And Lord Tybar, his small, handsome head slightly
on one side, looked from one to another with precisely
that mock in his glance that Sabre had noticed, and
transiently wondered at, on the day he had met them
riding.
Funny!
“But, Puggo, you don’t know Sabre, do
you?” Lord Tybar said. “Sabre, this
is Mrs. Winfred. A woman of mystery. One
mystery is how she ever won Fred and the other why
she is called Puggo. There must be something
pretty dark in her past to have got her a name like
Puggo.”
The woman of mystery shrugged her shoulders.
“Of course Tony’s simply a fool,”
she observed. “You know that, don’t
you, Mr. Sabre?”
“It’s not her face,” Lord Tybar
continued. “You might think it’s her
figure the way she hides it up under all those furs
on a day like this. But a pug’s figure—”
Nona broke in. “I suppose we’re going
to start some time?”
“Will you come and sit here?” Puggo inquired,
but without making any movement.
“No, I’ll sit behind.”
She got in. “Good-by, Marko.”
Her voice sounded tired. She gave Sabre her hand.
“Jolly, the books,” she said. “And
our talk.”
“Now throw yourself in front, any boy who wants
to be killed,” Lord Tybar called to the idlers.
“No corpses to-day?” He let in the clutch.
“Good-by, Sabre. Good-by, good-by.”
He waved his hand airily. The big car slid importantly
up the street.
Sabre watched them pass out of sight. As the
car turned out of The Precincts into High Street—a
nasty corner—Lord Tybar, alone of the three,
one hand on the steering wheel, half turned in his
seat and twirled the silver-grey bowler in gay farewell.
Or mockery?
Through the day Sabre’s thoughts, as a man sorting
through many documents and coming upon and retaining
one, fined down towards a picture of himself alone
with Nona—alone with her, watching her
beautiful face—and saying to her: “Look
here, there were three things you said, three expressions
you used. Explain them, Nona.”
Fined down towards this picture, sifting the documents.
He thought, “Tybar—Tybar.—They’re
just alike in their way of saying things, Nona and
Tybar. That bantering way they talk when they’re
together—when they’re together.
Tybar does, whoever he’s with. Not Nona.
Not with me. But with Tybar. She plays up
to him when they’re together. And he plays
up to her. Everybody says how amusing they are.
They’re perfectly suited. They look so dashed
handsome, the pair of them. And always that bantering
talk. Nona chose deliberately between Tybar and
me. I know she did. She loved me, till he
came along. It’s old. Ten years old.
I can look at it. She chose deliberately.
I can see her choosing: ‘Tybar or Marko?—oh,
dash it, Tybar.’ And she chose right.
She’s just his mate. He’s just her
mate. They’re a pair. That bantering,
airy way of theirs together. That’s just
characteristic of the oneness of their characters.
I couldn’t put up that bantering sort of stuff.
I never could. I’m a jolly sight too serious.
And Nona knew it. She used to laugh at me about
it. She still does. ’You puzzle, don’t
you, Marko?’ she said this very morning.”
