Mr. Zero Read Free Page B

cards with Sylvia at school.
    â€œDid you revoke?” she enquired with interest.
    Sylvia gazed at her mournfully.
    â€œI expect so—I generally do. I never can remember what it is exactly, but that is one of the things he said I’d done. So he said I wasn’t to play again.”
    â€œAnd you did?”
    â€œNot bridge—baccarat.”
    â€œAnd how much did you lose?” It went without saying that Sylvia had lost.
    â€œAbout five hundred pounds,” said Sylvia in a small, terrified voice. If she was now the wife of the rich Sir Francis Colesborough and mistress of Cole Lester, she had spent twenty-one years as penniless Sylvia Thrale with a widowed mother whose tiny pension had only just sufficed to feed and clothe herself and her two daughters. Relations had most unwillingly paid the school bills. Sylvia had therefore always heard a great deal about money—bills and the lack of money to pay them with; bills and the sordid necessity of paying them; bills and the horrid things that might happen to you if you didn’t pay them. All this had been impressed upon her in the nursery.
    â€œWhat! said Gay. And then, “But you’ll have to tell Francis. He’s the only person who can help you to pay five hundred pounds.” Sylvia shook her head.
    â€œOh, no, he isn’t—that’s just it.”
    Long practice enabled Gay to snatch the meaning from this remark.
    â€œYou mean someone else gave you the money, and that’s why you can’t tell Francis?”
    â€œOnly half,” said Sylvia, accepting this interpretation.
    â€œThis blue pencil creature?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Gay stamped her foot.
    â€œYou don’t know who gave you the money?”
    â€œNo, darling.”
    A kind of furious calm possessed Gay.
    â€œSylvia, if you don’t tell me the whole thing right away, I’m off. No, don’t bleat—begin at the beginning and go right on to the end. You lost five hundred pounds at baccarat. Now begin there, and get a move on!”
    The line came again on Sylvia’s forehead.
    â€œSomeone rang me up—”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œLast week-end—last Saturday—because we were going down to stay with the Wessex-Gardners. At least, I was going, and Francis was going to come if he could, and he did, only rather late for dinner—we were half way through the fish.”
    Gay broke in.
    â€œSylly, for goodness’ sake—”
    Sylvia stared in surprise.
    â€œSo I know it was Saturday. And the bell rang whilst I was dressing. I was all ready except for my fur coat, so I expect it was about five o’clock.”
    â€œGood girl! Go on—keep on going on! Someone rang you up—”
    â€œYes. They said—”
    â€œWho said?”
    â€œWell, it was a man—and he said would I like to earn two hundred pounds.”
    â€œEarn two hundred pounds?”
    â€œThat’s what he said. And I said of course, so then he told me how.”
    A feeling of the blackest dismay came seeping into Gay’s mind. I was like ink seeping into blotting-paper. What on earth had Sylvia done? She said,
    â€œWhat did he tell you?”
    â€œHow to do it,” said Sylvia. “It was quite easy really.”
    â€œWhat did you do?” said Gay. Her mind felt perfectly blank.
    Sylvia was looking quite pleased.
    â€œI just waited till he’d gone along to his bath. Of course he’d left his keys on the dressing-table—men always do—and the paper was in his despatch-box, just like the man said it would be, so I got it quite easily.”
    â€œSylvia—what are you talking about? Francis—you took a paper out of Francis’ despatch-box?”
    â€œOh, no,” said Sylvia in a tone of surprise—“not Francis.”
    Gay wouldn’t have believed that she could feel worse, but she did.
    â€œYou stole a paper from someone else. If it