The Chinese Orange Mystery

Miss Diversey coughed.

Osborne swung about, startled. “Why, Miss Diversey!” he exclaimed, dropping the tongs and scrambling to his feet. “Come in, come in. I’m dreadfully sorry¯I was so absorbed . . . “ A redness had come over his flat lined cheeks.

“You go right back to work,” directed Miss Diversey. “I thought I’d look in, but since you’re busy¯”

“No. No, no, Miss Diversey, really. Sit down. I haven’t seen you for two days. I suppose Dr. Kirk has been keeping you busy?”

Miss Diversey sat down, arranging her starched skirts primly. “Oh, we’re used to that, Mr. Osborne. He’s a little fussy, but he’s really a grand old man.”

“I quite agree. Quite,” said Osborne. “A great scholar, Miss Diversey. He’s contributed a good deal, you know, to philology in his day. A great scholar.”

Miss Diversey murmured something. Osborne stood in an eager, sloped attitude. The room was very quiet and warm. It was more like a den than an office, fitted out by some sensitive hand. Soft glass curtains and brown velvet drapes shrouded the windows overlooking the setback court. Donald Kirk’s desk was in a corner, heaped with books and albums. They both felt suddenly a sense of being alone with each other.

“Working on those old stamps again, I see,” said Miss Diversey in a strained voice.

“Yes. Yes, indeed.”

“Whatever you men see in collecting postage stamps! Don’t you feel silly sometimes, Mr. Osborne? Grown men! Why, I’ve always thought only boys went in for that sort of thing.”

“Oh, really no,” protested Osborne. “Most laymen think that about philately. And yet it absorbs the attention of millions of people all over the world. It’s a universal hobby, Miss Diversey. Do you know there’s one stamp in existence which is catalogued fifty thousand dollars?”

Miss Diversey’s eyes grew round. “No!”

“I mean it. A bit of paper so messy you wouldn’t give it another look. I’ve seen photographs of it.” Osborne’s faded eyes glowed. “From British Guiana. It’s the only one of its kind in the world, you know. It’s in the collection of the late Arthur Hind, of Rochester. King George needs it to complete his collection of British colonies¯”

“You mean,” gasped Miss Diversey, “King George is a stamp-collector?”

“Yes, indeed. Many great men are. Mr. Roosevelt, the Agha Khan¯”

“Imagine that!”

“Now, you take Mr. Kirk. Donald Kirk, I mean. Now, he has one of the finest collections of Chinese stamps in the world. Specializes, you know. Mr. Macgowan collects locals¯local posts, you know; stamps which were issued by states or communities for local postage before there was a national postage system.”

Miss Diversey sighed. “It’s certainly very interesting. Mr. Kirk collects other things, too, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, yes. Precious stones. I haven’t much to do with that, you see. He keeps that collection in a bank vault. I devote most of my time to keeping the stamp collection in apple-pie order, and doing confidential work for Mr. Kirk in connection with The Mandarin Press.”

“Isn’t that interesting, now!”

“Isn’t it.”

“It’s certainly very interesting,” said Miss Diversey again. How on earth, she thought fiercely, did we ever get to talk about these things? “I read a book once published by The Mandarin.”

“Did you, really?”

“Death of a Rebel, by some outlandish name.”

“Oh! Merejinski. He was one of Felix Berne’s discoveries¯a Russian. He’s always scouting around in Europe, you know, looking for foreign authors-Mr. Berne, I mean. Well.” Osborne fell silent.

“Well,” said Miss Diversey. And she fell silent.

Osborne fingered his chin. Miss Diversey fingered her hair.

“Well,” said Miss Diversey a little nervously. “They do publish the artiest books, don’t they?”

“Indeed they do!” cried Osborne. “I don’t doubt Mr. Berne’s come back with a trunkful of new manuscripts. He always does.”

“Does he, now.” Miss Diversey sighed; it was getting worse, much worse. Osborne regarded her crisp cleanness with admiring eyes¯admiring and respectful. Then Miss Diversey brightened. “I don’t suppose Mr. Berne knows about Miss Temple, does he?”

“Eh?” Osborne started. “Oh, Miss Temple. Well, I suppose Mr. Kirk’s written him about her new book. Very nice, Miss Temple is.”

“Do you think so? I think so, too.” Miss Diversey’s broad shoulders quivered. “Well!”

“You’re not going so soon?” asked Osborne in a dashed voice.

“Well, really,” murmured Miss Diversey, rising, “I must. Dr. Kirk’s probably in a fit by now. All that exertion! Well . . . It’s been very pleasant talking to you, Mr. Osborne.” She moved toward the door.

Osborne swallowed. “Uh¯Miss Diversey.” He took a timid step toward her and, in alarm, she retreated, breathing very fast.

“Why, Mr. Osborne! What-what¯?”

“Could you¯would you¯I mean, are you¯”

“What, Mr. Osborne?” murmured Miss Diversey archly.

“Are you doing anything tonight?”

“Oh,” said Miss Diversey. “Why, I guess not, Mr. Osborne.”

“Then would you¯go to the movies with me tonight?”

“Oh,” said Miss Diversey again. “I’d love to.”