"Well, George——"
"Say, what do you imagine would happen if I went back to a home like that with the news that I was Lord Harrowby, in line to become the Earl of Raybrook. There'd be a riot. Wife would be startled out of her wits. Children would hate me. Be an outcast in my own family. Neighbors would turn up their noses when they went by our house. Fellows at the club would guy me. Lord Harrowby, eh! Take off your hats to his ludship, boys. Business would fall off."
Smilingly George Harrowby took a cigar and lighted it.
"No, Allan," he finished, "a lord wouldn't make a hell of a hit anywhere in America, but in Chicago, in the automobile business—say, I'd be as lonesome and deserted as the reading-room of an Elks' Club."
"I don't quite understand——" Allan began.
"No," said George, turning to meet Minot's smile, "but this gentleman does. It all means, Allan, that there's nothing doing. You are Lord Harrowby, the next Earl of Raybrook. Take the title, and God bless you."
"But, George," Allan objected, "legally you can't——"
"Don't worry, Allan," said the man from Chicago, "there's nothing we can't do in America, and do legally. How's this? I've always been intending to take out naturalization papers. I'll do it the minute I get back to Chicago—and then the title is yours. In the meantime, when you introduce me to your friends here, we'll just pretend I've taken them out already."
Allan Harrowby got up and laid his hand affectionately on his brother's shoulder.
"You're a brick, old boy," he said. "You always were. I'm glad you're to be here for the wedding. How did you happen to come?"
"That's right—you don't know, do you? I came in response to a telegram from Lloyds, of New York."
"From—er—Lloyds?" asked Allan blankly.
"Yes, Allan. That yacht you came down here on didn't belong to Martin Wall. It belonged to me. He made away with it from North River because he happened to need it. Wall's a crook, my boy."
"TheLilethyour ship! My word!"
"It is. I called it theLady Evelyn, Allan. Lloyds found out that it had been stolen and sent me a wire. So here I am."
"Lloyds found out through me," Minot explained to the dazed Allan.
"Oh—I'm beginning to see," said Allan slowly. "By the way, George, we've another score to settle with Wall."
He explained briefly how Wall had acquired Chain Lightning's Collar, and returned a duplicate of paste in its place. The elder Harrowby listened with serious face.
"It's no doubt the Collar he was trailing you for, Allan," he said. "And that's how he came to need the yacht. But when finally he got his eager fingers on those diamonds, poor old Wall must have had the shock of his life."
"How's that?"
"It wasn't Wall who had the duplicate made. It was—father—years ago, when I was still at home. He wanted money to bet, as usual—had the duplicate made—risked and lost."
"But," Allan objected, "he gave it to me to give to Miss Meyrick. Surely he wouldn't have done that——"
"How old is he now? Eighty-two? Allan, the old boy must be a little childish by now—he forgot. I'm sure he forgot. That's the only view to take of it."
A silence fell. In a moment the elder brother said:
"Allan, I want you to assure me again that you're marrying because you love the girl—and for no other reason."
"Straight, George," Allan answered, and looked his brother in the eye.
"Good kid. There's nothing in the other kind of marriage—all unhappiness—all wrong. I was sure you must be on the level—but, you see, after Mr. Thacker—the insurance chap in New York—knew who I was and that I wouldn't take the title, he told me about that fool policy you took out."
"No? Did he?"
"All about it. Sort of knocked me silly for a minute. But I remembered the Harrowby gambling streak—and if you love the girl, and really want to marry her, I can't see any harm in the idea. However, I hope you lose out on the policy. Everything O.K. now? Nothing in the way?"
"Not a thing," Lord Harrowby replied. "Minot here has been a bully help—worked like mad to put the wedding through. I owe everything to him."
"Insuring a woman's mind," reflected George Harrowby. "Not a bad idea, Allan. Almost worthy of an American. Still—I could have insured you myself after a fashion—promised you a good job as manager of our new London branch in case the marriage fell through. However, your method is more original."
Allan Harrowby was slowly pacing the room. Suddenly he turned, and despite the fact that all obstacles were removed, he seemed a very much worried young man.
