Anthony's eyes shone.
"Why," said he, "I think I understand that."
"The rich ports of history are the most frequent stopping-places of his mind," proceeded Dr. King. "Even as a schoolboy this was so. While other lads took delight in the doings of the military heroes of antiquity, Charles took to sea in the galleys of the Phenician merchants, searching out new lands, new peoples, new trade. While the others thrilled with the story of Thermopylæ, his gaze was fixed upon Tyre, with its great docks, its famed factories of purple, its crowding ships. His companions listened with pleasure to the voice of Cato pronouncing the doom of Carthage in the Roman senate; but Charles saw only the passing of a wondrous people, who had carried commerce to a point never previously touched in history. Venice he looked upon with almost idolatry; here the manufacturer, the merchant, the trader had lifted themselves to the places of kings; the hardy enterprise of the Genoese seafarers gained his unbounded admiration, and he never tired talking of them. But Prince Henry of Portugal was his hero; from amid the batterings of a war that had gone on for many generations, he saw this mind arise and fill with its dream of the rich regions beyond Sahara. While other boys of his age were hurry-skurrying through some rough, healthful sport, Charles, with his lame foot, would sit silent; in his mind he would enter the lonely tower at Cape St. Vincent, as the prince had so often done; and while the gray sea threw itself against the desolate headland he'd brood upon its avenues and the possibility of traversing them to India, the land of his desire."
"Well," said Anthony, as he fired the tobacco in his pipe at one of the candles. "I now see the foundation of some of the things I've heard said of him."
"These dreams of his," said Dr. King, "he has carried with him through life. He does not plot nor contrive in his business; things rush upon him like inspirations. His ships are the stanchest, the fleetest, and have the greatest capacity of any in the port; his suggestions to the builders made them so, though many a head was shaken over them before the sea and the wind proved his word. These same ships have sailed on many a voyage which crafty mariners looked upon as folly; but Charles Stevens has a way of turning bad into good, and causing avoided places to teem with riches."
"I find myself with a great desire to meet my uncle," said Anthony, with a smile. "Christopher Dent says you are upon intimate terms with him, and yet you talk of his doings as though he were a hero of legend. It is only a very remarkable man who can inspire a thing like that."
The physician looked at the young man through the haze of curling tobacco smoke that drifted between them; and there was a shadow upon his face.
"What I have told you," said he, "are the facts as a good many know them. But, if necessary, I could speak of other things of which only little is known, and that to a very few."
Once more the cringing figure of Magruder came into Anthony's mind, the gray of fear in his mean face, and unintelligible words upon his lips.
"These things," said Anthony to the doctor, "would, I suppose, not be so favorable as the others?"
"No," said Dr. King. He sat looking at Anthony steadily for a space; then he added, "How long do you mean to remain in the city?"
"I don't know. It will, I think, altogether depend upon circumstances."
Dr. King nodded. His eyes were still upon the young man, a look of speculation in them. He studied the well-set head, the clear eye, the long face, with its strong jaw, so like that of old Rufus. His glance took in the supple power of the body buttoned so tightly into the coat of Lincoln green, and the strong, ready hands that rested upon the arms of his chair.
"You could, if you would, remain here?" said he.
"I could."
Dr. King put down his pipe and leaned across the table.
"You never saw me before to-day," said he; "but I am your friend. I am your uncle's friend." He paused a moment, and then went on: "Do not go away. Stay here. You may be able to do nothing; and, then again, you may be able to do a great deal."
"What?" demanded Anthony, and the out-thrust chin seemed to point at the man leaning toward him.
Dr. King settled back into his chair; the aggressive chin, the stubborn frown knotted between Anthony's eyes seemed to bring him to a sudden decision.
"If you are shrewd," said the doctor, "you may be able to prevent great losses upon land and sea. If you have courage you may stop death itself as it enters your uncle's house."
"What losses threaten his goods?" asked Anthony. "What hand is lifted against his life?"
"I know there have been losses," said Dr. King, "and instinct tells me there is danger. But I know nothing definite; I could not point to anything; I could not make an accusation that would stand reasoning over. And yet I am confident as I am that I'm speaking to you that you are needed at Rufus Stevens' Sons. Take the place that's yours in the counting-room; keep your eyes open; tell no one why you are there—no one, mind you; and, who knows? you may come to the bottom of a detestable state of affairs."
"Then there is no immediate danger?"
"No."
Anthony pondered, pressing the black ash into the pipe bowl with his forefinger.
"I will stay," said he, at last.
That night was not a very comfortable one for Anthony. He lay awake for a long time, his straight-forward mind laboring with the facts of the day; when he did finally drop off, his sleep was not a deep one; it was thronged with grotesque images, and incidents that caricatured what he had seen and heard.
Once he awoke. It was a moon-lit night; through the window he could see the bell swinging in the tower across the way; he reasoned that it had just done striking, and the blows had awakened him. He tried to see the hour by his watch, but could not; so he arose and took it to the window. It was one o'clock. He stood moodily looking down into the street so silvered and quiet; from somewhere, a long way off, came the rumble of wheels and the notes of a coach horn; and he shivered as he thought of the harassed passengers, beginning a journey in the thin chill of the night.
He was about to turn from the window when a movement caught his eye in the shadow cast by the tower; it was a dim, leisurely movement, and well toward the edge, where the shadow met the moonlight sharply. Almost at once he saw its nature; the figures of two men came into the light and paused. They seemed on the point of separating, and the pause was for a parting word. They shook hands with the quick, hard clutch of persons well satisfied, and each turned away. But one, he who had faced eastward in the direction of the river, suddenly paused.
There was something familiar to Anthony in the gesture that stopped the other man; and the two joined once more in talk. However, it was but for a moment. The man with the familiar gesture seemed to ask a question, which the other answered, and in so doing lifted his hand and pointed at Anthony's window. The first man threw back his head; a ringing laugh broke the stillness, and Anthony at once recognized him; it was the man with the saddle-bags who had come ashore that morning from the New York packet.
Anthony watched the two separate; the one held steadily toward the river; the other crossed the street toward the inn; and a moment later Anthony heard the outer door open and close. He stood for a moment in the center of the floor and pondered; there was something in the scene he had just witnessed which started a cold shuddering in his blood—the same feeling he'd experienced on many a night as the wilderness closed around him, and he knew the shadows were peopled with gliding forms, each bearing a weapon that might let out his life.
