Red Aces: Being Three Cases of Mr Reeder

When a young man is very much in love with a most attractive girl he is
apt to endow her with qualities and virtues which no human being has
ever possessed. Yet at rare and painful intervals there enter into his
soul certain wild suspicions, and in these moments he is inclined to
consider the possibility that she may be guilty of the basest treachery
and double dealing.

Everybody knew that Kenneth McKay was desperately in love. They knew it
at the bank where he spent his days in counting other people's money,
and a considerable amount of his lunch hour writing impassioned and
ill-spelt letters to Margot Lynn. His taciturn father, brooding over his
vanished fortune in his gaunt riverside house at Marlow, may have
employed the few moments he gave to the consideration of other people's
troubles in consideration of his son's new interest. Probably he did
not, for George McKay was entirely self-centred and had little thought
but for the folly which had dissipated the money he had accumulated with
such care, and the development of fantastical schemes for its recovery.

Kenneth went over to Beaconsfield every morning on his noisy motorbike
and came back every night, sometimes very late, because Margot lived in
London; they dined together at the cheaper restaurants and sometimes saw
a film. Kenneth was a member of an inexpensive London club which
sheltered at least one sympathetic soul. Except for Rufus Machfield, the
confidant in question, he had no friends.

'And let me advise you not to make any here,' said Rufus.

He was a military-looking man of forty-five, and most people found him
rather a bore, for the views which he expressed so vehemently, on all
subjects from politics to religion, which are the opposite ends of the
ethical pole, he had acquired that morning from the leading article of
his favourite daily. Yet he was a genial person--a likeable man.

He had a luxurious flat in Park Lane, a French valet, a Bentley and no
useful occupation.

The Leffingham Club is cheap.' he said, 'the food's not bad and it's
near Piccadilly. Against that you have the fact that almost anybody who
hasn't been to prison can become a member--'

'The fact that I'm a member--' began Ken.

'You're a gentleman and a public school man,' interrupted Mr Machfield
sonorously. 'You're not rich, I admit----'

'Even I admit that,' said Ken, rubbing his untidy hair.

Kenneth was tall, athletic, as good-looking as a young man need be, or
can be without losing his head about his face. He had called at the
Leffingham that evening especially to see Rufus and confide his worries.
And his worries were enormous. He looked haggard and ill: Mr Machfield
thought it possible that he had not been sleeping very well.