Love Insurance
Love Insurance1. — A SPORTING PROPOSITION2. — AN EVENING IN THE RIVER3. — JOURNEYS END IN—TAXI BILLS4. — MR. TRIMMER LIMBERS UP5. — MR. TRIMMER THROWS HIS BOMB6. — TEN MINUTES OF AGONY7. — CHAIN LIGHTNING'S COLLAR8. — AFTER THE TRAINED SEALS9. — "WANTED: BOARD AND ROOM"10. — TWO BIRDS OF PASSAGE11. — TEARS FROM THE GAIETY12. — EXIT A LADY, LAUGHINGLY13. — AND ON THE SHIPS AT SEA14. — JERSEY CITY INTERFERES15. — A BIT OF A BLOW16. — WHO'S WHO IN ENGLAND17. — THE SHORTEST WAY HOME18. — A ROTTEN BAD FIT19. — MR. MINOT GOES THROUGH FIRE20. — "PLEASE KILL"21. — HIGH WORDS AT HIGH NOON22. — "WELL, HARDLY EVER"Copyright
Love Insurance
Earl Derr Biggers
1. — A SPORTING PROPOSITION
OUTSIDE a gilt-lettered door on the seventeenth floor of a New York
office building, a tall young man in a fur-lined coat stood
shivering.
Why did he shiver in that coat? He shivered because he was fussed,
poor chap. Because he was rattled, from the soles of his
custom-made boots to the apex of his Piccadilly hat. A painful,
palpitating spectacle, he stood.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, the business of the
American branch of that famous marine insurance firm, Lloyds, of
London— usually termed in magazine articles "The Greatest Gambling
Institution in the World"—went on oblivious to the shiverer who
approached.
The shiverer, with a nervous movement, shifted his walking-stick to
his left hand, and laid his right on the door-knob. Though he is
not at his best, let us take a look at him. Tall, as has been
noted, perfectly garbed after London's taste, mild and blue as to
eye, blond as to hair. A handsome, if somewhat weak face. Very
distinguished — even aristocratic — in appearance. Perhaps—the
thrill for us democrats here!— of the nobility. And at this moment
sadly in need of a generous dose of that courage that abounds—see
any book of familiar quotations— on the playing fields of
Eton.
Utterly destitute of the Eton or any other brand, he pushed open
the door. The click of two dozen American typewriters smote upon
his hearing. An office boy of the dominant New York race demanded
in loud indiscreet tones his business there.
"My business," said the tall young man weakly, "is with Lloyds, of
London."
The boy wandered off down that stenographer-bordered lane. In a
moment he was back.
"Mr. Thacker'll see you," he announced.
He followed the boy, did the tall young man. His courage began to
return. Why not? One of his ancestors, graduate of those playing
fields, had fought at Waterloo.
Mr. Thacker sat in plump and genial prosperity before a polished
flat-top desk. Opposite him, at a desk equally polished, sat an
even more polished young American of capable bearing. For an
embarrassed moment the tall youth in fur stood looking from one to
the other. Then Mr. Thacker spoke:
"You have business with Lloyds?"
The tall young man blushed.
"I—I hope to have—yes." There was in his speech that faint
suggestion of a lisp that marks many of the well-born of his race.
Perhaps it is the golden spoon in their mouths interfering a bit
with their diction.
"What can we do for you?" Mr. Thacker was cold and matter-of-fact,
like a card index. Steadily through each week he grew more
businesslike —and this was Saturday morning.
The visitor performed a shaky but remarkable juggling feat with his
walking-stick.
"I—well—I—" he stammered.
Oh, come, come, thought Mr. Thacker impatiently.
"Well," said the tall young man desperately, "perhaps it would be
best for me to make myself known at once. I am Allan, Lord
Harrowby, son and heir of James Nelson Harrowby, Earl of Raybrook.
And I—I have come here—"
The younger of the Americans spoke, in more kindly fashion:
"You have a proposition to make to Lloyds?"
"Exactly," said Lord Harrowby, and sank with a sigh of relief into
a chair, as though that concluded his portion of the
entertainment.
"Let's hear it," boomed the relentless Thacker.
Lord Harrowby writhed in his chair.
"I am sure you will pardon me," he said, "if I preface
my—er—proposition with the statement that it is utterly—fantastic.
And if I add also that it should be known to the fewest possible
number."
Mr. Thacker waved his hand across the gleaming surfaces of two
desks.
