The Girl in Blue Read Online Free

as usual at
the offices of Scrope, Ashby and Pemberton in Bedford Row.
    The
days when London lawyers conducted their affairs in dark and depressing dens
have long been past, for the modern lawyer likes his comforts and feels that
the best is none too good for him. The premises of Scrope, Ashby and Pemberton
were bright, airy and tastefully furnished, and their waiting-room was rendered
additionally attractive by the presence there of a receptionist with an
hour-glass figure and a good deal of golden hair. She reminded the caller who
had just crossed the threshold of barmaids he had known in his youth, when
barmaids had entered rather largely into his life. He approached her desk
nervously, for circumstances had made him a nervous man. He had to clear his
throat before he could speak, and when he spoke he spoke humbly.
    ‘Could
I see Mr Scrope?’
    ‘What
name, sir?’
    ‘Mr
Scrope.’
    ‘Your
name, sir.’
    ‘Mr
Scrope.’
    ‘Mr
Scrope?’
    ‘Mr
Crispin Scrope. I am Mr Scrope’s brother.’
    ‘Oh, I
beg your pardon, Mr Scrope. Mr Scrope is engaged at the moment, Mr Scrope. Will
you take a seat, Mr Scrope.’
    Mr
Scrope took a seat and settled himself to wait till Mr Scrope should find
himself at liberty. He was an elderly man with thinning hair, watery blue eyes
and a drooping moustache, and he was wearing the anxious look so often seen on
the faces of elderly men with thinning hair when they are about to try to
borrow money from their younger brothers. From time to time a twitching shudder
ran through his gaunt frame. The recent exchanges on the subject of Scropes had
robbed him of the little confidence he had possessed when starting out on his
mission, and the longer he sat, the less did it seem to him probable that his
brother Willoughby, good fellow though he was and kindly disposed though he had
shown himself in the past to applications for loans on a smaller scale, could
be relied on for the stupendous one of two hundred and three pounds six
shillings and fourpence — a sum roughly equivalent, or so it appeared to
Crispin’s fevered mind, to what it costs to put a man on the moon.
    Time
limped by, and he was just thinking that if he had any sense, he would have
sent his brother a telegram arranging a meeting elsewhere instead of calling
without notice in the middle of a busy morning, when the door with the legend ‘Willoughby
Scrope’ on it opened, and a large, prosperous-looking man appeared, ushering
out another large, prosperous-looking man. Hands were shaken, the visitor went
on his way, and the first large, prosperous-looking man turned to the
receptionist.
    ‘I beat
him hollow, Mabel.’
    ‘I beg
your pardon, Mr Scrope?’
    ‘Putting
into a tooth glass. He was corn before my sickle. My score was twenty-three, his
a meagre eleven.’
    ‘Congratulations,
Mr Scrope.’
    ‘Well
earned, though I say it myself. Do you know what the secret of successful putting
is, Mabel? Perfect co-ordination of hand and eye, and to obtain these the
stance must be right, not too rigid, but at the same time not too limp.’
Willoughby Scrope turned to the visitor. ‘You agree with me, sir?’ he said, and
paused, staring. ‘For heaven’s sake! Crips!’
    ‘Hullo,
Bill.’
    There
is generally a physical resemblance, if only slightly, between brothers, but it
was hard to believe that these two were so related. Crispin was thin and
diffident; Willoughby plump and exuding the self-confidence which comes with
success. Crispin looked the typical poor relation, Willoughby obviously the
rich one. Nor would anyone who so classified them have been in error.
Willoughby had one of the most lucrative practices in London, while all that
Fate had allotted to Crispin was a large country house with insufficient money
to maintain it. The Scropes of Mellingham Hall had functioned more than
comfortably through a number of centuries, but the present owner of that
ancient pile, as he often said, did not know which way to turn, all he had