But this was civilization! This was the capital city of the nation! The two men may have been cronies, detained somewhere by the flavor of a particular bottle. How was he to be sure that it was his window at which the man who had entered the inn had pointed? There were other windows; it may have been one of those. But, even though it had been his, what did it signify? A hundred reasons, each entirely innocent, might account for the gesture. The fancy that the thing held a danger amused his reason; but still the creeping continued in his blood, and instinct rang its warning in his pulse. He went to his chest, threw open the lid, and took out a heavy, knotted walking-stick, iron-shod and formidable. He was balancing this in his hand and regarding it from under frowning brows when he caught the sound of a light foot in the hall; it paused at his door; his head went up, and, clutching the cudgel, he stood listening.
The latch lifted softly; there was an instant's pause, and then the door began to push inward. Anthony saw a young man with a tall hat, a fashionably cut coat, with metal buttons, small-clothes, and shoes that had silver buckles. He carried himself very erect and with perfect composure. Closing the door after him, he advanced to the bedside, and took a chair. It was plain that in the uncertain light of the room, to which his eyes were not accustomed, he fancied the bed occupied, for he bent his head forward and addressed it.
"Now," said he, "if you'll be good enough to wake up, I'll have a few important words with you."
There was a pause, as he waited for the stirring of the sleeper; none followed, and he reached out his hand. As it met with only empty sheets, he exclaimed impatiently; and then out of the semi-darkness came the voice of Anthony.
"Perhaps," said he, "a little candle-light might improve matters."
"Oh," said the intruder, turning with perfect composure toward the sound, "so you are there? I took it for granted that at this hour you'd be abed."
Anthony struck a light and touched it to the wick of a candle; then, the knotted stick in his hand, he stood glowering at his visitor.
"I am sorry to disturb you," said the man. He placed his tall hat upon a table, and seemed quite at his ease. "Also," and he nodded at the cudgel, "I'm quite mortified to have given you alarm."
"You need not disturb yourself about that," said Anthony, grimly. "I'm accustomed to alarms, and also to what follows after." Then, with the sudden cut to his voice which always told of a rising temper, "What the devil do you mean by easing yourself into my room, like this?"
"Sit down," said the man, unruffled. "And let us talk."
"I warn you," said Anthony sharply, "that that won't do. I will not sit down, and I will have no talk with you except upon one subject. What are you doing here?"
The man crossed one leg upon the other and examined Anthony in the candle-light.
"I can see," said he, "that they've spoken the truth. Your temper lifts too quickly for a northern climate. If you'll be advised, you'll go quietly back to—is it New Orleans?"
There was something very clear in the voice; it was the crisp utterance of a man who knew his own mind, and had complete confidence in what he said. Anthony, as he looked at him, saw that he had a slim, elegant figure, that his face was of classic regularity; but there was a cold assurance in the eyes and a sneer about the lips.
"Once more," said Anthony, "what are you doing here?" He took a step forward, and his right hand closed about the handle of the stick. "Jocular reflections upon my temper, and impertinent advice, are not answers. Come, now!"
The intruder smiled, easily.
"I suppose," said he, "you are one who prides himself upon sticking to a point. It's a good quality, enough; but one should never permit such a thing to blind one to matters of more interest." He looked at Anthony with the same easy smile, and through it were the sneer and the cold confidence of the eyes. "This port is no place for you," he said. "Be advised. There is a ship sailing to-morrow for Havana; from there to New Orleans is no distance at all."
Anthony waited for no more. Like a wolf he was upon the other and had hauled him to his feet; then the iron-shod stick lashed out, showering blows upon the man's head and shoulders. Overwhelmed by the suddenness of the attack, the intruder fell back against the wall; Anthony threw open the door, seized him by the scruff of the neck, much as one might an offending cur, and, without a word, pitched him into the hall, and his hat after him and slammed the door. Then he stood his weapon in a corner, put out the candle, got back into bed and fell instantly asleep.
Quite early in the morning he arose; he descended the stairs briskly, his mind fully made up as to what he should do. He ate his breakfast of hot eggs, and cold sliced ham, and breast of fowl; and he drank his tea. Then he took up the knotted stick and went stumping determinedly through the bar on his way to the street.
"Mr. Stevens!"
It was the landlord who hailed him, a man with a paunch of fine proportions, and the face of a serious cherub. Anthony stopped.
"Last night," said the host solemnly, "you engaged in an altercation. I do not know the merits of the case, sir, but Mr. Tarrant will, I think, send some one during the day to meet you."
"Is Mr. Tarrant the gentleman whom I was compelled to pitch out of my room?"
"He claims that you mishandled him; but just how or why he did not say. Should he," and the landlord's cherubic countenance was filled with interest, "send a friend to converse with you, and you should chance to be out, what report am I to give of you?"
"None," said Anthony curtly. "I am not at the beck and call of Mr. Tarrant, or any of his friends."
"He has a rare eye at forty paces," said the host, with a nod. "A very rare eye. They say there was no better shot in the navy than he, at that distance."
But Anthony did not pause to make reply; out he went and down Chestnut Street at a clipping pace. There was to be no more vague talk; he'd had enough of that the day before; there were to be no more hintings, no more warnings without body enough behind them for a man to grasp. He would have plain speech, now; and short speech, or he'd know the reason why!
The hour was rather earlier than the hour he had started out on the morning before. There was no such hurrying of drays and porters as then; Water Street was stirring slightly, but the river front was still sluggish with sleep, and the deep sea ships in the docks and the stream were as silent as though deserted. He had no idea that Magruder would be in his place of business at this hour, but impatience would not permit him to wait; if he found the place closed, he could tramp about the docks, and return at an hour that promised better.
The shutters were still up at the windows that faced the wharves, and the heavy door was fast. Anthony, however, recalled that the trader had his counting-room at the back, with its windows opening upon an alley; and he made his way around the building on the chance that it was by a door on this side that Magruder usually entered. Here, too, the shutters were up; there was the door, as he expected, and it was standing slightly ajar.
Evidently Magruder, or a clerk, had just arrived, and had not yet time to let daylight into the place. Anthony shoved the door farther open and went in. He found himself in a sort of anteroom, cluttered with nail kegs, bits of plank and cordage, and all the rubbish and refuse of shipping; there was a dark passage that he felt led to the wareroom through which he had passed on the previous day; almost at his hand was a door leading into the counting-room. He lifted the latch of this, and it opened readily; the place was dark save for here and there a gray dart of day that came in at the chinks in the shutters.
"Hello!" Anthony spoke loudly, so that his voice might also carry down through the passage into the other parts of the building. "Magruder! Are you here?"