"This is my assistant manager, Mr. Richard Minot," he announced.
"Mr. Minot, you must know, is in on all the secrets of the firm.
Now, let's have it."
"I am right, am I not," his lordship continued, "in the assumption
that Lloyds frequently takes rather unusual risks?"
"Lloyds," answered Mr. Thacker, "is chiefly concerned with the
fortunes of those who go down to—and sometimes down into—the sea in
ships. However, there are a number of nonmarine underwriters
connected with Lloyds, and these men have been known to risk their
money on pretty giddy chances. It's all done in the name of Lloyds,
though the firm is not financially responsible."
Lord Harrowby got quickly to his feet.
"Then it would be better," he said, relieved, "for me to take my
proposition to one of these non-marine underwriters."
Mr. Thacker frowned. Curiosity agitated his bosom.
"You'd have to go to London to do that," he remarked. "Better give
us an inkling of what's on your mind."
His lordship tapped uneasily at the base of Mr. Thacker's desk with
his stick.
"If you will pardon me—I'd rather not," he said.
"Oh, very well," sighed Mr. Thacker.
"How about Owen Jephson?" asked Mr. Minot suddenly.
Overjoyed, Mr. Thacker started up.
"By gad—I forgot about Jephson. Sails at one o'clock, doesn't he?"
He turned to Lord Harrowby. "The very man—and in New York, too.
Jephson would insure T. Roosevelt against another cup of
coffee."
"Am I to understand," asked Harrowby, "that Jephson is the man for
me to see?"
"Exactly," beamed Mr. Thacker. "I'll have him here in fifteen
minutes. Richard, will you please call up his hotel?" And as Mr.
Minot reached for the telephone, Mr. Thacker added pleadingly: "Of
course, I don't know the nature of your proposition—"
"No," agreed Lord Harrowby politely.
Discouraged, Mr. Thacker gave up.
"However, Jephson seems to have a gambling streak in him that odd
risks appeal to," he went on. "Of course, he's scientific. All
Lloyds' risks are scientifically investigated.
But—occasionally—well, Jephson insured Sir Christopher Conway, K.
C. B., against the arrival of twins in his family. Perhaps you
recall the litigation that resulted when triplets put in their
appearance?"
"I'm sorry to say I do not," said Lord Harrowby.
Mr. Minot set down the telephone. "Owen Jephson is on his way here
in a taxi," he announced.
"Good old Jephson," mused Mr. Thacker, reminiscent. "Why, some of
the man's risks are famous. Take that shopkeeper in the Strand—
every day at noon the shadow of Nelson's Monument in Trafalgar
Square falls across his door. Twenty years ago he got to worrying
for fear the statue would fall some day and smash his shop. And
every year since he has taken out a policy with Jephson, insuring
him against that dreadful contingency."
"I seem to have heard of that," admitted Harrowby, with the ghost
of a smile.
"You must have. Only recently Jephson wrote a policy for the
Dowager Duchess of Tremayne, insuring her against the unhappy event
of a rainstorm spoiling the garden party she is shortly to give at
her Italian villa. I understand a small fortune is involved. Then
there is Courtney Giles, leading man at the West End Road Theater.
He fears obesity. Jephson has insured him. Should he become too
plump for Romeo roles, Lloyds—or rather Jephson—will owe him a
large sum of money."
"I am encouraged to hope," remarked Lord Harrowby, "that Mr.
Jephson will listen to my proposition."
"No doubt he will," replied Mr. Thacker. "I can't say definitely.
Now, if I knew the nature—"
But when Mr. Jephson walked into the office fifteen minutes later
Mr. Thacker was still lamentably ignorant of the nature of his
titled visitor's business. Mr. Jephson was a small wiry man,
crowned by a vast acreage of bald head, and with the immobile
countenance sometimes lovingly known as a "poker face." One felt he
could watch the rain pour in torrents on the dowager duchess,
Courtney Giles' waist expand visibly before his eyes, the statue of
Nelson totter and fall on his shopkeeper, and never move a muscle
of that face.
"I am delighted to meet your lordship," said he to Harrowby. "Knew
your father, the earl, very well at one time. Had business dealings
with him—often. A man after my own heart. Always ready to take a
risk. I trust you left him well?"
"Quite, thank you," Lord Harrowby answered. "Although he will
insist on playing polo. At his age—eighty-two—it is a dangerous
sport."
Mr. Jephson smiled.
