Gunman's bluff

There was an agitation in the voice of Rex Leferre that almost startled his sister: it certainly diverted for the moment the resentment that was growing toward her unpunctual fiancé.

“What makes you say that?” she asked. “Does it mean that I am breaking off my engagement because Luke is a bad host and has kept us waiting ten minutes?”

They were in the palm court of the Carlton, and the remainder of the guests, mercifully occupied with their cocktails and gossip, were apparently unaware of Luke’s bad manners.

She stood apart with the young man who was her only relation, and no stranger seeing them would imagine them to be brother and sister. Rex was red haired, weak chinned, a fretful young man with a nervous trick of adjusting his dress tie every few minutes.

Margaret Leferre had the carriage and poise of the great lady. She was fair skinned, faultless of feature, gray eyed--a model of cold dignity. She had never succumbed to the fashion in short hair: her own was braided about her head so that she seemed to be wearing a coronet of dull gold.

“I don’t know.” Rex was nibbling at his nails; he could not be cured of this ugly habit. “Only Luke is a good fellow--in a way. Rather a tightwad.”

“What is a tightwad?” she asked, her steady eyes on him.

“Well--I mean--he’s not terribly generous with his own money. He gives tips and things, but somehow I’ve never been able to get into the market in time to benefit. My own fault, of course.”

He tried to avoid her gaze, but she was the stronger character.

“Have you been borrowing money again?” she asked, and he wriggled uncomfortably.

“No--what rot! Only Danty and I had a scheme…”

She looked round at that moment. Somehow she knew that the dark-eyed Danton Morell was watching them. Danton was rather a dear and she had come to rely upon him. He seemed to sense her trouble now, and detaching himself from the group of which he was a silent member, made his way toward her.

“Oh, shut up, Peggy. Don’t talk to Morell about it. If you’re going to make a scene…”

With a shrug he turned and left her as Danty came up.

Danty, that splendid man of the world, was amused at her fears. He was on the borderline of forty, a handsome, entertaining bachelor, and she had come to know him through Rex.

“No, I don’t think he has been borrowing. Rex is an improvident devil who will be broke for the next ten years. Then he will settle down and be terribly successful. Your young man is rather late.”

She knew instinctively that he did not like Luke Maddison; she had always known this. Luke, she told herself, was rather a prig in his way. He was “county”--was related to or friendly with almost every great family in England. Only once had he spoken disparagingly of Danton.

“Where did he spring from? I’ve never heard of him before,” he asked.

She might have told him that Danton had spent the greater part of his life in the Argentine, but she had stiffened at the disparagement of her brother’s friend--and hers. And then Luke had made it worse.

“He’s a rum bird. I shouldn’t be surprised if he was one of those light-fingered fellows who are known to the police--if one only made inquiries.”

“You had better make inquiries,” she said icily.