The Black Bag E-Book

Louis Joseph Vance

• Herausgeber: Classic Detective
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

A rapidly-moving narrative of the detective-story type, in which a rascally diamond smuggler is out-witted by a young Californian and the girl who was to have been the thief's victim."A stirring and sprightly tale."--Brooklyn Eagle."An exciting story of rapid adventure."--New York Sun.

Leseprobe

THE BLACK BAG

..................

Louis Joseph Vance

CLASSIC DETECTIVE

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This book is a work of fiction; its contents are wholly imagined.

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Copyright © 2018 www.deaddodopublishing.co.uk

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I. DIVERSIONS OF A RUINED GENTLEMAN

II. “AND SOME THERE BE WHO HAVE ADVENTURES THRUST UPON THEM”

III. CALENDAR’S DAUGHTER

IV. 9 FROGNALL STREET, W. C.

V. THE MYSTERY OF A FOUR-WHEELER

VI. “BELOW BRIDGE”

VII. DIVERSIONS OF A RUINED GENTLEMAN,—RESUMED

VIII. MADAME L’INTRIGANTE

IX. AGAIN “BELOW BRIDGE”; AND BEYOND

X. DESPERATE MEASURES

XI. OFF THE NORE

XII. PICARESQUE PASSAGES

XIII. A PRIMER OF PROGRESSIVE CRIME

XIV. STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS

XV. REFUGEES

XVI. TRAVELS WITH A CHAPERON

XVII. ROGUES AND VAGABONDS

XVIII. ADVENTURES’ LUCK

XIX.

I——THE UXBRIDGE ROAD

II——THE CROWN AND MITRE

III——THE JOURNEY’S END

I. DIVERSIONS OF A RUINED GENTLEMAN

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UPON A CERTAIN DREARY APRIL afternoon in the year of grace, 1906, the apprehensions of Philip Kirkwood, Esquire, Artist-peintre, were enlivened by the discovery that he was occupying that singularly distressing social position, which may be summed up succinctly in a phrase through long usage grown proverbial: “Alone in London.” These three words have come to connote in our understanding so much of human misery, that to Mr. Kirkwood they seemed to epitomize absolutely, if not happily, the various circumstances attendant upon the predicament wherein he found himself. Inevitably an extremist, because of his youth, (he had just turned twenty-five), he took no count of mitigating matters, and would hotly have resented the suggestion that his case was anything but altogether deplorable and forlorn.

That he was not actually at the end of his resources went for nothing; he held the distinction a quibble, mockingly immaterial,—like the store of guineas in his pocket, too insignificant for mention when contrasted with his needs. And his base of supplies, the American city of his nativity, whence—and not without a glow of pride in his secret heart—he was wont to register at foreign hostelries, had been arbitrarily cut off from him by one of those accidents sardonically classified by insurance and express corporations as Acts of God.

Now to one who has lived all his days serenely in accord with the dictates of his own sweet will, taking no thought for the morrow, such a situation naturally seems both appalling and intolerable, at the first blush. It must be confessed that, to begin with, Kirkwood drew a long and disconsolate face over his fix. And in that black hour, primitive of its kind in his brief span, he became conscious of a sinister apparition taking shape at his elbow—a shade of darkness which, clouting him on the back with a skeleton hand, croaked hollow salutations in his ear.

“Come, Mr. Kirkwood, come!” its mirthless accents rallied him. “Have you no welcome for me?—you, who have been permitted to live the quarter of a century without making my acquaintance? Surely, now, it’s high time we were learning something of one another, you and I!” “But I don’t understand,” returned Kirkwood blankly. “I don’t know you—”

“True! But you shall: I am the Shade of Care—”

“Dull Care!” murmured Kirkwood, bewildered and dismayed; for the visitation had come upon him with little presage and no invitation whatever.

“Dull Care,” the Shade assured him. “Dull Care am I—and Care that’s anything but dull, into the bargain: Care that’s like a keen pain in your body, Care that lives a horror in your mind, Care that darkens your days and flavors with bitter poison all your nights, Care that—”

But Kirkwood would not listen further. Courageously submissive to his destiny, knowing in his heart that the Shade had come to stay, he yet found spirit to shake himself with a dogged air, to lift his chin, set the strong muscles of his jaw, and smile that homely wholesome smile which was his peculiarly.

“Very well,” he accepted the irremediable with grim humor; “what must be, must. I don’t pretend to be glad to see you, but—you’re free to stay as long as you find the climate agreeable. I warn you I shan’t whine. Lots of men, hundreds and hundreds of ‘em, have slept tight o’ nights with you for bedfellow; if they could grin and bear you, I believe I can.”

Now Care mocked him with a sardonic laugh, and sought to tighten upon his shoulders its bony grasp; but Kirkwood resolutely shrugged it off and went in search of man’s most faithful dumb friend, to wit, his pipe; the which, when found and filled, he lighted with a spill twisted from the envelope of a cable message which had been vicariously responsible for his introduction to the Shade of Care.

“It’s about time,” he announced, watching the paper blacken and burn in the grate fire, “that I was doing something to prove my title to a living.” And this was all his valedictory to a vanished competence. “Anyway,” he added hastily, as if fearful lest Care, overhearing, might have read into his tone a trace of vain repining, “anyway, I’m a sight better off than those poor devils over there! I really have a great deal to be thankful for, now that my attention’s drawn to it.”

For the ensuing few minutes he thought it all over, soberly but with a stout heart; standing at a window of his bedroom in the Hotel Pless, hands deep in trouser pockets, pipe fuming voluminously, his gaze wandering out over a blurred infinitude of wet shining roofs and sooty chimney-pots: all of London that a lowering drizzle would let him see, and withal by no means a cheering prospect, nor yet one calculated to offset the disheartening influence of the indomitable Shade of Care. But the truth is that Kirkwood’s brain comprehended little that his eyes perceived; his thoughts were with his heart, and that was half a world away and sick with pity for another and a fairer city, stricken in the flower of her loveliness, writhing in Promethean agony upon her storied hills.

