Jaffery | Page 6

our marriage, and practically
forbids me the house. What possible feeling can one have for an old
insect like that?"
"I've never seen any reason," said Barbara, who is a brave little woman,
"why Doria shouldn't run away and marry you."
"She would like a shot," cried Adrian; "but I won't let her. How can I

allow her to rush to the martyrdom of married misery on four hundred a
year, which I don't even earn?"
I looked at my watch. "It's time, my friends," said I, "to dress for dinner.
Afterwards we can continue the discussion. In the meanwhile I'll order
up some of the '89 Pol Roger so that we can drink to the success of the
book."
"The '89 Pol Roger?" cried Adrian. "A man with '89 Pol Roger in his
cellar is the noblest work of God!"
"I was thinking," Barbara remarked drily, "of asking Doria to spend a
few days here next week."
"All I can say is," he retorted, with his quick turn and smile, "that you
are the Divinity Itself."
So, a short time afterwards, a very happy Adrian sat down to dinner and
brought a cultivated taste to the appreciation of a now, alas! historical
wine, under whose influence he expanded and told us of the genesis
and the making of "The Diamond Gate."
Now it is a very odd coincidence, one however which had little, if
anything, to do with the curious entanglement of my friend's affairs into
which I was afterwards drawn, but an odd coincidence all the same,
that on passing from the dining room with Adrian to join Barbara in the
drawing room, I found among the last post letters lying on the hall table
one which, with a thrill of pleasure, I held up before Adrian's eyes.
"Do you recognise the handwriting?"
"Good Lord!" cried he. "It's from Jaffery Chayne. And"--he scanned
the stamp and postmark--"from Cettinje. What the deuce is he doing
there?"
"Let us see!" said I.
I opened the letter and scanned it through; then I read it aloud.

"Dear Hilary,
"A line to let you know that I'm coming back soon. I haven't quite
finished my job--"
"What was his job?"
"Heaven knows," I replied. "The last time I heard from him he was
cruising about the Sargasso Sea."
I resumed my reading.
"--for the usual reason, a woman. If it wasn't for women what a
thundering amount of work a man could get through. Anyhow--I'm
coming back, with an encumbrance. A wife. Not my wife, thank
Olympus, but another man's wife--"
"Poor old devil!" cried Adrian. "I knew he would come a mucker one
of these days!"
"Wait," said I, and I read--
"--poor Prescott's wife. I don't think you ever knew Prescott, but he was
a good sort. He died of typhoid. Only quaggas and yaks and other
iron-gutted creatures like myself can stand Albania. I'm escorting her to
England, so look out for us. How's everybody? Do you ever hear of
Adrian? If so, collar him. I want to work the widow off on him. She has
a goodish deal of money and is a kind of human dynamo. The best
thing in the world for Adrian."
Adrian confounded the fellow. I continued--
"Prepare then for the Dynamic Widow. Love to Barbara, the fairy
grasshopper--"
"Who's that?"
"My daughter, Susan Freeth. The last time he saw her, she was hopping
about in a green jumper--Barbara would give you the elementary

costume's commercial name."
"--and yourself," I read. "By the way, do you know of a granite-built,
iron-gated, portcullised, barbicaned, really comfortable home for
widows?
Yours, Jaffery."
Without waiting for comment from Adrian, I went with the letter into
the drawing room, he following. I handed it to Barbara, who ran it
through.
"That's just like Jaffery. He tells us nothing."
"I think he has told us everything," said I.
"But who and what and whence is this lady?"
"Goodness knows!" said I.
"Therefore, he has told us nothing," retorted Barbara. "My own belief is
that she's a Brazilian."
"But what," asked Adrian, "would a lone Brazilian female be doing in
the Balkans?"
"Looking for a husband, of course," said Barbara.
And like all wise men when staggered by serene feminine asseveration
we bowed our heads and agreed that nothing could be more obvious.
CHAPTER II
Some weeks passed; but we heard no more of Jaffery Chayne. If he had
planted his widow there, in Cettinje, and gone off to Central Africa we
should not have been surprised. On the other hand, he might have
walked in at any minute, just as though he lived round the corner and
had dropped in casually to see us.

In the meantime events had moved rapidly for Adrian. Everybody was
talking about his book; everybody was buying it.