But there was no reply. He then rapped with his stick upon the floor, but no one came in answer. Making his way through the passage, he came to the wareroom, dark, heavy smelling, and with rats scuttling about; again he called, but still received no reply. Back at the counting-room door, he looked in; by this time his eyes had grown more used to the dimness, and he began to make things out. There was the cupboard bulging with papers; there was the high desk where Magruder had stood when he first saw him. There must be a pewter candle-stick upon one end of this; Anthony had noted it the day before because the candle end had guttered so, and trailing down the metal holder was the "ghost's shrowd" held by believers in omens to be a sign of peculiar portent.
Anthony felt for this and found it; with his fusee he struck a light, and in a moment had the candle stump burning with a long flame. His shadow danced hugely upon the wall as he turned to look about; and it was then that he saw Magruder, sitting in a chair, hunched in a horridly crooked way, his mouth open in a frozen cry, great clots of blood darkening his neck-cloth, and dead!
Death by violence was no new thing to Anthony Stevens; no man could sail the seas he'd sailed, or penetrate the regions he had gone through, and not have seen sudden and bloody ends a-plenty. But there was an unexpected terror in this one; death had flipped its hand here with a grotesquery that was horrible, and the young man felt himself grow sick.
His eyes went about the counting-room: there was none of the litter that shows a place hastily ransacked; the drawers of the desk were closed; the cupboard was as it had been the day before; a strong box set against the wall was securely locked and unmolested. The thing had not been done for robbery, then. Revenge, perhaps? A man who dealt as closely as Magruder would be likely to anger many; no niggard, in Anthony's experience, had ever gone scot-free. Your clutching, greedy trader always, at some place or other, over-stepped the line, and was it to be wondered at if—
But Anthony, with a sharp gesture and a tightening of the mouth, put this whole train of thought from him. It was like the drugs some shipmen brought with them from the East; it lulled and gave false ease. In this very room, the previous morning, Magruder had said:
"Outside there, in the docks, there are a score or more of fine, deep-water ships; on the wharves and in the warehouses there is much rich stuff. But if they, to the last block and spar, to the last bale and barrel, were offered me as the price of making it known that I'd brought you north, as I have, I'd refuse."
Anthony shivered a little. The place seemed cold; his flesh was damp; his huge shadow, cast upon the wall by the flare of the candle, seemed bent with the same fear that had filled the man now dead. As he stood there Anthony tried to sense the shape of this dread; and each time a sort of blankness came upon him. The house of Rufus Stevens' Sons, as his mind drew it toward him, was plain, solid, normal; he could not imagine fear trailing through its doors. But there could be no doubt about Magruder; he had sensed the thing, and because he had spoken of it he had paid with his life.
As Anthony looked at the dead man, his breath caught sharply, and he frowned down at him. Then, taking the candle, he held it closer; the blood upon the neck-cloth was hard and dark, not fluid and red as it would have been had the crime been newly done. He touched the body; it was rigid.
The young man put down the candle. The crime, then, was not of that morning. It was some hours old. It had been done during the night. Because of some urgency of business, probably the arrival of his brigBristol Pride, Magruder had remained in his counting-room until late, with his bills of lading, and what not; and death had walked in on him out of the night.
Walked in on him! What had occurred to himself in the night came back to Anthony; and his mind tightened about it. Again he saw the two men in the moonlight; again he saw the one point to his window, and directly afterward come tramping into his room with his orders to leave the city. And the other! He had gone toward the river; he had gone in the direction of this very place!
Facing a tangible possibility, Anthony no longer felt that the room was cold; his skin grew normal; his pulse beat calmly; the shadow on the wall no longer had the cringe of infectious fear.
There came a sound from the depths of the building. Once more Anthony went into the passage and along its length; at the far end of the wareroom a door stood open; a porter was taking down the shutters. Anthony was about to call to him; but his lips closed upon the sound, and he turned and made his way quietly to the door by which he had come in. He looked out; he saw no one in the alley; and in a moment he was walking away, with all the unconcern he could call into his manner.
In trudging from the Half Moon to Magruder's, Anthony had worked himself up to a high pitch of exasperation; more than once he made the stout stick whistle as he slashed it through the air. He had formulated certain questions that must be answered. To the devil with all this tongue-wagging, and nothing coming of it.
But now he knew all he desired; and he had not asked a question. Also he knew what he had to face. It was men! And it was blows! Good! They were things he understood. When he came face to face with the men he'd know what to say; and when the time came for the blows—Anthony smiled here—rather grimly, to be sure; but it was the first smile of the morning.
At Water Street and Mulberry, Christopher Dent's apothecary shop was open, and Anthony went in. The little man was eating broiled fish in his laboratory and had a big book in the Latin tongue propped up before him. He shoved his spectacles up on his forehead and greeted his visitor.
"Sit down," said he. "And take some of the halibut. I'll get you a plate. It came fresh into the market this morning."
He began bustling about; but Anthony stopped him.
"I've had breakfast," said the young man. "An hour ago."
Christopher settled into his place at the table once more.
"You are an early riser," said he. "But, then, you always were. Many and many a time we'd cross the river before sun-up in the spring, when the dandelions were beginning."
Many of the tricks of boyhood persist in later life; and one of Anthony's had been, when he was perplexed, to go to Christopher Dent. The little apothecary had earned a great name among the youth of the old city district by his wisdom as to stone-bruises and warts, stubbed toes and lacerated shins; and because of this it was taken for granted that he also spoke with authority on other things. And now the old instinct became active in Anthony, and he told the apothecary of how he found Magruder. Christopher shoved his spectacles still farther up on his head, closed the book, and forgot about the fish.
"Dead!" said he.
"As a stone," said Anthony.
"And no one was about—the shutters were up, and the door was standing open?"
"Yes."
The little old apothecary stared with round eyes.
"I knew Mr. Magruder," said he. "At odd times he'd come here for a pennyworth of dragon-root, which he used for an asthma. A close man; he spent little and said less. He so seldom mixed with people that I'd have ventured he'd not a friend, nor an enemy, anywhere. What manner of blow killed him?"
"I did not look narrowly," said the young man, "but it seemed in the nature of a stab."
"There are some desperate rogues going about," said Christopher, shaking his head. "Desperate, and cunning, too. Did you speak with the watch after you gave the alarm?"
"I gave no alarm," said Anthony. Then he told of how Magruder had written him at New Orleans, of his interview with him on the day before, of his talk with Dr. King, and of his visitor at the Half Moon in the small hours of the morning.
"God bless us!" said Christopher Dent, his eyes wider than before. "What can it all mean?"
"I thought," said Anthony, "it would be best to come away quietly from Magruder's and say nothing. As it is, the porters or clerks will find the body in good time; then my name will be in no way connected with the matter, and that, I think, will be of service to me."