There came a rapping at the door.

Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say “Come in!” pleasantly.

The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, swinging on one heel, beheld hesitant upon the threshold a diminutive figure in the livery of the Pless pages.

“Mister Kirkwood?”

Kirkwood nodded.

“Gentleman to see you, sir.”

Kirkwood nodded again, smiling. “Show him up, please,” he said. But before the words were fairly out of his mouth a footfall sounded in the corridor, a hand was placed upon the shoulder of the page, gently but with decision swinging him out of the way, and a man stepped into the room.

“Mr. Brentwick!” Kirkwood almost shouted, jumping forward to seize his visitor’s hand.

“My dear boy!” replied the latter. “I’m delighted to see you. ‘Got your note not an hour ago, and came at once—you see!”

“It was mighty good of you. Sit down, please. Here are cigars.... Why, a moment ago I was the most miserable and lonely mortal on the footstool!”

“I can fancy.” The elder man looked up, smiling at Kirkwood from the depths of his arm-chair, as the latter stood above him, resting an elbow on the mantel. “The management knows me,” he offered explanation of his unceremonious appearance; “so I took the liberty of following on the heels of the bellhop, dear boy. And how are you? Why are you in London, enjoying our abominable spring weather? And why the anxious undertone I detected in your note?”

He continued to stare curiously into Kirkwood’s face. At a glance, this Mr. Brentwick was a man of tallish figure and rather slender; with a countenance thin and flushed a sensitive pink, out of which his eyes shone, keen, alert, humorous, and a trace wistful behind his glasses. His years were indeterminate; with the aspect of fifty, the spirit and the verve of thirty assorted oddly. But his hands were old, delicate, fine and fragile; and the lips beneath the drooping white mustache at times trembled, almost imperceptibly, with the generous sentiments that come with mellow age. He held his back straight and his head with an air—an air that was not a swagger but the sign-token of seasoned experience in the world. The most carping could have found no flaw in the quiet taste of his attire. To sum up, Kirkwood’s very good friend—and his only one then in London—Mr. Brentwick looked and was an English gentleman.

“Why?” he persisted, as the younger man hesitated. “I am here to find out. To-night I leave for the Continent. In the meantime ...”

“And at midnight I sail for the States,” added Kirkwood. “That is mainly why I wished to see you—to say good-by, for the time.”

“You’re going home—” A shadow clouded Brentwick’s clear eyes.

“To fight it out, shoulder to shoulder with my brethren in adversity.”

The cloud lifted. “That is the spirit!” declared the elder man. “For the moment I did you the injustice to believe that you were running away. But now I understand. Forgive me.... Pardon, too, the stupidity which I must lay at the door of my advancing years; to me the thought of you as a Parisian fixture has become such a commonplace, Philip, that the news of the disaster hardly stirred me. Now I remember that you are a Californian!”

“I was born in San Francisco,” affirmed Kirkwood a bit sadly. “My father and mother were buried there ...”

“And your fortune—?”

“I inherited my father’s interest in the firm of Kirkwood & Vanderlip; when I came over to study painting, I left everything in Vanderlip’s hands. The business afforded me a handsome living.”

“You have heard from Mr. Vanderlip?”

“Fifteen minutes ago.” Kirkwood took a cable-form, still damp, from his pocket, and handed it to his guest. Unfolding it, the latter read:

“Kirkwood, Pless, London. Stay where you are no good coming back everything gone no insurance letter follows vanderlip.”

“When I got the news in Paris,” Kirkwood volunteered, “I tried the banks; they refused to honor my drafts. I had a little money in hand,—enough to see me home,—so closed the studio and came across. I’m booked on the Minneapolis, sailing from Tilbury at daybreak; the boat-train leaves at eleven-thirty. I had hoped you might be able to dine with me and see me off.”

In silence Brentwick returned the cable message. Then, with a thoughtful look, “You are sure this is wise?” he queried.

“It’s the only thing I can see.”

“But your partner says—”

“Naturally he thinks that by this time I should have learned to paint well enough to support myself for a few months, until he can get things running again. Perhaps I might.” Brentwick supported the presumption with a decided gesture. “But have I a right to leave Vanderlip to fight it out alone? For Vanderlip has a wife and kiddies to support; I—”

“Your genius!”

“My ability, such as it is—and that only. It can wait.... No; this means simply that I must come down from the clouds, plant my feet on solid earth, and get to work.”

“The sentiment is sound,” admitted Brentwick, “the practice of it, folly. Have you stopped to think what part a rising young portrait-painter can contribute toward the rebuilding of a devastated city?”

“The painting can wait,” reiterated Kirkwood. “I can work like other men.”

“You can do yourself and your genius grave injustice. And I fear me you will, dear boy. It’s in keeping with your heritage of American obstinacy. Now if it were a question of money—”

“Mr. Brentwick!” Kirkwood protested vehemently. “I’ve ample for my present needs,” he added.

“Of course,” conceded Brentwick with a sigh. “I didn’t really hope you would avail yourself of our friendship. Now there’s my home in Aspen Villas.... You have seen it?”

“In your absence this afternoon your estimable butler, with commendable discretion, kept me without the doors,” laughed the young man.

“It’s a comfortable home. You would not consent to share it with me until—?”

“You are more than good; but honestly, I must sail to-night. I wanted only this chance to see you before I left. You’ll dine with me, won’t you?”