"George—Mr. Minot," he began, "I've a confession to make. It's about that policy." He stopped. "The old family trouble, George. We're gamblers to the bone—all of us. Last Friday night—at the Manhattan Club—I turned over that policy to Martin Wall to hold as security for a five thousand dollar loan."
"Why the devil did you do that?" Minot cried.
"Well——" And Allan Harrowby was in his old state of helplessness again. "I wanted to save the day. Gonzale was hounding us for money—I thought I saw a chance to win——"
"But Wall! Wall of all people!"
"I know. I oughtn't to have done it. Knew Wall wasn't altogether straight. But nobody else was about—I got excited—borrowed—lost the whole of it, too. Wha—what are we going to do?"
He looked appealingly at Minot. But for once it was not on Minot's shoulders that the responsibility for action fell. George Harrowby cheerfully took charge.
"I was just on the point of going out to the yacht, with an officer," he said. "Suppose we three run out alone and talk business with Martin Wall."
Fifteen minutes later the two Harrowbys and Minot boarded the yacht which Martin Wall had christened theLileth. George Harrowby looked about him with interest.
"He's taken very good care of it—I'll say that for him," he remarked.
Martin Wall came suavely forward.
"Mr. Wall," said Minot pleasantly, "allow me to present Mr. George Harrowby, the owner of the boat on which we now stand."
"I beg our pardon," said Wall, without the quiver of an eyelash. "So careless of me. Don't stand, gentlemen. Have chairs—all of you."
And he stared George Harrowby calmly in the eye.
"You're flippant this morning," said the elder Harrowby. "We'll be glad to sit, thank you. And may I repeat what Mr. Minot has told you—I own this yacht."
"Indeed?" Mr. Wall's face beamed. "You bought it from Wilson, I presume."
"Just who is Wilson?"
"Why—he's the man I rented it from in New York."
"So that's your tale, is it?" Allan Harrowby put in.
"You wound me," protested Mr. Wall. "That is my tale, as you call it. I rented this boat in New York from a man named Albert Wilson. I have the lease to show you, also my receipt for one month's rent."
"I'll bet you have," commented Minot.
"Bet anything you like. You come from a betting institution, I believe."
"No, Mr. Wall, I did not buy the yacht from Wilson," said George Harrowby. "I've owned it for several years."
"How do I know that?" asked Martin Wall.
"Glance over that," said the elder Harrowby, taking a paper from his pocket. "A precaution you failed to take with Albert Wilson."
"Dear, dear." Mr. Wall looked over the paper and handed it back. "Can it be that Wilson was a fraud? I suggest the police, Mr. Harrowby. I shall be very glad to testify."
"I suggest the police, too," said Minot hotly, "for Mr. Martin Wall. If you thought you had a right on this boat, Wall, why did you throw me overboard into the North River when I mentioned the name of Lloyds?"
Mr. Wall regarded him with pained surprise.
"I threw you overboard because I didn't want you on my boat," he said. "I thought you understood that fully."
"Nonsense," Minot cried. "You stole this boat by bribing the caretaker, and when I mentioned Lloyds, famous the world over as a marine insurance firm, you thought I was after you, and threw me over the rail. I see it all very clearly now."
"You're a wise young man——"
"Mr. Wall," George Harrowby broke in, "it may interest you to know that we don't believe a word of the Wilson story. But it may also interest you to know that I am willing to let the whole matter drop—on one condition."
"What's that?"
"My brother Allan here borrowed five thousand dollars from you the other night, and gave you as security a bit of paper quite worthless to any one save himself. Accept my check for five thousand and hand him back the paper."
Mr. Wall smiled. He reached into his inner coat pocket.
"With the greatest pleasure," he said. "Here is the—er—the document." He laughed. Then, noting the check book on the elder Harrowby's knee, he added: "There was a little matter of interest——"
"Not at all!" George Harrowby looked up. "The interest is forfeited to pay wear and tear on this yacht."
For a moment Wall showed fight, but he did not much care for the light he saw in the elder Harrowby's eyes. He recognized a vast difference in brothers.
"Oh—very well," he said. The check was written, and the exchange made.
"Since you are convinced I am the owner of the yacht," said George Harrowby, rising, "I take it you will leave it at once?"
"As soon as I can remove my belongings," Wall said. "A most unfortunate affair all round."