The little apothecary considered a moment, and then gravely nodded.
"Yes," said he, "you are right. You are quite right. The city will be in a state over this; the officers will be much exercised. If you'd made the thing known, they'd have asked questions of you. To keep yourself from any touch with this villainy you would have given guarded answers. The officers are not without perception; they would have noted your hesitancy and would, like as not, have insisted upon a clearer statement. And that," with a look of great knowingness, "you'd probably not be inclined to give just now. Yes, you are quite right to say nothing; the body will be found in due course, as you say, and so no harm will be done."
A man came into the outer shop, and the apothecary went out to him.
"I want," said the man, in a voice that Anthony seemed to recognize, "a few pennyworth of Spanish flies, and pitch enough to make a plaster of some size."
"For man or beast," asked Christopher dubiously.
"For a horse—a gelding with a hurt shoulder."
"I would not advise the pitch," said the apothecary; "when cold, it grows hard, and will dull the virtue of even cantharides."
"But it will stick," maintained the other, "and no kicking or rubbing will get it off. And this horse is the very devil for kicking and stumbling and knocking against things."
"A small quantity of Venice turpentine," said Christopher, "and a little yellow wax—"
"I will have pitch," interrupted the man. "You may be able to doctor humans, Mr. Dent, but you don't understand horses. They need strong medicines and strong words, else they'll get entirely out of hand. There'd have been no accident last night if I'd been able to speak properly to the beast; but having a lady passenger I had to mind my tongue."
Anthony changed his position so that he could see the man. Yes, it was the coachman with whom he had talked at the Half Moon; and the young man went hastily into the shop. The man gave him a nod of recognition and a thick-shouldered salute.
"An accident, did you say?" questioned Anthony. "It wasn't serious, I hope."
"Only for the horse," said the man. "He's young and not much used to being driven at night; and the way along the river as you turn the end of the fish-market is not very light. 'Twas there he stumbled, and I could go no further."
Anthony cocked a questioning eye at the man.
"The way along the river?" said he. "And turning the end of the fish-market? What were you doing there?"
"It came of my passengers changing their minds," said the man. "We were in Chestnut Street near to Fourth when they suddenly bethought them that they'd do well to drop in on some one else before going home. Down among the wharves is no usual place to go visiting of a night; but, as that was their orders, there I went—or as far as I could; for after the horse fell they got out and I saw no more of them, for I was well occupied in getting back to the stable with a crippled beast on my hands." Here he turned to the apothecary and added confidently: "Yes, let it be pitch. I know that to work well. Don't be afraid that I'll mix the fly into it; I'm too old a horse-leech for that. Get your pitch just hot enough to run, do you see? Spread it upon a common cloth, sprinkle the blister upon the face of it, and clap it on the shoulder. Let him clump about as he will, there it is fixed; and in a day it will have drawn all the humors of the fall away."
"He will have fever from the shock," said Christopher. "His pulse will be heavy and his tongue rough. In that event I would advise pond-dogwood. A plain infusion of the bark makes a draft, bitter, but agreeable and efficacious."
What the man with the injured horse said in way of reply, Anthony did not hear; for his attention was being given to little groups of people who were hastily gathering and dissolving, gathering and dissolving, on the street; other people were hurrying along talking excitedly with each other. Christopher Dent, following Anthony's gaze, also saw them; he opened the door and spoke to a victualer who was passing, wiping his hands on his apron.
"What is it? What has happened?"
"They say a man has been killed," said the victualer. "Some merchant or other; killed in his own counting-room, below here on the river front, near to the fish-market—some time during the night."
It was a day or two later, and Anthony went to the counting-house of Rufus Stevens' Sons and again inquired for his uncle. The same affable man who had spoken with him on his previous visit came forward, and once more regretted Mr. Stevens's absence.
"But," said he, "he is on his way. The vessel he named to sail in should be in the bay by this time, as the weather has been good, and she is a good sailer. Is there anything we can serve you in?"
"Nothing, thank you." Anthony was turning away.
"What name shall I say?" asked the affable man.
"Stevens."
The affable manner was instantly reinforced by one of much respect.
"It may be that you are related to Mr. Charles," ventured the man.
"His nephew," said Anthony.
The man at once produced a chair.
"I shall call Mr. Whitaker," he said.
Anthony would have asked him not to do so; but just then he caught sight of a woman's figure in another room, the door of which was open, and before he had taken his gaze away Whitaker came up.
"This is a pleasure," said Whitaker, shaking his hand. "Mr. Stevens has not returned, but we're glad to see you, anyhow."
"I'm told he's expected back shortly."
"Yes, but then you never can tell what the wind will do off the capes. Devil of an excitement going on in the city, isn't there? what with this fellow up the street being taken off as he was, and all that. I don't think I've seen anything but gossiping knots of people, coroners' juries, and city officials for the past two days."
Anthony nodded toward the open door.
"I thought," said he, "I recognized some one inside there."
"Oh, Mr. Weir?"
"No, the lady. Isn't it Mademoiselle Lafargue, daughter of your Monsieur Lafargue, of Brest?"
"Daughter of Lafargue!" Whitaker glanced, surprised, into the adjoining room. "Is that who it is?" He pulled at his neck-cloth to give it a better set and asked with interest: "How long have you known her?"
"Why, I can't say that I know her at all," said Anthony. "It just chanced a few days ago that I exchanged some words with her father."
"So he has a daughter," mused Whitaker in an injured tone. "And he never so much as mentioned the fact while I was at Brest; and I was there upwards of a month! I'd never have taken him for that kind. He seemed much more of the gentleman." As Anthony made no reply to this, Whitaker went on. "On the whole, I don't know what to make of Lafargue. He seems peculiar. Yesterday I happened to mention to Captain Weir—that's him talking to mademoiselle—that I'd seen Lafargue at the coffee-house, and I really think he didn't like it. I believe, in my soul," said Whitaker, "old Lafargue is here unexpectedly; and what he means by it I can't say."
The girl, as Anthony watched her, was standing with one hand resting upon the back of a chair; her head was held well up, and she was talking spiritedly.
"Who is Mr. Weir?" said Anthony, his gaze going toward the man to whom she was speaking.
He was above the average size, of angular, powerful frame, and his hair was sprinkled with gray. His face was well looking, but singularly mask-like; his eyes were deep-set and steady; they had the quality of cold, green stone. But it was his movements that attracted Anthony's attention. While the girl talked he paced backward and forward; each move had a peculiar deftness; each foot was put down much as a hand might be—a combination of sureness and power which reminded Anthony of some of the huge cat-like beasts of the wilderness. There was a fine dignity about Mr. Weir; his air was one of authority; across his left jaw was a red seam.