“If you would stay in London, Philip, we would dine together not once but many times; as it is, I myself am booked for Munich, to be gone a week, on business. I have many affairs needing attention between now and the nine-ten train from Victoria. If you will be my guest at Aspen Villas—”

“Please!” begged Kirkwood, with a little laugh of pleasure because of the other’s insistence. “I only wish I could. Another day—”

“Oh, you will make your million in a year, and return scandalously independent. It’s in your American blood.” Frail white fingers tapped an arm of the chair as their owner stared gravely into the fire. “I confess I envy you,” he observed.

“The opportunity to make a million in a year?” chuckled Kirkwood.

“No. I envy you your Romance.”

“The Romance of a Poor Young Man went out of fashion years ago.... No, my dear friend; my Romance died a natural death half an hour since.”

“There spoke Youth—blind, enviable Youth!... On the contrary, you are but turning the leaves of the first chapter of your Romance, Philip.”

“Romance is dead,” contended the young man stubbornly.

“Long live the King!” Brentwick laughed quietly, still attentive to the fire. “Myself when young,” he said softly, “did seek Romance, but never knew it till its day was done. I’m quite sure that is a poor paraphrase of something I have read. In age, one’s sight is sharpened—to see Romance in another’s life, at least. I say I envy you. You have Youth, unconquerable Youth, and the world before you.... I must go.”

He rose stiffly, as though suddenly made conscious of his age. The old eyes peered more than a trifle wistfully, now, into Kirkwood’s. “You will not fail to call on me by cable, dear boy, if you need—anything? I ask it as a favor.... I’m glad you wished to see me before going out of my life. One learns to value the friendship of Youth, Philip. Good-by, and good luck attend you.”

Alone once more, Kirkwood returned to his window. The disappointment he felt at being robbed of his anticipated pleasure in Brentwick’s company at dinner, colored his mood unpleasantly. His musings merged into vacuity, into a dull gray mist of hopelessness comparable only to the dismal skies then lowering over London-town.

Brentwick was good, but Brentwick was mistaken. There was really nothing for Kirkwood to do but to go ahead. But one steamer-trunk remained to be packed; the boat-train would leave before midnight, the steamer with the morning tide; by the morrow’s noon he would be upon the high seas, within ten days in New York and among friends; and then ...

The problem of that afterwards perplexed Kirkwood more than he cared to own. Brentwick had opened his eyes to the fact that he would be practically useless in San Francisco; he could not harbor the thought of going back, only to become a charge upon Vanderlip. No; he was resolved that thenceforward he must rely upon himself, carve out his own destiny. But—would the art that he had cultivated with such assiduity, yield him a livelihood if sincerely practised with that end in view? Would the mental and physical equipment of a painter, heretofore dilettante, enable him to become self-supporting?

Knotting his brows in concentration of effort to divine the future, he doubted himself, darkly questioning alike his abilities and his temper under trial; neither ere now had ever been put to the test. His eyes became somberly wistful, his heart sore with regret of Yesterday—his Yesterday of care-free youth and courage, gilded with the ineffable, evanescent glamour of Romance—of such Romance, thrice refined of dross, as only he knows who has wooed his Art with passion passing the love of woman.

Far away, above the acres of huddled roofs and chimney-pots, the storm-mists thinned, lifting transiently; through them, gray, fairy-like, the towers of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament bulked monstrous and unreal, fading when again the fugitive dun vapors closed down upon the city.

Nearer at hand the Shade of Care nudged Kirkwood’s elbow, whispering subtly. Romance was indeed dead; the world was cold and cruel.

The gloom deepened.

In the cant of modern metaphysics, the moment was psychological.

There came a rapping at the door.

Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say “Come in!” pleasantly.

The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, turning on one heel, beheld hesitant upon the threshold a diminutive figure in the livery of the Pless pages.

“Mr. Kirkwood?”

Kirkwood nodded.

“Gentleman to see you, sir.”

Kirkwood nodded again, smiling if somewhat perplexed. Encouraged, the child advanced, proffering a silver card-tray at the end of an unnaturally rigid forearm. Kirkwood took the card dubiously between thumb and forefinger and inspected it without prejudice.

“‘George B. Calendar,’” he read. “‘George B. Calendar!’ But I know no such person. Sure there’s no mistake, young man?”

The close-cropped, bullet-shaped, British head was agitated in vigorous negation, and “Card for Mister Kirkwood!” was mumbled in dispassionate accents appropriate to a recitation by rote.

“Very well. But before you show him up, ask this Mr. Calendar if he is quite sure he wants to see Philip Kirkwood.”

“Yessir.”

The child marched out, punctiliously closing the door. Kirkwood tamped down the tobacco in his pipe and puffed energetically, dismissing the interruption to his reverie as a matter of no consequence—an obvious mistake to be rectified by two words with this Mr. Calendar whom he did not know. At the knock he had almost hoped it might be Brentwick, returning with a changed mind about the bid to dinner.

He regretted Brentwick sincerely. Theirs was a curious sort of friendship—extraordinarily close in view of the meagerness of either’s information about the other, to say nothing of the disparity between their ages. Concerning the elder man Kirkwood knew little more than that they had met on shipboard, “coming over”; that Brentwick had spent some years in America; that he was an Englishman by birth, a cosmopolitan by habit, by profession a gentleman (employing that term in its most uncompromisingly British significance), and by inclination a collector of “articles of virtue and bigotry,” in pursuit of which he made frequent excursions to the Continent from his residence in a quaint quiet street of Old Brompton. It had been during his not infrequent, but ordinarily abbreviated, sojourns in Paris that their steamer acquaintance had ripened into an affection almost filial on the one hand, almost paternal on the other....

There came a rapping at the door.

Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say “Come in!” pleasantly.

The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, swinging on one heel, beheld hesitant upon the threshold a rather rotund figure of medium height, clad in an expressionless gray lounge suit, with a brown “bowler” hat held tentatively in one hand, an umbrella weeping in the other. A voice, which was unctuous and insinuative, emanated from the figure.