"Still taking chances," he said. "A splendid old gentleman. I
understand that you, Lord Harrowby, have a proposition to make to
me as an underwriter in Lloyds."
They sat down. Alas, if Mr. Burke, who compiled the well-known
Peerage, could have seen Lord Harrowby then, what distress would
have been his! For a most unlordly flush again mantled that British
check. A nobleman was supremely rattled.
"I will try and explain," said his lordship, gulping a plebeian
gulp. "My affairs have been for some time in rather a chaotic
state. Idleness —the life of the town—you gentlemen will
understand. Naturally, it has been suggested to me that I exchange
my name and title for the millions of some American heiress. I have
always violently objected to any such plan. I—I couldn't quite
bring myself to do any such low trick as that. And then—a few
months ago on the Continent—I met a girl—"
He paused.
"I'm not a clever chap—really," he went on. "I'm afraid I can not
describe her to you. Spirited —charming—" He looked toward the
youngest of the trio. "You, at least, understand," he
finished.
Mr. Minot leaned back in his chair and smiled a most engaging
smile. "Perfectly," he said.
"Thank you," went on Lord Harrowby in all seriousness. "It was only
incidental—quite irrelevant—that this young woman happened to be
very wealthy. I fell desperately in love. I am still in
that—er—pleasing state. The young lady's name, gentlemen, is
Cynthia Meyrick. She is the daughter of Spencer Meyrick, whose
fortune has, I believe, been accumulated in oil."
Mr. Thacker's eyebrows rose respectfully.
"A week from next Tuesday," said Lord Harrowby solemnly, "at San
Marco, on the east coast of Florida, this young woman and I are to
be married."
"And what," asked Owen Jephson, "is your proposition?"
Lord Harrowby shifted nervously in his chair.
"I say we are to be married," he continued. "But are we? That is
the nightmare that haunts me. A slip. My—er—creditors coming down
on me. And far more important, the dreadful agony of losing the
dearest woman in the world."
"What could happen?" Mr. Jephson wanted to know.
"Did I say the young woman was vivacious?" inquired Lord Harrowby.
"She is. A thousand girls in one. Some untoward happening, and she
might change her mind—in a flash."
Silence within the room; outside the roar of New York and the
clatter of the inevitable riveting machine making its points
relentlessly.
"That," said Lord Harrowby slowly, "is what I wish you to insure me
against, Mr. Jephson."
"You mean—"
"I mean the awful possibility of Miss Cynthia Meyrick's changing
her mind."
Again silence, save for the riveting machine outside. And three men
looking unbelievingly at one another.
"Of course," his lordship went on hastily, "it is understood that I
personally am very eager for this wedding to take place. It is
understood that in the interval before the ceremony I shall do all
in my power to keep Miss Meyrick to her present intention. Should
the marriage be abandoned because of any act of mine, I would be
ready to forfeit all claims on Lloyds."
Mr. Thacker recovered his breath and his voice at one and the same
time.
"Preposterous," he snorted. "Begging your lordship's pardon, you
can not expect hardheaded business men to listen seriously to any
such proposition as that. Tushery, sir, tushery! Speaking as the
American representative of Lloyds—"
"One moment," interrupted Mr. Jephson. In his eyes shone a queer
light—a light such as one might expect to find in the eyes of Peter
Pan, the boy who never grew up. "One moment, please. What sum had
you in mind, Lord Harrowby?"
"Well—say one hundred thousand pounds," suggested his lordship. "I
realize that my proposition is fantastic. I really admitted as
much. But—"
"One hundred thousand pounds." Mr. Jephson repeated it
thoughtfully. "I should have to charge your lordship a rather high
rate. As high as ten per cent."
Lord Harrow by seemed to be in the throes of mental
arithmetic.
"I am afraid," he said finally, "I could not afford one hundred
thousand at that rate. But I could afford—seventy-five thousand.
Would that be satisfactory, Mr. Jephson?"
"Jephson," cried Mr. Thacker wildly. "Are you mad? Do you
realize—"
"I realize everything, Thacker," said Jephson calmly. "I have your
lordship's word that the young lady is at present determined on
this alliance? And that you will do all in your power to keep her
to her intention?"
"You have my word," said Lord Harrowby. "If you should care to
telegraph— "
"Your word is sufficient," said Jephson. "Mr. Minot, will you be
kind enough to bring me a policy blank?"
"See here, Jephson," foamed Thacker. "What if this thing should get
into the newspapers? We'd be the laughing-stock of the business
world."