"Have you never heard of him?" asked Whitaker. "He's been with the house since your grandfather's day; and, between ourselves, I don't see how your uncle could do without him. A fine, upstanding man, very fair, and with a great mind for detail. It's strange you haven't heard of him. It was Mr. Weir who commanded your grandfather's shipArgus, when she outran and outfought two English corvettes and a sloop-of-war. His name is written into the histories. A very capable person; it's a pleasure to work under him."
Just then the girl turned and came, agitated, toward the door of the room. There she paused.
"I shall repeat your words to my father," she said. "He is old and not in good health, and what you have said will be a shock to him."
"He is a man, and will understand the advisability of what I say," said Mr. Weir, his eyes cold, green, and unemotional. "Assure him of my consideration, and say that I hope to see him soon."
Without a word the girl came out into the counting-room. As she passed Anthony on her way to the street, her head was bent, her eyes upon the floor; for an instant the young man fancied that she raised them ever so little and saw him. He took off his hat, but she never paused. Mr. Weir opened the street door for her; Anthony heard her low voiced "Good-by," and she was gone.
"Mr. Weir," said Whitaker, "may I present Mr. Anthony Stevens?"
The cold, steady eyes of the man seemed to take in Anthony at a single glance; and he held out his hand.
"I had heard you were in the city," said he. "Dr. King mentioned it. In the absence of your uncle, permit me to welcome you."
Later Whitaker was called away, and Weir said:
"After your father's death I had all but forgotten that he had a son; then one day I received a report from our correspondent at New Orleans that brought you back to me in a way that insured your not slipping me in the future."
"What was that?" asked Anthony.
"It was an account of your affair with Alvaro," said Weir, and again his steady eyes took in the young man from head to foot.
Anthony smiled.
"There was a great deal of talk about that at the time," said he, "but it was, after all, a matter of no large consequence. Montufars had suffered greatly from the toll-takers who occupy the reefs and islands below New Orleans, and was hard put to it at the time to meet his business obligations. He feared to let a vessel go out, knowing the pirates would loot it; and in the end his spirit broke completely. I saw that something must be quickly done if he was to be rescued from his embarrassments, and the quickest method was to visit Alvaro.
"I found the old thief snug in his den, overlooking the principal street of New Orleans. There was not a merchant trading in the port who did not know this man was the agent of the pirates, that it was he who bribed the authorities to keep their hands off, and that every seafaring enterprise had to pay for his protection. Why men will permit such bloated old spiders to get the upper hand of them," said Anthony, "I cannot understand."
"What did you do?" asked Mr. Weir.
"I laid a loaded pistol on the table before him. I told him that two ships of Montufars were due within a week's time, and that one was to sail, outward bound, directly. And, further, I said, if any harm came to any one of them, be it ever so little, I would shoot him dead."
"And what followed?"
"All three were allowed to pass about their business, unmolested; and in consequence Alvaro still lives, fat as ever, and taking tribute from those who are afraid of him."
Mr. Weir laughed; and as he did the red seam across his jaw looked deeper and darker; the green, flint-like eyes seemed colder.
"That is a deal like your grandfather would have done it," said he. "But what action did the port officials take? for in preventing the looting of these ships you interfered sadly with one of their most cherished privileges."
Anthony made a wry face.
"They made me feel that," said he. "And, because of their hostility, any vessel I sailed in was marked; finally, it was impossible for me to get one; and so I took to the inland trade, which I have followed ever since."
Weir nodded.
"I've heard of some of your doings; it may be," seeing Anthony's questioning look, "that our agent, noting the interest of the house in the matter you've just described, was at some pains afterwards to keep himself in the way of tidings of you. At any rate, he'd often jot down bits of news concerning your enterprises." He studied Anthony for a few moments, and then asked, "Has your interest in land traffic taken away all your desire for the sea?"
"You are taking it for granted that I had such a desire," smiled Anthony.
"No one with a drop of Rufus Stevens's blood in his body could be without it." They talked about old Rufus for a space, and then Weir asked: "Have you seen your uncle since you left here as a boy?"
"No."
"You'll like him," said the other. "And I feel sure he'll like you." And then, after another little period of talk, "Have you ever sailed as master of a ship?"
"No, as mate only."
Mr. Weir nodded.
"Yes," said he, "I think your uncle will be greatly interested in you." And then when Anthony shook hands with him, about to go, he added: "The moment his vessel docks, you shall be notified. Are you lodged at one of the taverns?"
"The Half Moon."
"I shall remember that."
Anthony left the counting-room and started up Water Street. Directly ahead, a carriage was drawn up close to the foot-path, and the traffic of the street was ill-humoredly skirting it. As the young man was on the point of passing, he heard a woman's voice; turning his head he saw Mademoiselle Lafargue leaning from the open window of the vehicle, her eyes wide, her face white.
"Mademoiselle!" said Anthony, shocked.
"I have been awaiting you," she said. He was about to speak, but she gestured him not to do so. "The other day my father and myself gained by your good will. You showed yourself a friend, though a stranger. If you saw us again in need of help, would you come forward, once more, to give it?"
"I would," said Anthony.
"We are in danger," she said. "How great, and how immediate, I do not know, and there is not a soul in the whole world to whom we can appeal but you." She spoke to the coachman and the carriage started. "Thank you," she said to Anthony, gratitude in her frightened eyes. "To-morrow you shall hear from me." With that she was gone; and Anthony, his tall hat in his hand, stood staring after her.
It was fairly well into the afternoon; Anthony had shaved, dressed his hair, and attired himself smartly. He sat in the public room of the Half Moon, rather cherishing the hope that Mademoiselle Lafargue might show some early sign of requiring his service. A pursy-looking man in top-boots, and with his pockets stuffed with papers, occupied a bench near to a window, and talked with a gentleman wrapped in a greatcoat and with a rug across his knees.
"The watch," said the pursy man, "is all but useless. They cannot prevent wrong-doing, and when it is done they are unable to bring the malefactors to justice."
The man in the greatcoat drew the rug more closely about his knees and seemed unhappy.
"It is very distressing," said he. "A crime like this, and no one to place it upon. For what are we taxed if it is not for the punishment of offenders?"
"No goods were taken," said the pursy man. "No harm was done save to Magruder's life. That alone seems to have been the purpose of the criminal. A stab-wound, says the surgeon; a stab-wound in the neck, and struck not so shrewdly! 'Twas a clumsy hand that did the deed; but," and here the speaker wagged his head, "an apprentice is as good as a journeyman, so long as the task is accomplished."