“Mr. Kirkwood?”

Kirkwood nodded, with some effort recalling the name, so detached had been his thoughts since the disappearance of the page.

“Yes, Mr. Calendar—?”

“Are you—ah—busy, Mr. Kirkwood?”

“Are you, Mr. Calendar?” Kirkwood’s smile robbed the retort of any flavor of incivility.

Encouraged, the man entered, premising that he would detain his host but a moment, and readily surrendering hat and umbrella. Kirkwood, putting the latter aside, invited his caller to the easy chair which Brentwick had occupied by the fireplace.

“It takes the edge off the dampness,” Kirkwood explained in deference to the other’s look of pleased surprise at the cheerful bed of coals. “I’m afraid I could never get acclimated to life in a cold, damp room—or a damp cold room—such as you Britishers prefer.”

“It is grateful,” Mr. Calendar agreed, spreading plump and well cared-for hands to the warmth. “But you are mistaken; I am as much an American as yourself.”

“Yes?” Kirkwood looked the man over with more interest, less matter-of-course courtesy.

He proved not unprepossessing, this unclassifiable Mr. Calendar; he was dressed with some care, his complexion was good, and the fullness of his girth, emphasized as it was by a notable lack of inches, bespoke a nature genial, easy-going and sybaritic. His dark eyes, heavy-lidded, were active—curiously, at times, with a subdued glitter—in a face large, round, pink, of which the other most remarkable features were a mustache, close-trimmed and showing streaks of gray, a chubby nose, and duplicate chins. Mr. Calendar was furthermore possessed of a polished bald spot, girdled with a tonsure of silvered hair—circumstances which lent some factitious distinction to a personality otherwise commonplace.

His manner might be best described as uneasy with assurance; as though he frequently found it necessary to make up for his unimpressive stature by assuming an unnatural habit of authority. And there you have him; beyond these points, Kirkwood was conscious of no impressions; the man was apparently neutral-tinted of mind as well as of body.

“So you knew I was an American, Mr. Calendar?” suggested Kirkwood.

“‘Saw your name on the register; we both hail from the same neck of the woods, you know.”

“I didn’t know it, and—”

“Yes; I’m from Frisco, too.”

“And I’m sorry.”

Mr. Calendar passed five fat fingers nervously over his mustache, glanced alertly up at Kirkwood, as if momentarily inclined to question his tone, then again stared glumly into the fire; for Kirkwood had maintained an attitude purposefully colorless. Not to put too fine a point upon it, he believed that his caller was lying; the man’s appearance, his mannerisms, his voice and enunciation, while they might have been American, seemed all un-Californian. To one born and bred in that state, as Kirkwood had been, her sons are unmistakably hall-marked.

Now no man lies without motive. This one chose to reaffirm, with a show of deep feeling: “Yes; I’m from Frisco, too. We’re companions in misfortune.”

“I hope not altogether,” said Kirkwood politely.

Mr. Calendar drew his own inferences from the response and mustered up a show of cheerfulness. “Then you’re not completely wiped out?”

“To the contrary, I was hoping you were less unhappy.”

“Oh! Then you are—?”

Kirkwood lifted the cable message from the mantel. “I have just heard from my partner at home,” he said with a faint smile; and quoted: “‘Everything gone; no insurance.’”

Mr. Calendar pursed his plump lips, whistling inaudibly. “Too bad, too bad!” he murmured sympathetically. “We’re all hard hit, more or less.” He lapsed into dejected apathy, from which Kirkwood, growing at length impatient, found it necessary to rouse him.

“You wished to see me about something else, I’m sure?”

Mr. Calendar started from his reverie. “Eh? ... I was dreaming. I beg pardon. It seems hard to realize, Mr. Kirkwood, that this awful catastrophe has overtaken our beloved metropolis—”

The canting phrases wearied Kirkwood; abruptly he cut in. “Would a sovereign help you out, Mr. Calendar? I don’t mind telling you that’s about the limit of my present resources.”

“Pardon me.” Mr. Calendar’s moon-like countenance darkened; he assumed a transparent dignity. “You misconstrue my motive, sir.”

“Then I’m sorry.”

“I am not here to borrow. On the other hand, quite by accident I discovered your name upon the register, down-stairs; a good old Frisco name, if you will permit me to say so. I thought to myself that here was a chance to help a fellow-countryman.” Calendar paused, interrogative; Kirkwood remained interested but silent. “If a passage across would help you, I—I think it might be arranged,” stammered Calendar, ill at ease.

“It might,” admitted Kirkwood, speculative.

“I could fix it so that you could go over—first-class, of course—and pay your way, so to speak, by, rendering us, me and my partner, a trifling service.”

“Ah?”

“In fact,” continued Calendar, warming up to his theme, “there might be something more in it for you than the passage, if—if you’re the right man, the man I’m looking for.”

“That, of course, is the question.”

“Eh?” Calendar pulled up suddenly in a full-winged flight of enthusiasm.

Kirkwood eyed him steadily. “I said that it is a question, Mr. Calendar, whether or not I am the man you’re looking for. Between you and me and the fire-dogs, I don’t believe I am. Now if you wish to name your quid pro quo, this trifling service I’m to render in recognition of your benevolence, you may.”

“Ye-es,” slowly. But the speaker delayed his reply until he had surveyed his host from head to foot, with a glance both critical and appreciative.

He saw a man in height rather less than the stock size six-feet so much in demand by the manufacturers of modern heroes of fiction; a man a bit round-shouldered, too, but otherwise sturdily built, self-contained, well-groomed.