"It mustn't," said Jephson coolly.
"It might," roared Thacker.
Mr. Minot arrived with a blank policy, and Mr. Jephson sat down at
the young man's desk.
"One minute," said Thacker. "The faith of you two gentlemen in each
other is touching, but I take it the millennium is still a few
years off." He drew toward him a blank sheet of paper, and wrote.
"I want this thing done in a businesslike way, if it's to be done
in my office." He handed the sheet of paper to Lord Harrowby. "Will
you read that, please?" he said.
"Certainly." His lordship read: "I hereby agree that in the
interval until my wedding with Miss Cynthia Meyrick next Tuesday
week I will do all in my power to put through the match, and that
should the wedding be called off through any subsequent direct act
of mine, I will forfeit all claims on Lloyds."
"Will you sign that, please?" requested Mr. Thacker.
"With pleasure." His lordship reached for a pen.
"You and I, Richard," said Mr. Thacker, "will sign as witnesses.
Now, Jephson, go ahead with your fool policy."
Mr. Jephson looked up thoughtfully.
"Shall I say, your lordship," he asked, "that if, two weeks from
to-day the wedding has not taken place, and has absolutely no
prospect of taking place, I owe you seventy-five thousand
pounds?"
"Yes." His lordship nodded. "Provided, of course, I have not
forfeited by reason of this agreement. I shall write you a check,
Mr. Jephson."
For a time there was no sound in the room save the scratching of
two pens, while Mr. Thacker gazed open-mouthed at Mr. Minot, and
Mr. Minot light-heartedly smiled back. Then Mr. Jephson reached for
a blotter.
"I shall attend to the London end of this when I reach there five
days hence," he said. "Perhaps I can find another underwriter to
share the risk with me."
The transaction was completed, and his lordship rose to go.
"I am at the Plaza," he said, "if any difficulty should arise. But
I sail to-night for San Marco —on the yacht of a friend." He
crossed over and took Mr. Jephson's hand. "I can only hope, with
all my heart," he finished feelingly, "that you never have to pay
this policy."
"We're with your lordship there," said Mr. Thacker sharply.
"Ah—you have been very kind," replied Lord Harrowby. "I wish you
all—good day."
And shivering no longer, he went away in his fine fur coat.
As the door closed upon the nobleman, Mr. Thacker turned
explosively on his friend from oversea.
"Jephson," he thundered, "you're an idiot! A rank unmitigated
idiot!"
The Peter Pan light was bright in Jephson's eyes.
"So new," he half-whispered. "So original! Bless the boy's heart.
I've been waiting forty years for a proposition like that."
"Do you realize," Thacker cried, "that seventy-five thousand pounds
of your good money depends on the honor of Lord Harrowby?"
"I do," returned Jephson. "And I would not be concerned if it were
ten times that sum. I know the breed. Why, once—and you, Thacker,
would have called me an idiot on that occasion, too—I insured his
father against the loss of a polo game by a team on which the earl
was playing. And he played like the devil—the earl did —won the
game himself. Ah, I know the breed."
"Oh, well," sighed Thacker, "I won't argue. But one thing is
certain, Jephson. You can't go back to England now. Your place is
in San Marco with one hand on the rope that rings the wedding
bells."
Jephson shook his great bald head.
"No," he said. "I must return to-day. It is absolutely necessary.
My interests in San Marco are in the hands of Providence."
Mr. Thacker walked the floor wildly.
"Providence needs help in handling a woman," he protested. "Miss
Meyrick must not change her mind. Some one must see that she
doesn't. If you can't go yourself—" He paused, reflecting. "Some
young man, active, capable—"
Mr. Richard Minot had risen from his chair, and was moving softly
toward his overcoat. Looking over his shoulder, he beheld Mr.
Thacker's keen eyes upon him.
"Just going out to lunch," he said guiltily.
"Sit down, Richard," remarked Mr. Thacker with decision.
Mr. Minot sat, the dread of something impending in his heart.
"Jephson," said Mr. Thacker, "this boy here is the son of a man of
whom I was very fond. His father left him the means to squander his
life on clubs and cocktails if he had chosen—but he picked out a
business career instead. Five years ago I took him into this
office, and he has repaid me by faithful, even brilliant service. I
would trust him with—well, I'd trust him as far as you'd trust a
member of your own peerage."
"Yes?" said Mr. Jephson.
Mr. Thacker wheeled dramatically and faced his young
assistant.