"A fortunate one for you," commented Mr. Minot.
Wall glared.
"My boy," he said angrily, "did any one ever tell you you were a bad-luck jinx?"
"Never," smiled Minot.
"You look like one to me," growled Martin Wall.
George Harrowby arranged to keep the crew Wall had engaged, in order to get theLady Evelynback to New York. It was thought best for the owner to stay aboard until Wall had gathered his property and departed, so Allan Harrowby and Minot alone returned to San Marco. As they crossed the plaza Allan said:
"By gad—everything looks lovely now. Jenkins out of the way, good old George side-stepping the title, the policy safe in my pocket. Not a thing in the way!"
"It's almost too good to be true," replied Minot, with a very mirthless smile.
"It must be a great relief to you, old boy. You have worked hard. Must feel perfectly jolly over all this?"
"Me?" said Minot. "Oh, I can hardly contain myself for joy. I feel like twining orange blossoms in my hair——"
He walked on, kicking the gravel savagely at each step. Not a thing in the way now. Not a single, solitary, hopeful, little thing.
The Duchess of Lismore elected to give her dinner and dance in Miss Meyrick's honor as near to the bright Florida stars as she could. On the top floor of the De la Pax was a private dining-room, only partially enclosed, with a picturesque view of the palm-dotted courtyard below. Adjacent to this was a sun-room with a removable glass roof, and this the duchess had ordered transformed into a ballroom. There in the open the newest society dances should rise to offend the soft southern sky.
Being a good general, the hostess was early on the scene, marshaling her forces. TO her there came Cynthia Meyrick, radiant and lovely and wide-eyed on the eve of her wedding.
"How sweet you look, Cynthia," said the duchess graciously. "But then, you long ago solved the problem of what becomes you."
"I have to look as sweet as I can," replied the girl wearily. "All the rest of my life I shall have to try and live up to the nobility."
She sighed.
"To think," remarked the duchess, busy over a great bowl of flowers, "that to-morrow night this time little Cynthia will be Lady Harrowby. I suppose you'll go to Rakedale Hall for part of the year at least?"
"I suppose so."
"I, too, have had my Rakedale Hall. Formal, Cynthia dear, formal. Nothing but silly little hunts, silly little shoots—American men would die there. As for American women—nothing ever happens—the hedges bloom in neat little rows—the trees blossom—they're bare again—Cynthia, sometimes I've been in a state where I'd give ten years of my life just to hear the rattle of an elevated train!"
She stood looking down at the girl, an all too evident pity in her eyes.
"It isn't all it might be, I fancy—marrying into the peerage," Cynthia said.
"My dear," replied the duchess, "I've nearly died at times. I never was exactly what you'd call a patriot, but—often I've waked in the night and thought of Detroit. My little car rattling over the cobblestones—a new gown tried on at Madame Harbier's—a matinée—and chocolate afterward at that little place—you remember it. And our house on Woodward Avenue—the good times there. On the veranda in the evening, and Jack Little just back from college in the east running across the lawns to see me——. What became of Jack, dear?"
"He married Elise Perkins."
"Ah—I know—and they live near our old house—have a box when the opera comes—entertain the Yale glee club every Christmas—oh, Cynthia, maybe it's crude, maybe it's middle-class in English eyes—but it's home! When you introduced that brother of Lord Harrowby's this afternoon—that big splendid chap who said America looked better than a title to him—I could have thrown my arms about his neck and kissed him!" She came closer to the girl, and stood looking down at her with infinite tenderness in her washed-out eyes. "Wasn't there—any American boy, my dear?" she asked.
"I—I—hundreds of them," answered Cynthia Meyrick, trying to laugh.
The duchess turned away.
"It's wrong of me to discourage you like that," she said. "Marrying into the peerage is something, after all. You must come home every year—insist on it. Johnson—are these the best caviar bowls the hotel can furnish?"
And the Duchess of Lismore, late of Detroit, drifted off into a bitter argument with the humble Johnson.