Kirkwood wears a boy’s honest face; no one has ever called him handsome. A few prejudiced persons have decided that he has an interesting countenance; the propounders of this verdict have been, for the most part, feminine. Kirkwood himself has been heard to declare that his features do not fit; in its essence the statement is true, but there is a very real, if undefinable, engaging quality in their very irregularity. His eyes are brown, pleasant, set wide apart, straightforward of expression.

Now it appeared that, whatever his motive, Mr. Calendar had acted upon impulse in sending his card up to Kirkwood. Possibly he had anticipated a very different sort of reception from a very different sort of man. Even in the light of subsequent events it remains difficult to fathom the mystery of his choice. Perhaps Fate directed it; stranger things have happened at the dictates of a man’s Destiny.

At all events, this Calendar proved not lacking in penetration; men of his stamp are commonly endowed with that quality to an eminent degree. Not slow to reckon the caliber of the man before him, the leaven of intuition began to work in his adipose intelligence. He owned himself baffled.

“Thanks,” he concluded pensively; “I reckon you’re right. You won’t do, after all. I’ve wasted your time. Mine, too.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Calendar got heavily out of his chair, reaching for his hat and umbrella. “Permit me to apologize for an unwarrantable intrusion, Mr. Kirkwood.” He faltered; a worried and calculating look shadowed his small eyes. “I was looking for some one to serve me in a certain capacity—”

“Certain or questionable?” propounded Kirkwood blandly, opening the door.

Pointedly Mr. Calendar ignored the imputation. “Sorry I disturbed you. G’dafternoon, Mr. Kirkwood.”

“Good-by, Mr. Calendar.” A smile twitched the corners of Kirkwood’s too-wide mouth.

Calendar stepped hastily out into the hall. As he strode—or rather, rolled—away, Kirkwood maliciously feathered a Parthian arrow.

“By the way, Mr. Calendar—?”

The sound of retreating footsteps was stilled and “Yes?” came from the gloom of the corridor.

“Were you ever in San Francisco? Really and truly? Honest Injun, Mr. Calendar?”

For a space the quiet was disturbed by harsh breathing; then, in a strained voice, “Good day, Mr. Kirkwood”; and again the sound of departing footfalls.

Kirkwood closed the door and the incident simultaneously, with a smart bang of finality. Laughing quietly he went back to the window with its dreary outlook, now the drearier for lengthening evening shadows.

“I wonder what his game is, anyway. An adventurer, of course; the woods are full of ‘em. A queer fish, even of his kind! And with a trick up his sleeve as queer and fishy as himself, no doubt!”

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II. “AND SOME THERE BE WHO HAVE ADVENTURES THRUST UPON THEM”

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THE ASSUMPTION SEEMS NOT UNWARRANTABLE, that Mr. Calendar figuratively washed his hands of Mr. Kirkwood. Unquestionably Mr. Kirkwood considered himself well rid of Mr. Calendar. When the latter had gone his way, Kirkwood, mindful of the fact that his boat-train would leave St. Pancras at half-after eleven, set about his packing and dismissed from his thoughts the incident created by the fat chevalier d’industrie; and at six o’clock, or thereabouts, let himself out of his room, dressed for the evening, a light rain-coat over one arm, in the other hand a cane,—the drizzle having ceased.

A stolid British lift lifted him down to the ground floor of the establishment in something short of five minutes. Pausing in the office long enough to settle his bill and leave instructions to have his luggage conveyed to the boat-train, he received with entire equanimity the affable benediction of the clerk, in whose eyes he still figured as that radiant creature, an American millionaire; and passed on to the lobby, where he surrendered hat, coat and stick to the cloak-room attendant, ere entering the dining-room.

The hour was a trifle early for a London dinner, the handsome room but moderately filled with patrons. Kirkwood absorbed the fact unconsciously and without displeasure; the earlier, the better: he was determined to consume his last civilized meal (as he chose to consider it) at his serene leisure, to live fully his ebbing moments in the world to which he was born, to drink to its cloying dregs one ultimate draught of luxury.

A benignant waiter bowed him into a chair by a corner table in juxtaposition with an open window, through which, swaying imperceptibly the closed hangings, were wafted gentle gusts of the London evening’s sweet, damp breath.

Kirkwood settled himself with an inaudible sigh of pleasure. He was dining, for the last time in Heaven knew how long, in a first-class restaurant.

With a deferential flourish the waiter brought him the menu-card. He had served in his time many an “American, millionaire”; he had also served this Mr. Kirkwood, and respected him as one exalted above the run of his kind, in that he comprehended the art of dining.

Fifteen minutes later the waiter departed rejoicing, his order complete.

To distract a conscience whispering of extravagance, Kirkwood lighted a cigarette.

The room was gradually filling with later arrivals; it was the most favored restaurant in London, and, despite the radiant costumes of the women, its atmosphere remained sedate and restful.

A cab clattered down the side street on which the window opened.

At a near-by table a woman laughed, quietly happy. Incuriously Kirkwood glanced her way. She was bending forward, smiling, flattering her escort with the adoration of her eyes. They were lovers alone in the wilderness of the crowded restaurant. They seemed very happy.

Kirkwood was conscious of a strange pang of emotion. It took him some time to comprehend that it was envy.

He was alone and lonely. For the first time he realized that no woman had ever looked upon him as the woman at the adjoining table looked upon her lover. He had found time to worship but one mistress—his art.

And he was renouncing her.

He was painfully conscious of what he had missed, had lost—or had not yet found: the love of woman.

The sensation was curious—new, unique in his experience.

His cigarette burned down to his fingers as he sat pondering. Abstractedly, he ground its fire out in an ash-tray.

The waiter set before him a silver tureen, covered.

He sat up and began to consume his soup, scarce doing it justice. His dream troubled him—his dream of the love of woman.