"Richard," he ordered, "go to San Marco. Go to San Marco and see to
it that Miss Cynthia Meyrick does not change her mind."
A gone feeling shot through Mr. Minot in the vicinity of his
stomach. It was possible that he really needed that lunch.
"Yes, sir," he said faintly. "Of course, it's up to me to do
anything you say. If you insist, I'll go, but—"
"But what, Richard?"
"Isn't it a rather big order? Women—aren't they like an—er—April
afternoon—or something of that sort? It seems to me I've read they
were —in books."
"Humph," snorted Mr. Thacker. "Is your knowledge of the ways of
women confined to books?"
A close observer might have noted the ghost of a smile in Mr.
Minot's clear blue eyes.
"In part, it is," he admitted. "And then again —in part, it
isn't."
"Well, put away your books, my boy," said Mr. Thacker. "A nice,
instructive little vacation has fallen on you from heaven. Mad old
Jephson here must be saved from himself. That wedding must take
place—positively, rain or shine. I trust you to see that it does,
Richard."
Mr. Minot rose and stepped over to his hat and coat.
"I'm off for San Marco," he announced blithely. His lips were firm
but smiling. "The land of sunshine and flowers—and orange blossoms
or I know the reason why."
"Jephson trusts Harrowby," said Mr. Thacker. "All very well. But
just the same if I were you I'd be aboard that yacht to-night when
it leaves New York harbor. Invited or uninvited."
"I must ask," put in Mr. Jephson hurriedly, "that you do nothing to
embarrass Lord Harrowby in any way."
"No," said Thacker. "But keep an eye on him, my boy. A keen and
busy eye."
"I will," agreed Mr. Minot. "Do I look like Cupid, gentlemen? No?
Ah—it's the overcoat. Well, I'll get rid of that in Florida. I'll
say good-by—"
He shook hands with Jephson and with Thacker.
"Good-by, Richard," said the latter. "I'm really fond of old
Jephson here. He's been my friend in need—he mustn't lose. I trust
you, my boy."
"I won't disappoint you," Dick Minot promised. A look of
seriousness flashed across his face. "Miss Cynthia Meyrick changes
her mind only over my dead body."
He paused for a second at the door, and his eyes grew suddenly
thoughtful.
"I wonder what she's like?" he murmured.
Then, with a smile toward the two men left behind, he went out and
down that stenographer bordered lane to San Marco.
2. — AN EVENING IN THE RIVER
THOUGH San Marco is a particularly gaudy tassel on the fringe of
the tourist's South, it was to the north that Mr. Richard Minot
first turned. One hour later he made his appearance amid the gold
braid and dignity of the Plaza lobby.
The young man behind the desk—an exquisite creature done in Charles
Dana Gibson's best manner—knew when to be affable. He also knew
when not to be affable. Upon Mr. Minot he turned the cold fishy
stare he kept for such as were not guests under his charge.
"What is your business with Lord Harrowby?" he inquired
suspiciously.
"Since when," asked Mr. Minot brightly, "have you been in his
lordship's confidence?"
This was the young man's cue to wince. But hotel clerks are
notoriously poor wincers.
"It is customary—" he began with perfect poise.
"I know," said Mr. Minot. "But then, I'm a sort of a friend of his
lordship."
"A sort of a friend?" How well he lifted his eyebrows!
"Something like that. I believe I'm to be best man at his
wedding."
Ah, yes; that splendid young man knew when to be affable.
Affability swamped him now.
"Boy!" he cried. "Take this gentleman's card to Lord
Harrowby."
A bell-boy in a Zenda uniform accepted the card, laid it upon a
silver tray, glued it down with a large New York thumb, and strayed
off down gilded corridors shouting, "Lord Harrowby."
Whereat all the pretty little debutantes who happened to be
decorating the scene at the moment felt their pampered hearts go
pit-a-pat and, closing their eyes, saw visions and dreamed
dreams.
Lord Harrowby was at luncheon, and sent word for Mr. Minot to join
him. Entering the gay dining-room, Minot saw at the far end the
blond and noble head he sought. He threaded his way between the
tables. Although he was an unusually attractive young man, he had
never experienced anything like the array of stares turned upon him
ere he had gone ten feet. "What the devil's the matter?" he asked
himself. "I seem to be the cynosure of neighboring eyes, and then
some." He did not dream that it was because he was passing through
a dining-room of democrats to grasp the hand of a lord.
