It was a horrible thing, really. Jack Trelawney picked it up in some old curiosity shop near the Strand, and carried it home in triumph—now it sat tilted up against the inkstand in Trelawney’s study, its narrow eye-holes squinting sideways at the firelight, the round red cap on its head a little askew. One wisp of coarse black hair hung straight each side of the long thin face, dull yellow-brown in colour, creased with a thousand lines and wrinkles; a huge gilt tassel swung from the cap’s crown, and the thin-lipped mouth was bitterly sardonic. Maisie Trelawney, bride of a year, stood with her pretty brows wrinkled in obvious disfavour, regarding it with a doubtful finger at her lip, the bright light shining on her curly hair.
“Jack! Another horror—what a beastly old face!”
Trelawney laughed uproariously as he slipped an arm round her shoulders, rising white and round above her black velvet dinner-gown.
“Horror! Oh, Maisie, you’re incorrigible! Will you never have any sympathy with my craze for oddities?”
She turned a bright face up to him, and tip-toed for a kiss. The fire crackled and flared suddenly, and threw an odd shadow across the pale sardonic face of the mask, almost like a sudden smile, fleeting and cruel. Maisie slipped an arm inside her husband’s as she turned again to look at the new purchase.
“Sympathy? Jack, you know I love some of your oddments, but this is, somehow, not very appealing—to me at any rate! Sorry, dearest! As long as you like it, it doesn’t really matter, and certainly, as a piece of work, it’s frightfully clever. An unpleasant face, I think, but immensely well done. Is it Chinese?”
“I don’t know,” Trelawney admitted. “The old villain who sold it to me didn’t seem to know much about it—or wasn’t in a communicative mood. I got it absurdly cheap, too, only a fiver, and it’s obviously worth much more. As a matter of fact, I fancy it’s stolen goods, at any rate the old chap seemed deuced anxious to get rid of it, and jumped at my offer. Wish now I’d offered three quid!”
Maisie shook her head.
“I’m not—it was cheap, I admit, but anyway he seemed satisfied. If you’d beaten him down I shouldn’t have liked it. But somehow I don’t think….”
“What don’t you think, you funny shrimp?” Trelawney’s tone was very tender as he kissed the tiny frown between her eyebrows.
“I don’t quite know,” she said, doubtfully, “but anyway, I rather wish you hadn’t bought it, dear. I have a rather funny feeling about it—I don’t like the look on its face when the firelight catches it sometimes.”
The flame flared again, and Trelawney released his wife with a rather irritated little shrug.
“Really, Maisie! I never thought you were superstitious—anyway, I’m sorry I ever got the thing, since it seems to get on your nerves so. I can sell it again if you like.”
His tone was edgy, and Maisie looked a trifle hurt.
“Of course not, Jack—what nonsense! But you always like to hear just what I think—or you always said so….”
There was an edge in her tone, too, and Trelawney hastily changed the subject.
“I like your frock, Maisie. Anyone coming to-night?”
She nodded, sinking into a big leather chair and lighting a cigarette.
“Only Miles. He rang up to say he’d got the Staff appointment he wanted, and was only waiting orders to go abroad now, so might he come and talk it over with us to-night.”
“Miles—good scheme! I haven’t seen the old chap for weeks. All right; I’ll go and change.”
The door slammed, and the room was silent, save for the occasional leap and purr of the flames flickering up the chimney. It was a charming room, cosy and well furnished, lined with books, an antlered head or two over the door and fireplace, heavy velvet curtains shutting out the cold wind that whistled outside, and a thick Persian carpet, wonderfully coloured, on the polished floor. A regular man’s room, the room of a well-bred Englishman of rather bookish
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