"There are city lights," said the man in the greatcoat; "there are safeguards for life and property; the watch is well paid. But the streets are not safe; prowlers can go to and fro as they will; houses, places of business are entered, blows are struck, lives are taken. Yet the prisons are unoccupied; the gallows are unused."
"I have heard a whisper," said the pursy man, "that some one is suspicioned." He nodded his head, and panted, as though the thing excited him. "It was not the watch who came upon the thing; the watch is too slow-going for that. But, when all was confusion and every one at his wit's end, it bobs up unexpectedly of its own accord."
"Some one suspicioned?" said the man in the greatcoat, hungrily. "Who is it?"
But the other shook his head.
"I don't know," said he. "It was only a whisper I got, and it was not meant for my ears. This Magruder had a ship in that day, and there was much to occupy him at his place of business. He remained after his clerks and porters had gone, so they tell; and, about eight, went to a tavern for a chop and a glass of ale, for he was none of your great eaters, having a slim stomach and a none too liberal hand. The people of the tavern say he left there before nine, and it's thought that he went straightaway back to his counting-room and there remained."
"But the suspicioned person?" said the man in the greatcoat, anxiously, not caring to miss this chance of putting the prisons and gallows to their proper use. "How came it to fall upon him?"
"Some one," said the pursy man, "was seen to leave Magruder's place by the counting-room door, which is in the back. Very quietly is the manner in which the person is said to have left, and at an hour that was unusual."
"There should be no difficulty in apprehending the villain," said the other man. "All the evilly disposed in the city should be taken charge of; and the man could be picked from among them."
But the pursy man seemed to doubt this method.
"That would not suffice," said he, "for we could not be sure the crime was done by one given to public villainy."
"You would not think of suspecting any honest man!" said the other, aghast.
"What would you say if you heard—only in a whisper, however, and the whisper not meant for you—that the criminal was not a man at all, but a woman?"
Anthony felt his blood chill; he waited to hear no more, but arose and went into the passage. Here, just entering, he encountered Whitaker, who was most gracefully attired in cream-colored pantaloons, a blue coat with dull copper buttons, a frilled neck-cloth, and a fawn-hued beaver, the brim of which curled magnificently.
"I thought I'd chance upon you," said this young gentleman, as he shook Anthony's hand. "I'm on my way to Mrs. Newell's, here in Fourth Street. Charming woman, and loves music. She usually has some one who can finger a harp, or a pianoforte; there's a German who plays upon a flute most excellently; and some of her guests always sing. Come along; Mrs. Newell will be delighted."
Just at that moment Anthony had desire for neither music nor light company; he'd much rather have talked if Whitaker had been a person with whom he could have discussed what was in his mind. But, at the same time, he had no desire to be alone with his thoughts; so, with his arm in that of the fop, he was led away to Fourth Street.
Mrs. Newell's house stood in a little court, just above Chestnut, a brick-paved place, with handsome trees, little spaces about the door-steps for growing plants in summer-time, and trellises for rose-vines under each window. Mrs. Newell herself, as Whitaker had said, was charming, a little mouse of a woman with dark eyes and an engaging manner.
"You are just in time to hear Tosini," she told Anthony. "A fine performer. He will play one of his own sonatas."
Mrs. Newell's drawing-room was crowded, and Anthony was presented here and there to little groups of ladies. Tosini was a dark, Latin-looking man with curly black hair, shot with gray; from the box of his violin he drew sounds that melted and thrilled, and left the ladies fluttering with delight.
"Astonishing tone," commented Whitaker, as he patted approvingly with his gloves. "Wonderful vibrations. Sometimes I think strings and wood have magic in them when brought together. Remarkable playing."
A round-faced man then blew a melody of Blanck's out of a German flute, and a young lady with a small, sweet voice sang "Love in a Village," to the tinkling of a harpsichord. Then another young lady with a harp, and an enterprising youth who bore a violoncello, joined forces with the flute and violin and made their way through a quartet of Bach's, to the gratification of every one. This done, there was a great chattering and clamoring and exclaiming. Anthony stood at one side rather disconsolately, Whitaker having deserted him, when he saw Mrs. King smiling at him from across the room. At once he made his way to her side.
"I saw you as you came in," she said, "but you did not permit your look to go anywhere but straight ahead, and so I couldn't catch your eye until now. I'm sure you enjoyed the music; you looked as though you did."
"It was a treat to me," he returned. "A Spanish sailor thrumming a guitar in the forecastle, or some indifferent fiddling at a trading-post, has been the only music I've listened to for a long time."
"Your mother was a beautiful musician; too beautiful, I'm afraid, for the city of her day. We rather resented finish," with a smile. "Have you made up your mind to remain with us?"
"I have not yet seen my uncle."
"Oh, that wonderful uncle," laughed Mrs. King. "So much depends upon what he does or says. A mere nod of his head will change the plans of hundreds. If he speaks, his intimates seem to expect a magical occurrence. But," and she nodded her assurance, "you'll like him. Charles has not been spoiled by adulation, for the reason that he has not noticed it. In many things he is still a boy. You are twenty-five, and he is fifty; but you are his elder in temperament."
They talked of New Orleans, of Anthony's experiences, of his mother and father; then they returned to music, and Mrs. King, pleased, commented upon the growing taste in such things.
"It must be the large number of people from continental Europe who have come among us, because of the revolutions and disorders going on there. Some of them are so charming that their accomplishments cannot help being imitated. Yesterday at de Lannoy's—Monsieur de Lannoy was a count in France—I heard a young French girl sing in a way that was extraordinary. And she was quite free and self-possessed; not at all like our girls who take a feeling of something like guilt into everything that is not usual. She is here with her father; they are strangers in the city. Monsieur de Lannoy had known her father in a business way at Brest."
"At Brest!" said Anthony. "What was her name?"
"Lafargue. A very beautiful creature, and, it seemed, in the short time I talked with her, with a mind as wonderful as her voice. But in spite of all the sparkle in her manner I could see she felt but little of it. At times her eyes actually seemed to have a look of fear in them. So many of theémigréshave that look. Their experiences must have been dreadful."
"No doubt."
"She said she was a stranger," said Mrs. King, "and had been here less than a week. And yet," amusedly, "at five o'clock young Tarrant called for her. A handsome girl can't be a stranger for long anywhere."
Anthony felt a flush of resentment rise to his face; he fumbled with the fringe upon the arm of the chair in which he sat and glowered at the floor.
"It had been arranged that he should call for her," added Mrs. King. "She, being so newly arrived, was not sure that she'd find her way back to her lodging-place."