From a little distance his waiter regarded him, with an air of disappointment. In the course of an hour and a half he awoke, to discover the attendant in the act of pouring very hot and black coffee from a bright silver pot into a demi-tasse of fragile porcelain. Kirkwood slipped a single lump of sugar into the cup, gave over his cigar-case to be filled, then leaned back, deliberately lighting a long and slender panetela as a preliminary to a last lingering appreciation of the scene of which he was a part.

He reviewed it through narrowed eyelids, lazily; yet with some slight surprise, seeming to see it with new vision, with eyes from which scales of ignorance had dropped.

This long and brilliant dining-hall, with its quiet perfection of proportion and appointment, had always gratified his love of the beautiful; to-night it pleased him to an unusual degree. Yet it was the same as ever; its walls tinted a deep rose, with their hangings of dull cloth-of-gold, its lights discriminatingly clustered and discreetly shaded, redoubled in half a hundred mirrors, its subdued shimmer of plate and glass, its soberly festive assemblage of circumspect men and women splendidly gowned, its decorously muted murmur of voices penetrated and interwoven by the strains of a hidden string orchestra—caressed his senses as always, yet with a difference. To-night he saw it a room populous with lovers, lovers insensibly paired, man unto woman attentive, woman of man regardful.

He had never understood this before. This much he had missed in life.

It seemed hard to realize that one must forego it all for ever.

Presently he found himself acutely self-conscious. The sensation puzzled him; and without appearing to do so, he traced it from effect to cause; and found the cause in a woman—a girl, rather, seated at a table the third removed from him, near the farther wall of the room.

Too considerate, and too embarrassed, to return her scrutiny openly, look for look, he yet felt sure that, however temporarily, he was become the object of her intent interest.

Idly employed with his cigar, he sipped his coffee. In time aware that she had turned her attention elsewhere, he looked up.

At first he was conscious of an effect of disappointment. She was nobody that he knew, even by reputation. She was simply a young girl, barely out of her teens—if as old as that phrase would signify. He wondered what she had found in him to make her think him worth so long a study; and looked again, more keenly curious.

With this second glance, appreciation stirred the artistic side of his nature, that was already grown impatient of his fretted mood. The slender and girlish figure, posed with such absolute lack of intrusion against a screen of rose and gilt, moved him to critical admiration. The tinted glow of shaded candles caught glistening on the spun gold of her fair hair, and enhanced the fine pallor of her young shoulders. He saw promise, and something more than promise, in her face, its oval something dimmed by warm shadows that unavailingly sought to blend youth and beauty alike into the dull, rich background.

In the sheer youth of her (he realized) more than in aught else, lay her chiefest charm. She could be little more than a child, indeed, if he were to judge her by the purity of her shadowed eyes and the absence of emotion in the calm and direct look which presently she turned upon him who sat wondering at the level, penciled darkness of her brows.

At length aware that she had surprised his interest, Kirkwood glanced aside—coolly deliberate, lest she should detect in his attitude anything more than impersonal approval.

A slow color burned his cheeks. In his temples there rose a curious pulsing.

After a while she drew his gaze again, imperiously—herself all unaware of the havoc she was wreaking on his temperament.

He could have fancied her distraught, cloaking an unhappy heart with placid brow and gracious demeanor; but such a conception matched strangely her glowing youth and spirit. What had she to do with Care? What concern had Black Care, whose gaunt shape in sable shrouds had lurked at his shoulder all the evening, despite his rigid preoccupation, with a being as charmingly flushed with budding womanhood as this girl?

“Eighteen?” he hazarded. “Eighteen, or possibly nineteen, dining at the Pless in a ravishing dinner-gown, and—unhappy? Oh, hardly—not she!”

Yet the impression haunted him, and ere long he was fain to seek confirmation or denial of it in the manner of her escort.

The latter sat with back to Kirkwood, cutting a figure as negative as his snug evening clothes. One could surmise little from a fleshy thick neck, a round, glazed bald spot, a fringe of grizzled hair, and two bright red ears.

Calendar?

Somehow the fellow did suggest Kirkwood’s caller of the afternoon. The young man could not have said precisely how, for he was unfamiliar with the aspect of that gentleman’s back. None the less the suggestion persisted.

By now, a few of the guests, theater-bound, for the most part, were leaving. Here and there a table stood vacant, that had been filled, cloth tarnished, chairs disarranged: in another moment to be transformed into its pristine brilliance under the deft attentions of the servitors.

Down an aisle, past the table at which the girl was sitting, came two, making toward the lobby; the man, a slight and meager young personality, in the lead. Their party had attracted Kirkwood’s notice as they entered; why, he did not remember; but it was in his mind that then they had been three. Instinctively he looked at the table they had left—one placed at some distance from the girl, and hidden from her by an angle in the wall. It appeared that the third member had chosen to dally a few moments over his tobacco and a liqueur-brandy. Kirkwood could see him plainly, lounging in his chair and fumbling the stem of a glass: a heavy man, of somber habit, his black and sullen brows lowering and thoughtful above a face boldly handsome.

The woman of the trio was worthy of closer attention. Some paces in the wake of her lack-luster esquire, she was making a leisurely progress, trailing the skirts of a gown magnificent beyond dispute, half concealed though it was by the opera cloak whose soft folds draped her shoulders. Slowly, carrying her head high, she approached, insolent eyes reviewing the room from beneath their heavy lids; a metallic and mature type of dark beauty, supremely self-confident and self-possessed.

Men turned involuntarily to look after her, not altogether in undiluted admiration.

In the act of passing behind the putative Calendar, she paused momentarily, bending as if to gather up her train. Presumably the action disturbed her balance; she swayed a little, and in the effort to recover, rested the tips of her gloved fingers upon the edge of the table. Simultaneously (Kirkwood could have sworn) a single word left her lips, a word evidently pitched for the ear of the hypothetical Calendar alone. Then she swept on, imperturbable, assured.

