The Wheel O Fortune | Page 5

stopped the bolting horses, and that the tall young man now surveying him with a measuring eye had merely succeeded in catching the reins.
Royson lifted his hat to the lady, who had alighted, and was daintily gathering her skirts out of the mud.
"I am glad to have been able to help you, madam," he said. He would have gone without another word had not von Kerber touched his arm.
"You have not taken my card," said the man imperiously.
Some mischievous impulse, born of the turbulent emotions momentarily quelled by the flurry of the carriage accident, conquered Royson's better instincts. Though the Baron, was tall, he towered above him. And he hardly realized the harshness, the vexed contempt, of his muttered reply:
"I don't want your charity, I want work."
At once he was conscious of his mistake. He had sunk voluntarily to the level of the Vauxhall paraders. He had even stolen their thunder. A twinge of self-denunciation drove the anger from his frowning eyes. And the Baron again thought he read his man correctly.
"Even so," he said, in a low tone, "take my card. I can find you work, of the right sort, for one who has brains and pluck, yes?"
The continental trick of ending with an implied question lent a subtle meaning to his utterance, and he helped it with covert glance and sour smile. Thus might Caesar Borgia ask some minion if he could use a dagger. But Royson was too humiliated by his blunder to pay heed to hidden meanings. He grasped the card in his muddied fingers, and looked towards Miss Fenshawe, who was now patting one of the horses. Her aristocratic aloofness was doubly galling. She, too, had heard what he said, and was ready to classify him with the common herd. And, indeed, he had deserved it. He was wholly amazed by his own churlish outburst. Not yet did he realize that Fate had taken his affairs in hand, and that each step he took, each syllable he uttered in that memorable hour, were part and parcel of the new order of events in his life.
Quite crestfallen, he hurried away. He found himself inside the gates of the park before he took note of direction. Then he went to the edge of the lake, wetted his handkerchief, and rubbed off the worst of the mud-stains. While engaged in this task he calmed down sufficiently to laugh, not with any great degree of mirth, it is true, but with a grain of comfort at the recollection of Seymour's eulogy.
"King Dick!" he growled. "Times have changed since last I heard that name. By gad, five years can work wonders."
And, indeed, so can five seconds, when wonders are working, but the crass ignorance of humanity oft prevents the operation being seen. Be that as it may, Royson discovered that it was nearly eleven o'clock before he had cleaned his soiled clothes sufficiently to render himself presentable. As he set out once more for his rendezvous, he heard the band playing the old Guard back to quarters. The soldiers came down the Mall, but he followed the side of the lake, crossed the Horse-guards Parade, and reached the office for which he was bound at ten minutes past eleven. He had applied for a secretaryship, a post in which "a thorough knowledge of French" was essential, and he was received by a pompous, flabby little man, with side whiskers, for whom he conceived a violent dislike the moment he set eyes on him. Apparently, the feeling was mutual. Dick Royson was far too distinguished looking to suit the requirements of the podgy member for a county constituency, a legislator who hoped to score in Parliament by getting the Yellow Books of the French Chamber translated for his benefit.
"You are late, Mr. Royson," began the important one.
"Yes," said Dick.
"Punctuality--"
"Exactly, but I was mixed up in a slight mishap to a carriage."
"As I was about to remark," said the M.P., in his most impressive manner, "punctuality in business is a sine qua non. I have already appointed another secretary."
"Poor devil!" said Dick.
"How dare you, sir, speak to me in that manner?"
"I was thinking of him. I don't know him, but, having seen you, I am sorry for him."
"You impudent rascal--"
But Royson had fled. Out in the street, he looked up at the sky. "Is there a new moon?" he asked himself, gravely. "Am I cracked? Why did I pitch into that chap? If I'm not careful, I shall get myself into trouble to-day. I wonder if Jack Seymour will lend me enough to take me to South Africa? They say that war is brewing there. That is what I want--gore, bomb-shells, more gore. If I stay in London--"
Then he encountered a procession coming up Northumberland Avenue. Police, mounted and on foot, headed