"The Space Machine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Priest Christopher)

iii

All during the following day, I was preoccupied with the problem of how to approach Miss Fitzgibbon. Although I made my rounds to the stores in the district I could not concentrate, and returned early to the Devonshire Arms.

As Dykes had said the evening before, it was most difficult to contrive a meeting with a member of the opposite sex in this hotel. There were no social courtesies open to me, and so I should have to approach Miss Fitzgibbon directly. I could, of course, ask Mrs Anson to introduce me to her, but I felt in all sincerity that her presence at the interview would be an impediment.

Further distracting me during the day had been my curiosity about Miss Fitzgibbon herself. Mrs Anson’s protective behaviour seemed to indicate that she must be quite young, and indeed her style as a single woman was further evidence of this. If this were so, my task was greater, for surely she would mistake any advance I made towards her for one of the kind Dykes had been planning?

As the reception-desk was not attended, I took the opportunity to look surreptitiously at the register of guests. Dykes’s information had not been misleading, for the last entry was in a neat, clear handwriting: Miss A. Fitzgibbon, Reynolds House, Richmond Hill, Surrey.

I looked into the commercial lounge before going up to my room. Dykes was there, standing in front of the fireplace reading The Times.

I proposed that we dine together, and afterwards take a stroll down to one of the public-houses in the town.

“What a splendid notion!” he said. “Are you celebrating a success?”

“Not quite. I’m thinking more of the future.”

“Good strategy, Turnbull. Shall we dine at six?”

This we did, and soon after dinner we were ensconced in the snug bar of a public-house called The King’s Head. When we were settled with two glasses of porter, and Dykes had started a cigar, I broached the subject uppermost on my mind.

“Are you wishing I’d made a wager with you last night?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Surely you understand.”

“Ah!” said Dykes. “The lady commercial!”

“Yes. I was wondering if I would owe you five shillings now, had I entered a bet with you.”

“No such luck, old chap. The mysterious lady was closeted with Mrs Anson until I retired, and I saw no sign of her this morning. She is a prize which Mrs Anson guards jealously.”

“Do you suppose she is a personal friend?”

“I think not. She is registered as a guest.”

“Of course,” I said.

“You’ve changed your tune since last night. I thought you had no interest in the lady.”

I said quickly: “I was just enquiring. You seemed bent on introducing yourself to her, and I wanted to know how you had fared.”

“Let me put it this way, Turnbull. I considered the circumstances, and judged that my talents were best spent in London. I can see no way of making the lady’s acquaintance without involving Mrs Anson. In other words, dear chap, I am saving my energies for the weekend.”

I smiled to myself as Dykes launched into an account of his latest conquest, because although I had learned no more about the young lady I had at least established that I would not be in a misleading and embarrassing competitive situation.

I listened to Dykes until a quarter to nine, then suggested we return to the hotel, explaining that I had a letter to write. We parted company in the hall; Dykes walked into the commercial lounge, and I went upstairs to my room. The door to the sitting-room was closed, and beyond it I could hear the sound of Mrs Anson’s voice.