"My dear fellow, I'm delighted, I assure you—" Really, Lord
Harrowby's face should have paid closer attention to his words.
Just now it failed ignominiously in the matter of backing them
up.
"Thank you," Mr. Minot replied. "Your lordship is no doubt
surprised at seeing me so soon—"
"Well—er—not at all. Shall I order luncheon?"
"No, thanks. I had a bite on the way up." And Mr. Minot dropped
into the chair which an eager waiter held ready. "Lord Harrowby, I
trust you are not going to be annoyed by what I have to tell
you."
His lordship's face clouded, and worry entered the mild blue
eyes.
"I hope there's nothing wrong about the policy."
"Nothing whatever. Lord Harrowby, Mr. Jephson trusts
you—implicitly."
"So I perceived this morning. I was deeply touched."
"It washer—touching." Minot smiled a bit cynically. "Understanding
as you do how Mr. Jephson feels toward you, you will realize that
it is in no sense a reflection on you that our office, viewing this
matter in a purely business light, has decided that some one must
go to San Marco with you. Some one who will protect Mr. Jephson's
interests."
"Your office," said his lordship, reflecting. "You mean Mr.
Thacker, don't you?"
Could it be that the fellow was not so slow as he seemed?
"Mr. Thacker is the head of our office," smiled Mr. Minot. "It has
been thought best that some one go with you, Lord Harrowby. Some
one who will work night and day to see to it that Miss Meyrick does
not change her mind. I—I am the some one. I hope you are not
annoyed."
"My dear chap! Not in the least. When I said this morning that I
was quite set on this marriage, I was frightfully sincere." And now
his lordship's face, frank and boyish, in nowise belied his words.
"I shall be deeply grateful for any aid Lloyds can give me. And I
am already grateful that Lloyds has selected you to be my
ally."
Really, very decent of him. Dick Minot bowed.
"You go south to-night?" he ventured.
"Yes. On the yacht Lileth, belonging to my friend,
Mr. Martin Wall. You have heard of him?"
"No. I can't say that I have."
"Indeed! I understood he was very well-known here. A big, bluff,
hearty chap. We met on the steamer coming over and became very good
friends."
A pause.
"You will enjoy meeting Mr. Wall," said his lordship meaningly,
"when I introduce you to him—in San Marco."
"Lord Harrowby," said Minot slowly, "my instructions are to go
south with you—on the yacht."
For a moment the two men stared into each other's eyes. Then Lord
Harrowby pursed his thin lips and gazed out at Fifth Avenue, gay
and colorful in the February sun.
"How extremely unfortunate," he drawled. "It is not my boat, Mr.
Minot. If it were, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to
extend an invitation to you."
"I understand," said Minot. "But I am to go—invited or
uninvited."
"In my interests?" asked Harrowby sarcastically.
"As the personal conductor of the bridegroom."
"Mr. Minot—really—"
"I have no wish to be rude, Lord Harrowby. But it is our turn to be
a little fantastic now. Could anything be more fantastic than
boarding a yacht uninvited?"
"But Miss Meyrick—on whom, after all, Mr. Jephson's fate depends—is
already in Florida."
"With her lamp trimmed and burning. How sad, your lordship, if some
untoward event should interfere with the coming of the
bridegroom."
"I perceive," smiled Lord Harrowby, "that you do not share Mr.
Jephson's confidence in my motives."
"This is New York, and a business proposition. Every man in New
York is considered guilty until he proves himself innocent—and then
we move for a new trial."
"Nevertheless"—Lord Harrowby's mouth hardened—"I must refuse to ask
you to join me on theLileth."
"Would you mind telling me where the boat is anchored?"
"Somewhere in the North River, I believe. I don't know,
really."
"You don't know? Won't it be a bit difficult— boarding a yacht when
you don't know where to find it?"
"My dear chap—" began Harrowby angrily.
"No matter." Mr. Minot stood up. "I'll say au revoir, Lord
Harrowby—until to-night."
"Or until we meet in San Marco." Lord Harrowby regained his good
nature. "I'm extremely sorry to be so impolite. But I believe we're
going to be very good friends, none the less."
"We're going to be very close to each other, at any rate," Minot
smiled. "Once more—au revoir, your lordship."
"Pardon me—good-by," answered Lord Harrowby with decision.
And Richard Minot was again threading his way between awed
tables.
Walking slowly down Fifth Avenue, Mr. Minot was forced to admit
that he had not made a very auspicious beginning in his new role.
