to the beautiful panelled landing, now gay
with bowls of hothouse flowers which had come down from London
that morning by passenger train, and been brought by car all the way
from Newmarket.
CHAPTER II
The book Miss Farrow held in her hand was an amusing book, the
latest volume of some rather lively French memoirs, but she put it
down after a very few moments, and, leaning forward, held out her
hands to the fire. They were not pretty hands: though small and
well-shaped, there was something just a little claw-like about them; but
they were very white, and her almond-shaped nails, admirably
manicured, gleamed in the soft red light.
Yes, in spite of this stupid little contretemps about Pegler, she was glad
indeed that circumstances over which she had had rather more control

than she liked to think had made it impossible for her to go out to
Monte Carlo this winter. She had been sharply vexed, beside herself
with annoyance, almost tempted to do what she had never yet
done--that is, to ask Lionel Varick, now so delightfully prosperous, to
lend her a couple of hundred pounds. But she had resisted the impulse,
and she was now glad of it.
After all, there's no place like dear old England at Christmas time. How
much nicer, too, is a bachelor host than a hostess! A bachelor host? No,
not exactly a bachelor host, for Lionel Varick was a widower. Twice a
widower, if the truth were known. But the truth, fortunately, is not
always known, and Blanche Farrow doubted if any other member of the
circle of friends and acquaintances he had picked up in his adventurous,
curious life knew of that first--now evidently by him almost
forgotten--marriage. It had taken place years ago, when Varick was still
a very young man, and to a woman not of his own class. They had
separated, and then, rather oddly, come together again. Even so, her
premature death had been for him a fortunate circumstance.
It was not Varick who had told Blanche Farrow of that painful episode
of his past life. The story had come to her knowledge in a curious,
accidental fashion, and she had thought it only fair to tell him what she
had learned--and then, half reluctantly, he had revealed something of
what he had suffered through that early act of folly. But they had only
spoken of it once.
Varick's second marriage, Miss Farrow was almost tempted to call it
his real marriage, the news of which he had conveyed to his good
friend in a laconic note, had surprised her very much.
The news had found her far away, in Portugal, where, as just a few
English people know, there is more than one Casino where mild
gambling can be pursued under pleasant conditions. Blanche Farrow
would have been hurt if someone had told her that in far-away Portugal
Lionel Varick and his affairs had not meant quite so much to her as
they would have done if she had been nearer home. Still, she had felt a
pang. A man-friend married is often a man-friend marred. But she had
been very