Below the Brutes 199
was delicious to deceive that brute after he’d struck
me.
It was keen pleasure to see him in such pain; to
imitate his symptoms with minute mimicry ; to mock
at his misery. He was angry all the same, but his
blows gave me infinite pleasure. They were the symbols
of my triumph.
“Here, you get out of this,” he said, ‘and don’t
come back without it. I know where you can get it.
Andrew McCall is the man’s name. I know him to
the bottom of his rotten soul.”
He gave me the address.
It was a magnificent house near Sloane Square. He
had married a rich old woman, and lived on the fat
of the land.
I had met him once myself in society. He was a
self-made Scot, and thought evening dress de nigeur
in Paradise.
Peter sent me off with a sly snigger. There was
some insane idea at the back of his mind. Well, what
did I care? ...
Dr. McCall was a man of fifty or so, very well pre-
served and very well dressed, with a gardenia in his
buttonhole. He recognised me at once, and drew me
by the hand into a comfortable arm-chair. He began
to chatter about our previous meeting; about the
duchess of this and the countess of that.
I wasn’t listening, I was watching. His tact told
him that I wasn't interested. He stopped abruptly.
“Well, well, excuse me for running on like this
about old times. The point is, what can I do for you
to-day, Miss Laleham ? ”
I instantly saw my advantage. I shook my head
laughingly.
“Oh, no,” I said, “it’s not Miss Laleham.”
He begged my pardon profusely for the mistake.
‘Can it be possible?) Two such beautiful girls so
much alike ? ”
“No,” I smiled back, ‘it’s not as bad as that. I
D.D.F. e)