Why had Lord Harrowby refused so determinedly to invite him aboard
the yacht that was to bear the eager bridegroom south? And what was
he to do now? Might he not discover where the yacht lay, board it
at dusk, and conceal himself in a vacant cabin until the party was
well under way? It sounded fairly simple.
But it proved otherwise. He was balked from the outset. For two
hours, in the library of his club, in telephone booths and
elsewhere, he sought for some tangible evidence of the existence of
a wealthy American named Martin Wall and a yacht called
the Lileth. City directories and yacht club year
books alike were silent. Myth, myth, myth, ran through Dick Minot's
mind.
Was Lord Harrowby—as they say at the Gaiety—spoofing him? He
mounted to the top of a bus, and was churned up Riverside Drive.
Along the banks of the river lay dozens of yachts, dismantled,
swathed in winter coverings. Among the few that appeared ready to
sail his keen eye discerned no Lileth.
Somewhat discouraged, he returned to his club and startled a waiter
by demanding dinner at four-thirty in the afternoon. Going then to
his rooms, he exchanged his overcoat for a sweater, his hat for a
golf cap. At five-thirty, a spy for the first time in his eventful
young life, he stood opposite the main entrance of the Plaza. Near
by ticked a taxi, engaged for the evening.
An hour passed. Lights, laughter, limousines, the cold moon adding
its brilliance to that already brilliant square, the winter wind
sighing through the bare trees of the park—New York seemed a city
of dreams. Suddenly the chauffeur of Minot's taxi stood uneasily
before him.
"Say, you ain't going to shoot anybody, are you?" he asked.
"Oh, no—you needn't be afraid of that."
"I ain't afraid. I just thought I'd take off my license number if
you was."
Ah, yes — New York! City of beautiful dreams!
Another hour slipped by. And only the little taxi meter was busy,
winking mechanically at the unresponsive moon.
At eight-fifteen a tall blond man, in a very expensive fur coat
which impressed even the cab starter, came down the steps of the
hotel. He ordered a limousine and was whirled away to the west. At
eight-fifteen and a half Mr. Minot followed.
Lord Harrowby's car proceeded to the drive and, turning, sped north
between the moonlit river and the manlit apartment-houses. In the
neighborhood of One Hundred and Tenth Street it came to a stop, and
as Minot's car passed slowly by, he saw his lordship standing in
the moonlight paying his chauffeur. Hastily dismissing his own car,
he ran back in time to see Lord Harrowby disappear down one of the
stone stairways into the gloom of the park that skirts the Hudson.
He followed.
On and on down the steps and bare wind-swept paths he hurried,
until finally the river, cold, silvery, serene, lay before him.
Some thirty yards from shore he beheld the lights of a yacht
flashing against the gloomy background of Jersey.
The Lileth!
He watched Lord Harrowby cross the railroad tracks to a small
landing, and leap from that into a boat in charge of a solitary
rower. Then he heard the soft swish of oars, and watched the boat
draw away from shore. He stood there in the shadow until he had
seen his lordship run up the accommodation ladder to
the Lileth's deck.
He, too, must reach the Lileth, and at once. But how?
He glanced quickly up and down the bank. A small boat was tethered
near by—he ran to it, but a chain and padlock held it firmly. He
must hurry. Aboard the yacht, dancing impatiently on the bosom of
Hendrick Hudson's important discovery, he recognized the
preparations for an early departure.
Minot stood for a moment looking at the wide wet river. It was
February, yes, but February of the mildest winter New York had
experienced in years. At the seashore he had always dashed boldly
in while others stood on the sands and shivered. He dashed in
now.
The water was cold, shockingly cold. He struck out swiftly for the
yacht. Fortunately the accommodation ladder had not yet been taken
up; in another moment he was clinging, a limp and dripping
spectacle, to the rail of the Lileth.
Happily that side of the deck was just then deserted. A row of
outside cabin doors in the bow met Minot's eye. Stealthily he
swished toward them.
And, in the last analysis, the only thing between him and them
proved to be a large commanding gentleman, whose silhouette was
particularly militant and whose whole bearing was
unfavorable.
"Mr. Wall, I presume," said Minot through noisy teeth.
"Correct," said the gentleman. His voice was sharp, unfriendly. But
the moonlight, falling on his face, revealed it as soft, genial,
pudgy—the inviting sort of countenance to which, under the melting
influence of Scotch and soda, one feels like relating the sad story
of one's wasted life.
