The Calendar

    

The Calendar

    

by

    

Edgar Wallace

    

    

    

    

         

Contents

    

    

    Chapter 1.

    Chapter 2.

    Chapter 3.

    Chapter 4.

    Chapter 5.

    Chapter 6.

    Chapter 7.

    Chapter 8.

    Chapter 9.

    Chapter 10.

    Chapter 11.

    Chapter 12.

    Chapter 13.

    Chapter 14.

    Chapter 15.

    Chapter 16.

    Chapter 17.

    Chapter 18.

    Chapter 19.

    

    

Chapter 1.

    

    

    "Do you like me well enough to let me use your name?"

    Garry Anson stared at the beautiful woman who put this tremendous question so casually.

    "To use my name? I don't quite know what you mean, darling."

    Wenda Panniford shrugged a shoulder impatiently. It was an odd little trick of hers. The beautiful grey eyes sought his for a moment, and then fell.

    It was a fortnight before Ascot, and the garden of Daneham Lodge was at the height of its splendour.

    They had been pacing the level, shaven lawn, talking of flowers, when the question of Willie Panniford arose. Willie was a source of worry to Garry Anson. He liked the big, blustering fool, drunk or sober; had speculated without profit for a very long time as to what Wenda could see in this husband of hers, and what charm Willie had had that had induced her to throw herself away upon an impecunious Scottish baronet.

    He had taken a pride in his faith that he knew Wenda till then—she was almost a complete stranger to him at the moment.

    "Honestly, I don't understand, Wenda. What do you mean, use my name…?"

    "Willie is jealous of you. He is ready to believe almost anything about you. If I went to him this moment and told him"—again the jerk of her shoulder—"you know."

    "You mean he would believe it? What a—"

    "Don't be stupid, Garry!" Her voice was a little sharp. "Why shouldn't he? We've known each other since we were children; we've always been close friends. Willie isn't terribly clever. He believes things now without any particular reason; why shouldn't he believe—I nearly said 'the worst'?" She smiled faintly. "Would it be the worst?"

    Garry Anson was still dazed. The tanned, good-looking face was blank with amazement.

    "You mean that I should let my name be used as co-respondent? My dear, I like you too much to allow your name to be dragged through the muck and mire of a divorce case."

    She sighed, again impatiently.

    "Never mind about my name, Garry—your altruism is sometimes offensive. Do you like me well enough to make that sacrifice—and all that would be involved?"

    He ran his hands over his crisp, brown hair.

    "Of course I like you well enough. The idea is monstrous. Isn't there any way of patching up—?"

    "You're terribly anxious for me to go on with Willie."

    There was a tremor in her voice; chagrin, pain, anger—he could not tell which; never dreamed, indeed, that he had done more than hurt her, and was panic-stricken at the thought. For Wenda Panniford was to him the one woman in the world.

    "Of course, if you want it. I'll do anything. It would be horrible for you, but naturally I wouldn't hesitate a moment, and when it is over possibly you would care to marry me—"

    He saw a look of astonishment come into her eyes, and blundered.

    "You needn't, of course; that isn't obligatory—I mean, there's no reason why you should!"

    "Of course I'd marry you. Why—" She checked herself. "You love me, don't you, Garry?"

    He loved her very dearly, but realized at that moment with stunning force that he did not love her quite like that. They had been like brother and sister all these years, close comrades, sharing one another's secrets—at least, she had shared his. Perhaps she realized the starkness of his embarrassment, for she went on quickly:

    "Are you going to Hurst Park today? Willie is going with us. I'll see you there—I expected you would be in Chester; it was a great relief to find you here."

    "But listen, darling." He was recovering something of his balance. "Is Willie being too frightful? I know he drinks, and that he's an awful lout in some ways, but there's a lot of good in old Willie—"

    "Don't let us discuss Willie," she said shortly. "We're leaving for Italy on Tuesday. When we come back I want a really serious talk with you."

    And then she changed the subject, and talked about the old General who had died that week.

    "Of course, that is why you didn't go to Chester. I had forgotten. Poor old man! Did he leave a lot of money, Garry?"

    "Buckets full," smiled Garry Anson. "There's Molly!"

    A girl was waving from the other side of the lawn.

    "I'll see you at Hurst Park."

    In another moment she was out of sight.