"I have met with this Tarrant," said Anthony. "But our dealings were brief. What manner of man is he?"
"He is very well known," said Mrs. King. "And inclined, I think, to play the part of a ruffling blade, such as is common in London. He was once in the navy, a lieutenant, and also in the merchant service."
Just then Whitaker came up; with him was a lady who laughed and talked incessantly.
"We were just speaking of Mr. Tarrant," said Mrs. King. "Perhaps you can tell Anthony more about him than I."
"About Bob?" said Whitaker importantly. "Quite right. I know him like a book. Astonishingly clever fellow. Great ability. And has a real talent for clothes. No better dressed man in the city. Takes his hints from Europe. They say he has correspondents who keep him posted."
The lady who held Whitaker's arm here began to laugh once more.
"Oh," she said, "you are overlooking the most interesting thing about him. Please do tell that."
"Do you mean the altercation?" asked Whitaker.
"To be sure," laughed the lady. "It's so amusing. To think of such a thing happening to Bob Tarrant!"
"It seems," said Whitaker, whose manner showed that he scarcely approved of his companion's mirth, "that Tarrant had an encounter a few evenings ago in which he was taken rather by surprise. The story goes that he was engaged in carrying out a matter of some importance when a certain individual—the name has not yet come out—ran counter to him. They tell me that Bob remonstrated with him, but to no purpose. And then, before he quite realized the turn the affair had taken, the person struck him."
"Oh, Dick!" pleaded the laughing lady, now laughing more than ever. "Do tell it all! Bob was thrashed," she informed Mrs. King and Anthony. "Soundly thrashed, with his hat all broken and red welts across his face. Thoroughly discomfited, they tell me, and raving with rage. What will he do now?" laughed the lady. "He has been so looked up to by all our youths!" with an arch glance at Whitaker. "So patterned after in all the things that make a man of fashion and spirit! How in the world can he redeem himself?"
"Well," said Whitaker, "I suppose it is amusing, if one is inclined to take that view of it. The impulse is to laugh at any awkward thing that happens to one who has carried himself as high as Tarrant. But, at the same time," with a shake of the head, "it may be no laughing matter in the end, for Tarrant, I hear, has spent the last two days at a quiet place up the river with a pair of pistols, improving his eye."
The jolly lady ceased laughing; Mrs. King looked grave.
"Oh, no!" said she.
"I'm afraid it's true," said Whitaker. "He's of that fashion and has winged his man a dozen times or more."
"But the law," said Mrs. King.
"Of course," said the dandy. "There is one. But who would dare appeal to it?"
When they had taken their leave of Mrs. Newell a little later, Whitaker hooked his arm into Anthony's as they turned out of the little court.
"Tarrant will have this fellow's blood," said he. "It will be the regulation number of paces, a quick exchange, and then God send the poor devil a good surgeon!"
Anthony said nothing, and so Whitaker's mind turned to a matter of more immediate moment.
"I'm supping at the Crooked Billet to-night," said he. "If you have nothing urgent to occupy you, suppose you join me. It's an excellent place. Their venison pie is famous."
Anthony gave cordial agreement to this, and the two, still arm in arm, strolled toward the river.
The Crooked Billet stood facing the water, midway between High and Chestnut Streets. Swift packets huddled before it; their masts towered overhead, all stepped with a rake; all the cordage had the taut trimness of government craft.
The tavern was built high from the ground to keep it out of the wash of the tide, which sometimes overflowed the docks; it had a broad comfortable look, and a promise of cheer within. The principal room was set with oaken tables; the floor planks were scrubbed to a degree of whiteness, and overhead the beams were brown with smoke. Outside, after sundown, the air had an eager nip, for it was now well into the time of year; and the open fire and whale-oil lamps of the tavern had a cherry glow. Little groups were already gathered at the tables; waiters were going backward and forward bearing hot, hearty dishes and tumblers of steaming drink.
With the assurance of an old hand, Whitaker selected a table; and an attentive waiter made them comfortable.
"First," said Whitaker, "let us have a trifle of French brandy to put ourselves in humor." Anthony made no objection to this, and the waiter departed to bring the drink. "Old Ned Stapleton, who once was a sort of lord of all the inns in the city and had a master knowledge of cookery, used to say that between meals there was formed a secretion that was a most active poison, and needed to be cut away by ardent spirits before more food was tasted. It is so possible a thing," nodded the dandy, "and the prevention so pleasant a one, that I've always given heed to it."
They drank the brandy, and then Whitaker gave his attention to the ordering of the supper.
"A venison pasty," directed he, "and one of comfortable size and that has stood long enough to make it desirable. Also we'll have some parsnips, roasted potatoes, and greens. Fish?" and he looked at Anthony. "Suppose it is a boiled rock, with eggs shredded upon it?" Anthony nodded, and so rock it was. "And ale," said Whitaker, as the waiter was departing once more; "a tankard each."
Shipmasters and mates, merchants and upper clerks, ate of the good food, drank the excellent liquor of the Crooked Billet, and enjoyed the warm fire and the lights.
"A settled, respectable gathering," said Anthony, with a smile, as his eye went about. "And all out of much the same mold. In New Orleans, now, one would see many breeds and kinds; and not only would honest traffic be talked of, about the tables, but many kinds of devilment as well."
Whitaker wagged a wise head.
"Don't be misled by appearance," said he. "In my travels I've learned that roguery is roguery the world over; it has its place in every port, and all manner of men are engaged in it. If your evil-doer has the air of a church-going man, is he any the less a rascal?"
Anthony shook his head.
"I've found," said Whitaker, growing even more impressive, "that people take on the manner of those about them—in a general way. Now, for example, look at those two gentlemen warming their legs at the fire, and so enjoying the flavor of their drink. A comfortable man of business, and a middle-aged clerk who has possibly been with him for years? No such thing. That old codger is one of the biggest rascals that ever shaved a note, and the other has arranged more stinking villainy than any dozen others in the port."
"It is possible," said Anthony, not at all amazed; "the greatest rogue I ever encountered was at Batavia, and he looked like a comfortable man of family."
"Not more than a good step from here," proceeded Whitaker, "there is a section known to shipping men as the Algerian Coast—and rightly, too, for those who have their trade there are pirates to a man."
"I have always fancied that business was conducted rather primly in this city," said Anthony, "and that your authorities looked after shipping malpractice with a keener eye than is done in warmer waters."
"No eye can catch these gentlemen," stated Whitaker; "for their doings are underground; or, if not that, then bent in some cunning way to the shape of the law. Their whole procedure is rich in rascality; many a ship has gone down, and many a business house, also, to their gain."
