Walking home along Oxford Street, he had almost reached the corner of Tottenham Court Road when his complacent musings were interrupted by the sight of a knot of people outside the door of a public-house. It was the sort of group not unusual at half-past eleven o'clock at night a man, a woman on his arm, a policeman, ten or a dozen interested spectators, very ready with advice as Londoners are. As he drew near, he heard what was passing, though the policeman's tall burly figure was between him and the principal actor in the scene.
"Better
do as she says and go 'ome, sir," said the policeman soothingly.
"'Ome, Sweet 'Ome!" murmured somebody in tones of fond reminiscence.
"Yes, do now. You don't really want it, you know you don't," urged the lady in her turn.
"Whether I want it or not "
At the sound of this last voice Arthur started into quick attention and came to a halt. He recognised the full tones, now somewhat thickened, with their faint but unmistakable suggestion of the Cockney twang.
"Whether I want it or not " The man spoke slowly, with an effort after distinctness which was obvious but not unsuccessful "I've a right to have it. He's bound to serve the public. I'm I'm member of the public."
"'Ad enough for two members, I should sye," came in comment from the fringe of the group.
"That's it! Go 'ome now," the policeman suggested again, infinitely patient and persuasive.
The man made a sudden move towards the door of the public-house where an official, vulgarly known as the 'chucker out,' stood smiling on the threshold.
"No, sir, you don't !" said the policeman, suave but immensely firm, laying a hand on his arm.
"The officer's quite right. Do come along," again urged the lady.
But the movement towards the public-house door, which revealed to Arthur the face of the obstinate lingerer, showed him to the lingerer also showed Arthur in his evening uniform of tall hat, white scarf, and silk-faced coat to Sidney Barslow in his 'bowler' hat of rakish cut, and his sporting fawn-coloured coat, with the big flower in his buttonhole and his stick with a huge silver knob. The stick shot out vaguely in Arthur's direction.
"I'm a gentleman, and, what's more, I can prove it. Ask that gentleman my friend there "
Arthur's face was a little flushed. His mind was full of those terrible quick visions of his a scuffle on the pavement, going bail for Sidney Barslow, giving evidence at the Police Court. "A friend of the prisoner, Mr. Arthur Lisle, Barrister, of Garden Court, Middle Temple" visions most terrible! But he stood his ground, saying nothing, not moving a limb, and meeting Barslow's look full in the eyes. All the rest were staring at him now. If he remained as he was they would take it as a denial of Barslow's claim to acquaintance. Could he deny it if Barslow challenged him? He answered No.
But some change of mood came over Sidney Barslow's clouded mind. He let his stick fall back to his side again, and with an angry jerk of his head said:
"Oh, damn it, all right, I'm going! I I was only pulling your leg."
"That's right now!" applauded the policeman. "You'd better take 'im in a taxi, miss."
"And put a ticket on 'im, in case 'e falls out, miss," some friendly adviser added.
Arthur did not wait to see the policeman's excellent suggestion carried into effect. The moment that Sidney Barslow's eyes were off him, he turned quickly up a by-street, and took a roundabout way home.
He had much to be thankful for. The terrible visions were dissipated. And he had not run away. Oh, how he had wanted to run away from the danger of being mixed up in that dirty job. He thanked heaven that he had stood his ground and looked Barslow in the face.
But what about the next time they had to look one another in the face at the Sarradets' in Regent's Park?
CHAPTER IV A GRATEFUL FRIEND
"If Pops," he observed, "would only go back to his Balzac, he would see how much harm and sorrow this perpetual money-grubbing causes among the business classes of our beloved France. In England a more liberal spirit prevails, and after a hundred and fifty years we ought to be able to catch it. In fact I have caught it, Marie."
"You have; and you'll catch something else from Pops if you don't look out," said Marie, who could not help smiling at the trim, spry, gay little fellow. Like herself, he was dark and lively, but of the two she was the manager, the man of business.
"Besides it does the house good. 'Who's that?' they ask. 'Young Sarradet.' 'What, the scent and soap people?' 'The same.' 'Dashed fine business that!'" He enacted
the dialogue with dramatic talent. "As an advertisement I'm worth all my debts, dear sister."
Marie was too much amused to press her point further. "You rather remind me of Bob Sawyer," she remarked. "But, anyhow, be here oftener in the evenings, if you can. That'll go a long way towards pacifying Pops. When you're away, he sits thinking of the money you're spending. Besides, he does like to have you here, you know."