The Knave of Diamonds | Page 9

she said, "Please excuse me. Are we already at the
Manor? Yes, I have the key."
She took his hand and stepped down beside him.
"Good night, Mr. Errol," she said. "And thank you."
He did not offer to accompany her to the door. A light was burning
within, and he merely stood till he heard the key turn in the lock, then
stepped back into the motor and slammed it shut without response of
any sort to her last words.
Anne Carfax was left wondering if her dream had been a cause of
offense.
CHAPTER IV
CAKE MORNING
"Oh, bother! It's cake morning." Dot Waring turned from the Rectory
breakfast-table with a flourish of impatience. "And I do so want to hear
all about it," she said. "You might have come down earlier, Ralph."
"My good sister," said the rector's son, helping himself largely to bread

and honey, "consider yourself lucky that I have come down at all after
dancing half the night with Mrs. Damer, who is no light weight."
"You didn't, Ralph! I am quite sure you didn't! I'm not going to believe
anything so absurd." Nevertheless she paused on her way to the door
for further details.
"All right. I didn't," said Ralph complacently. "And Sir Giles didn't get
drunk as a lord and tumble about the ballroom, and yell comic--awfully
comic--songs, till someone hauled him off to the refreshment-room and
filled him up with whiskey till he could sing no more!"
"Oh, Ralph! Not really! How utterly beastly! Was Lady Carfax there?"
"She was at first, but she cleared out. I don't know where she went to."
"Oh, poor Lady Carfax! How horrid for her! Ralph, I--I could kick that
man!"
"So could I," said Ralph heartily, "if someone would kindly hold him
for me. He is a drunken blackguard, and if he doesn't end in an asylum,
I shall never express a medical opinion again."
"P'r'aps he'll die of apoplexy first," said Dot vindictively.
"Whatever he dies of," said Ralph, "I shall attend his funeral with the
greatest pleasure. Hadn't you better go and make that cake? I shall want
it by tea-time."
"You are a pig!" the girl declared, pushing the sunny hair back from her
gay young face. "Isn't Bertie late this morning? Perhaps he isn't coming.
Dad won't be able to take him anyhow, for old Squinny is bad again
and sent for him in a hurry."
"That wretched old humbug! That means more beef-tea, not
approaching dissolution. Old Squinny will never dissolve in the
ordinary way."
"Well, I must go." Dot reached the door and began to swing it to and

fro, gathering impetus for departure. "By the way, was Bertie there?"
she asked.
"Bertie who?"
"Bertie Errol, of course. Who else?"
"There are plenty of Berties in the world," remarked Ralph, helping
himself again to bread and honey. "No, Bertram Errol was not present.
But Napoleon Errol was. It was he who so kindly shunted Mrs. Damer
on to me. Nota bene! Give Napoleon Errol a wide berth in future. He
has the craft of a conjurer and the subtlety of a serpent. I believe he is a
Red Indian, myself."
"Oh, Ralph, he isn't! He is as white as you are."
"He isn't white at all," Ralph declared, "outside or in. Outside he is the
colour of a mangold-wurzel, and inside he is as black as ink. You will
never get that cake made if you don't go."
"Oh, bother!" Dot swung open the door for the last time, turned to
depart, and then exclaimed in a very different tone, "Why, Bertie, so
here you are! We were just talking of you."
A straight, well-made youth, with a brown face that laughed
good-temperedly, was advancing through the hall.
"Hullo!" he said, halting at the doorway. "Awfully nice of you! What
were you saying, I wonder? Hullo, Ralph! Only just down, you lazy
beggar? Ought to be ashamed of yourself."
He stood, slapping his riding-boots with a switch, looking at Dot with
the direct eyes of good-fellowship. His eyes were clear and honest as a
child's.
"Dad's away," said Dot. "He was sent for early this morning."
"Is he though? That means a holiday. What shall we do?"

"I don't know what you will do," said Dot. "I am going to bake cakes."
"I'll come and bake cakes too," said Bertie promptly. "I'm rather a swell
at that. I can make fudge too, real American fudge, the most aristocratic
thing on the market. It's a secret, of course, but I'll let you into it, if
you'll promise not to tell."
"How do you know I can keep a secret?" laughed Dot, leading the way
to the kitchen.
"You would keep a promise," he said with conviction.
"If I made one," she threw