The boiled rock arrived, smoking hot, upon a large dish and garnished with egg as desired. Afterward the venison pasty, and a notable dish it looked, was placed before them, with stewed whole parsnips and some tender young cabbages.
"Ned Stapleton was fat," said Whitaker, as he set his ale tankard down, "and if it were not for that I'd agree that his idea of life was the pleasantest and most profitable for a gentleman. What can be more agreeable than snacks of good cookery amid pleasant surroundings, and with well-conditioned liquor to keep it company?"
"It has its virtues," admitted Anthony, filling his plate with the savory contents of the pasty. "I'll never doubt that."
"But to be fat!" exclaimed Whitaker. "That is not a state of body for a person of taste. God save the man that the smallest tailor can't reach around with his tape. He is lost!"
They were engaged interestedly with the food when the door opened and admitted Dr. King and Captain Weir.
"Well," said the physician, as he shook Anthony's hand. "I see that it has not taken you a great while to hear of our advantages. Captain Weir you know, I think."
Anthony once more shook hands with Weir; and as he looked into his face he again noted the level, steady eyes, the fixed expression, and the scar across the jaw. Whitaker had also arisen to greet the new-comers; and a few moments later, while he was engaged in some talk with the captain, Dr. King said in a low tone to Anthony:
"Weir is a man well worth cultivating; he has the strongest hand in all your uncle's affairs. He is firm, sane, reserved, unemotional, never in haste; and little escapes him."
"Different sorts of men," said Whitaker, after the two had left them and taken a table at the other end of the room. "Totally different, but, I should say, equally dependable. Fine quality, both of them. But Weir is none of your easy-mannered ones, like the doctor; courtly conduct isn't taught on the decks of Yankee ships."
"They are close friends, though, I suppose?" said Anthony.
"No," replied Whitaker; "no. I think they admire each other in a practical way; but they are not at all intimate. Their being together to-night is, I think, because of you. Dr. King, I think, desires a place made for you in the counting-house."
"I see," said Anthony.
Active inroads had been made in the pasty; the tankards had run low and been refilled when Anthony, chancing to look up, saw Mademoiselle Lafargue and her father moving among the tables toward him. At once he pushed back his chair and arose. His eyes met hers, but she averted her face and passed him by without a word or sign. A waiter opened a door for them, which apparently led into a smaller room; and then it closed, leaving Anthony standing, stunned.
"That was unkind!" exclaimed Whitaker. "Most devilishly unkind. She hasn't the excuse that she didn't see you; she looked full at you."
Anthony sat down, a frown upon his face.
"I hadn't expected that," said he. "But, then," with a laugh, "under the circumstances, what reason had I to expect anything."
Whitaker discoursed philosophically upon the ways of women—upon the vagaries of young ones in particular. Anthony endured it silently; then, so it happened, the door through which the girl and her father had passed was opened once more, this time widely. Anthony saw a group of people—men and women; there was a table loaded with food and drink, and Mademoiselle Lafargue was talking earnestly with a handsome young man whose dress showed him to be a person of fashion.
"Well, dash me!" exclaimed Whitaker. "There's Bob Tarrant!"
The girl's attitude seemed one of pleading; she was asking something of Tarrant, and he seemed reassuring her with courtly grace. And, as Anthony watched, the man turned to another, him who stood holding the door open, and nodded. The man at the door laughed; Anthony shot him a look, and recognized the big young man who had thrown the saddle-bags from the deck of the New York packet. Then the door slammed shut, and the young man, a quizzical look upon his face, strode through the public room.
He stopped at the table at which sat Anthony with Whitaker.
"Good evening," said he to Anthony, his even teeth gleaming good-naturedly. "Well met, sir. I'd thought to see you again, but I did not expect it to be under conditions like these."
Anthony looked at him quietly, while Whitaker was plainly astonished; all who sat in hearing distance were slued about in their chairs, their food neglected while they listened.
"Well?" said Anthony.
"Time alters things sadly," said the big young man, "and apparently it requires no great space to do it, either. Only the other day I would have said you were creditably placed in a certain young lady's favor; and I'd had good reason, for you took up that little matter of my making with promptness, and stood to it nobly." He dragged a chair to the table and sat down. "But to-day," he said, "I see you displaced. She has turned her back upon you; and not only that, but she has taken into her confidence one who sends me with a rather grave message."
"To what effect?" scowled Anthony.
"Mr. Tarrant is of the opinion, since you saw fit to lift your hand to him the other night, that some redress is due him. He has desired me to speak to you, or to any friend whom you might name, and learn if you are of a mind to give him satisfaction."
The words were fairly low; but there was a sudden stir and whispering in the room. Whitaker, astonished, looked at Anthony.
"Is it possible," said he, "that it was you who struck Tarrant?"
"It was," replied Anthony. "And now, as a personal friend of Tarrant's, it would perhaps be best if you withdrew; I have no desire to involve you."
But Whitaker spoke promptly.
"I have always been upon good terms with Tarrant," said he; "but still it does not follow that I should abandon another friend because of that."
"Well spoken," applauded the big young man. "Crisp, and to the point. Here is a gentleman of much the same kidney as yourself," to Anthony. "Impulsive; ready to take up a cause at a moment's notice." He laughed and seemed immensely entertained. "Never an inquiry; never a thought that the matter might be otherwise than stated."
"Suppose," said Anthony quietly, "we indulge in as few observations as possible."
"Excellent!" approved the other good-humoredly. "Just what I should have expected of you." He composed himself to a smiling gravity and resumed. "Well, then, as Tarrant has received a blow from you, I, as a friend, have come to ask that you refer me to some one with whom I can make arrangements for a meeting."
"You are carrying out a code I am not too familiar with," said Anthony. "But I think your coming on this business into a public place and bawling it out so that every one must hear is contrary to the accepted practice."
The other glowed with appreciation and made a wide gesture.
"If I had known—" he began; but Anthony interrupted him.
"You know now, at any rate," said he.
"Having offended, I shall carry out the remainder of the affair with all possible decorum," mocked the big young man.
"You may carry it out in any way you choose," said Anthony, "for, as far as I am concerned, your part will consist only in taking back word to Mr. Tarrant that I decline a meeting of any sort."
Whitaker was a little pale; but he sat still. Again there was a stir among the surrounding tables, followed by a deep silence.
"Then," said Tarrant's representative, "you refuse?"
"I do," said Anthony.
"Do you give any reasons?"
"None."
The big young man arose.
"You are aware," said he, "that you will be posted?"