To the perplexed observer it was indubitably evident that some communication had passed from the woman to the man. Kirkwood saw the fat shoulders of the girl’s companion stiffen suddenly as the woman’s hand rested at his elbow; as she moved away, a little rippling shiver was plainly visible in the muscles of his back, beneath his coat—mute token of relaxing tension. An instant later one plump and mottled hand was carelessly placed where the woman’s had been; and was at once removed with fingers closed.

To the girl, watching her face covertly, Kirkwood turned for clue to the incident. He made no doubt that she had observed the passage; proof of that one found in her sudden startling pallor (of indignation?) and in her eyes, briefly alight with some inscrutable emotion, though quickly veiled by lowered lashes. Slowly enough she regained color and composure, while her vis-à-vis sat motionless, head inclined as if in thought.

Abruptly the man turned in his chair to summon a waiter, and exposed his profile. Kirkwood was in no wise amazed to recognize Calendar—a badly frightened Calendar now, however, and hardly to be identified with the sleek, glib fellow who had interviewed Kirkwood in the afternoon. His flabby cheeks were ashen and trembling, and upon the back of his chair the fat white fingers were drumming incessantly an inaudible tattoo of shattered nerves.

“Scared silly!” commented Kirkwood. “Why?” Having spoken to his waiter, Calendar for some seconds raked the room with quick glances, as if seeking an acquaintance. Presumably disappointed, he swung back to face the girl, bending forward to reach her ears with accents low-pitched and confidential. She, on her part, fell at once attentive, grave and responsive. Perhaps a dozen sentences passed between them. At the outset her brows contracted and she shook her head in gentle dissent; whereupon Calendar’s manner became more imperative. Gradually, unwillingly, she seemed to yield consent. Once she caught her breath sharply, and, infected by her companion’s agitation, sat back, color fading again in the round young cheeks.

Kirkwood’s waiter put in an inopportune appearance with the bill. The young man paid it. When he looked up again Calendar had swung squarely about in his chair. His eye encountered Kirkwood’s. He nodded pleasantly. Temporarily confused, Kirkwood returned the nod.

In a twinkling he had repented; Calendar had left his chair and was wending his way through the tables toward Kirkwood’s. Reaching it, he paused, offering the hand of genial fellowship. Kirkwood accepted it half-heartedly (what else was he to do?) remarking at the same time that Calendar had recovered much of his composure. There was now a normal coloring in the heavily jowled countenance, with less glint of fear in the quick, dark eyes; and Calendar’s hand, even if moist and cold, no longer trembled. Furthermore it was immediately demonstrated that his impudence had not deserted him.

“Why, Kirkwood, my dear fellow!” he crowed—not so loudly as to attract attention, but in a tone assumed to divert suspicion, should he be overheard. “This is great luck, you know—to find you here.”

“Is it?” returned Kirkwood coolly. He disengaged his fingers.

The pink plump face was contorted in a furtive grimace of deprecation. Without waiting for permission Calendar dropped into the vacant chair.

“My dear sir,” he proceeded, unabashed, “I throw myself upon your mercy.”

“The devil you do!”

“I must. I’m in the deuce of a hole, and there’s no one I know here besides yourself. I—I—”

Kirkwood saw fit to lead him on; partly because, out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of the girl’s unconcealed suspense. “Go on, please, Mr. Calendar. You throw yourself on a total stranger’s mercy because you’re in the deuce of a hole; and—?”

“It’s this way; I’m called away on urgent business imperative business. I must go at once. My daughter is with me. My daughter! Think of my embarrassment; I can not leave her here, alone, nor can I permit her to go home unprotected.”

Calendar paused in anxiety.

“That’s easily remedied, then,” suggested Kirkwood.

“How?”

“Put her in a cab at the door.”

“I ... No. The devil! I couldn’t think of it. You won’t understand. I—”

“I do not understand,—” amended the younger man politely.

Calendar compressed his lips nervously. It was plain that the man was quivering with impatience and half-mad with excitement. He held quiet only long enough to regain his self-control and take counsel with his prudence.

“It is impossible, Mr. Kirkwood. I must ask you to be generous and believe me.”

“Very well; for the sake of the argument, I do believe you, Mr. Calendar.”

“Hell!” exploded the elder man in an undertone. Then swiftly, stammering in his haste: “I can’t let Dorothy accompany me to the door,” he declared. “She—I—I throw myself upon your mercy!”

“What—again?”

“The truth—the truth is, if you will have it, that I am in danger of arrest the moment I leave here. If my daughter is with me, she will have to endure the shame and humiliation—”

“Then why place her in such a position?” Kirkwood demanded sharply.

Calendar’s eyes burned, incandescent with resentment. Offended, he offered to rise and go, but changed his mind and sat tight in hope.

“I beg of you, sir—”

“One moment, Mr. Calendar.”

Abruptly Kirkwood’s weathercock humor shifted—amusement yielding to intrigued interest. After all, why not oblige the fellow? What did anything matter, now? What harm could visit him if he yielded to this corpulent adventurer’s insistence? Both from experience and observation he knew this for a world plentifully peopled by soldiers of fortune, contrivers of snares and pitfalls for the feet of the unwary. On the other hand, it is axiomatic that a penniless man is perfectly safe anywhere. Besides, there was the girl to be considered.

Kirkwood considered her, forthwith. In the process thereof, his eyes sought her, perturbed. Their glances clashed. She looked away hastily, crimson to her temples.

Instantly the conflict between curiosity and caution, inclination and distrust, was at an end. With sudden compliance, the young man rose.

“I shall be most happy to be of service to your daughter, Mr. Calendar,” he said, placing the emphasis with becoming gravity. And then, the fat adventurer leading the way, Kirkwood strode across the room—wondering somewhat at himself, if the whole truth is to be disclosed.