Though soaked and quaking, Mr. Minot aimed at nonchalance.
"Well," he said, "you might be good enough to tell Lord Harrowby
that I've arrived."
"Who are you? What do you want?"
"I'm a friend of his lordship. He'll be delighted, I'm sure. Just
tell him, if you'll be so kind."
"Did he invite you aboard?"
"Not exactly. But he'll be glad to see me. Especially if you
mention just one word to him."
"What word?"
Mr. Minot leaned airily against the rail.
"Lloyds," he said.
An expression of mingled rage and dismay came into the pudgy face.
It purpled in the moonlight. Its huge owner came threateningly
toward the dripping Minot.
"Back into the river for yours," he said savagely.
Almost lovingly—so it might have seemed to the casual observer—he
wound his thick arms about the dripping Minot. Up and down the deck
they turkey-trotted.
"Over the rail and into the river," breathed Mr. Wall on Minot's
damp neck.
Two large and capable sailormen came at sound of the
struggle.
"Here, boys," Wall shouted. "Help me toss this guy over."
Willing hands seized Minot at opposite poles.
"One—two—" counted the sailormen.
"Well, good night, Mr. Wall," remarked Minot.
"Three!"
A splash, and he was ingloriously in the cold river again. He
turned to the accommodation ladder, but quick hands drew it up.
Evidently there was nothing to do but return once more to little
old New York.
He rested for a moment, treading water, seeing dimly the tall homes
of the cave dwellers, and over them the yellow glare of Broadway.
Then he struck out. When he reached the shore, and turned,
theLileth was already under way, moving slowly down
the silver path of the moon. An old man was launching the padlocked
rowboat.
"Great night for a swim," he remarked sarcastically.
"L-lovely," chattered Minot. "Say, do you know anything about the
yacht that's just steamed out?"
"Not as much as I'd like ter. Used ter belong to a man in Chicago.
Yesterday the caretaker told me she'd been rented fer the winter.
Seen him to-night in a gin mill with money to throw to the birds.
Looks funny to me."
"Thanks."
"Man came this afternoon and painted out her old name. Changed it
t' Lileth. Mighty suspicious."
"What was the old name?"
"The Lady Evelyn. If I was you, I'd get outside a drink, and quick.
Good night."
As Minot dashed up the bank, he heard the swish of the old man's
oars behind. He ran all the way to his rooms, and after a hot bath
and the liquid refreshment suggested by the waterman, called Mr.
Thacker on the telephone.
"Well, Richard?" that gentleman inquired.
"Sad news. Little Cupid's had a set-back. Tossed into the Hudson
when he tried to board the yacht that is taking Lord Harrowby
south."
"No? Is that so?" Mr. Thacker's tone was contemplative. "Well,
Richard, the Palm Beach Special leaves at midnight. Better be on
it. Better go down and help the bride with her trousseau."
"Yes, sir. I'll do that. And I'll see to it that she has her lamp
trimmed and burning. Considering that her father's in the oil
business, that ought not to be—"
"I can't hear you, Richard. What are you saying?"
"Nothing—er—Mr. Thacker. Look up a yacht called the Lady Evelyn.
Chicago man, I think— find out if he's rented it, and to whom. It's
the boat Harrowby went south on."
"All right, Richard. Good-by, my boy. Write me whenever you need
money."
"Perhaps I can't write as often as that. But I'll send you
bulletins from time to time."
"I depend on you, Richard. Jephson must not lose."
"Leave it to me. The Palm Beach Special at midnight. And after
that—Miss Cynthia Meyrick.
3. — JOURNEYS END IN—TAXI BILLS
NO matter how swiftly your train has sped through the Carolinas and
Georgia, when it crosses the line into Florida a wasting languor
overtakes it. Then it hesitates, sighs and creeps across the flat
yellow landscape like an aged alligator. Now and again it stops
completely in the midst of nothing, as who should say: "You came
down to see the South, didn't you? Well, look about you."
The Palm Beach Special on which Mr. Minot rode was no exception to
this rule. It entered Florida and a state of innocuous desuetude at
one and the same time. After a tremendous struggle, it gasped its
way into Jacksonville about nine o'clock of the Monday morning
following. Reluctant as Romeo in his famous exit from Juliet's
boudoir, it got out of Jacksonville an hour later. And San Marco
was just two hours away, according to that excellent book of light
fiction so widely read in the South—the time-table.