..................

III. CALENDAR’S DAUGHTER

..................

All but purring with satisfaction and relief, Calendar halted.

“Dorothy, my dear, permit me to introduce an old friend—Mr. Kirkwood. Kirkwood, this is my daughter.”

“Miss Calendar,” acknowledged Kirkwood.

The girl bowed, her eyes steady upon his own. “Mr. Kirkwood is very kind,” she said gravely.

“That’s right!” Calendar exclaimed blandly. “He’s promised to see you home. Now both of you will pardon my running away, I know.”

“Yes,” assented Kirkwood agreeably.

The elder man turned and hurried toward the main entrance.

Kirkwood took the chair he had vacated. To his disgust he found himself temporarily dumb. No flicker of thought illuminated the darkness of his confusion. How was he to open a diverting conversation with a young woman whom he had met under auspices so extraordinary? Any attempt to gloze the situation, he felt, would be futile. And, somehow, he did not care to render himself ridiculous in her eyes, little as he knew her.

Inanely dumb, he sat watching her, smiling fatuously until it was borne in on him that he was staring like a boor and grinning like an idiot. Convinced, he blushed for himself; something which served to make him more tongue-tied than ever.

As for his involuntary protégée, she exhibited such sweet composure that he caught himself wondering if she really appreciated the seriousness of her parent’s predicament; if, for that matter, its true nature were known to her at all. Calendar, he believed, was capable of prevarication, polite and impolite. Had he lied to his daughter? or to Kirkwood? To both, possibly; to the former alone, not improbably. That the adventurer had told him the desperate truth, Kirkwood was quite convinced; but he now began to believe that the girl had been put off with some fictitious explanation. Her tranquillity and self-control were remarkable, otherwise; she seemed very young to possess those qualities in such eminent degree.

She was looking wearily past him, her gaze probing some unguessed abyss of thought. Kirkwood felt himself privileged to stare in wonder. Her naïve aloofness of poise gripped his imagination powerfully,—the more so, perhaps, since it seemed eloquent of her intention to remain enigmatic,—but by no means more powerfully than the unaided appeal of her loveliness.

Presently the girl herself relieved the tension of the situation, fairly startling the young man by going straight to the heart of things. Without preface or warning, lifting her gaze to his, “My name is really Dorothy Calendar,” she observed. And then, noting his astonishment, “You would be privileged to doubt, under the circumstances,” she added. “Please let us be frank.”

“Well,” he stammered, “if I didn’t doubt, let’s say I was unprejudiced.”

His awkward, well-meant pleasantry, perhaps not conceived in the best of taste, sounded in his own ears wretchedly flat and vapid. He regretted it spontaneously; the girl ignored it.

“You are very kind,” she iterated the first words he had heard from her lips. “I wish you to understand that I, for one, appreciate it.”

“Not kind; I have done nothing. I am glad.... One is apt to become interested when Romance is injected into a prosaic existence.” Kirkwood allowed himself a keen but cheerful glance.

She nodded, with a shadowy smile. He continued, purposefully, to distract her, holding her with his honest, friendly eyes.

“Since it is to be confidences” (this she questioned with an all but imperceptible lifting of the eyebrows), “I don’t mind telling you my own name is really Philip Kirkwood.”

“And you are an old friend of my father’s?”

He opened his lips, but only to close them without speaking. The girl moved her shoulders with a shiver of disdain.

“I knew it wasn’t so.”

“You know it would be hard for a young man like myself to be a very old friend,” he countered lamely.

“How long, then, have you known each other?”

“Must I answer?”

“Please.”

“Between three and four hours.”

“I thought as much.” She stared past him, troubled. Abruptly she said: “Please smoke.”

“Shall I? If you wish it, of course....” 

She repeated: “Please.”

“We were to wait ten minutes or so,” she continued.

He produced his cigarette-case.

“If you care to smoke it will seem an excuse.” He lighted his cigarette.

“And then, you may talk to me,” she concluded calmly.

“I would, gladly, if I could guess what would interest you.”

“Yourself. Tell me about yourself,” she commanded.

“It would bore you,” he responded tritely, confused.

“No; you interest me very much.” She made the statement quietly, contemptuous of coquetry.

“Very well, then; I am Philip Kirkwood, an American.”

“Nothing more?”

“Little worth retailing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” he demanded, piqued.

“Because you have merely indicated that you are a wealthy American.”

“Why wealthy?”

“If not, you would have some aim in life—a calling or profession.”

“And you think I have none?”

“Unless you consider it your vocation to be a wealthy American.”

“I don’t. Besides, I’m not wealthy. In point of fact, I ...” He pulled up short, on the verge of declaring himself a pauper. “I am a painter.”

Her eyes lightened with interest. “An artist?”

“I hope so. I don’t paint signs—or houses,” he remarked.

Amused, she laughed softly. “I suspected it,” she declared.

“Not really?”

“It was your way of looking at—things, that made me guess it: the painter’s way. I have often noticed it.”

“As if mentally blending colors all the time?”

“Yes; that and—seeing flaws.”

“I have discovered none,” he told her brazenly.

But again her secret cares were claiming her thoughts, and the gay, inconsequential banter died upon her scarlet lips as a second time her glance ranged away, sounding mysterious depths of anxiety.

Provoked, he would have continued the chatter. “I have confessed,” he persisted. “You know everything of material interest about me. And yourself?”

“I am merely Dorothy Calendar,” she answered.

“Nothing more?” He laughed.

“That is all, if you please, for the present.”

“I am to content myself with the promise of the future?”

“The future,” she told him seriously, “is to-morrow; and to-morrow ...” She moved restlessly in her chair, eyes and lips pathetic in their distress. “Please, we will go now, if you are ready.”

“I am quite ready, Miss Calendar.”