Miss Meyrick strolled away, out upon a little balcony opening off the dining-room. She stood gazing down at the waving fronds in the courtyard six stories below. If only that fountain down there were Ponce de Leon's! But it wasn't. To-morrow she must put youth behind. She must go far from the country she loved—did she care enough for that? Strangely enough, burning tears filled her eyes. Hot revolt surged into her heart. She stood looking down——
Meanwhile the other members of the dinner-party were gathering with tender solicitude about their hostess in the ballroom beyond. Dick Minot, hopeless, glum, stalked moodily among them. Into the crowd drifted Jack Paddock, his sprightly air noticeably lacking, his eyes worried, dreadful.
"For the love of heaven," Minot asked, as they stepped together into a secluded corner, "what ails you?"
"Be gentle with me, boy," said Paddock unhappily. "I'm in a horrible mess. The graft, Dick—the good old graft. It's over and done with now."
"What do you mean?"
"It happened last night after our wild chase of Harrowby—I was fussed—excited—— I prepared two sets of repartee for my two customers to use to-night——"
"Yes?"
"I always make carbon copies to refer to myself just before the stuff is to be used. A few minutes ago I took out my copies. Dick! I sent the same repartee to both of them!"
"Good lord!"
"Good lord is meek and futile. So is damn. Put on your little rubber coat, my boy. I predict a hurricane."
In spite of his own troubles, Minot laughed.
"Mirth, eh?" said Paddock grimly. "I can't see it that way. I'll be as popular as a Republican in Texas before this evening is over. Got a couple of hasty rapid-fire resignations all ready. Thought at first I wouldn't come—but that seemed cowardly. Anyway, this is my last appearance on any stage as a librettist. Kindly omit flowers."
And Mr. Paddock drifted gloomily away.
While the servants were passing cocktails on gleaming trays, Minot found the door to the balcony and stepped outside. A white wraith flitted from the shadows to his side.
"Mr. Minot," said a soft, scared little voice.
"Ah—Miss Meyrick," he cried.
Merciful fate this, that they met for the first time since that incident on the ramparts in kindly darkness.
"Miss Meyrick," began Minot hurriedly, "I'm very glad to have a moment alone with you. I want to apologize—for last night—I was mad—I did Harrowby a very palpable wrong. I'm very ashamed of myself as I look back. Can I hope that you will—forget—all I said?"
She did not reply, but stood looking down at the palms far below.
"Can I hope that you will forget—and forgive?"
She glanced up at him, and her eyes shone in the dusk.
"I can forgive," she said softly. "But I can't forget. Mr.—Mr. Minot——"
"Yes?"
"What—what—is—woman's greatest privilege?"
Something in the tone of her voice sent a cold chill sweeping through Minot's very soul. He clutched the rail for support.
"If—if you'd answer," said the girl, "it would make it easier for——"
Aunt Mary's generous form appeared in the doorway.
"Oh, there you are, Cynthia! You are keeping the duchess' dinner waiting."
Cynthia Meyrick joined her aunt. Minot stayed behind a moment. Below him Florida swam in the azure night. What had the girl been about to say?
Pulling himself together, he went inside and learned that he was to take in to dinner a glorious blond bridesmaid. When they were seated, he found that Miss Meyrick's face was hidden from him by a profusion of Florida blossoms. He was glad of that. He wanted to think—think.
A few others were thinking at that table, Mrs. Bruce and the duchess among them. Mrs. Bruce was mentally rehearsing. The duchess glanced at her.
"The wittiest woman in San Marco," thought the hostess. "Bah!"
Mr. Paddock, meanwhile, was toying unhappily with his food. He had little to say. The attractive young lady he had taken in had already classified him as a bore. Most unjust of the attractive young lady.
"It's lamentable, really." Mrs. Bruce was speaking. "Even in our best society conversation has given way to the turkey trot. Our wits are in our feet. Where once people talked art, music, literature—now they tango madly. It really seems—"
"Everything you say is true," interrupted the duchess blandly. "I sometimes think the race of the future will be—a trotting race."
Mrs. Bruce started perceptibly. Her eyes lighted with fire. She had been working up to this line herself, and the coincidence was passing strange. She glared at the hostess. Mr. Paddock studied his plate intently.
"I for one," went on the Duchess of Lismore, "do not dance the tango or the turkey trot. Nor am I willing to take the necessary steps to learn them."
A little ripple ran round the table—the ripple that up to now had been the exclusive privilege of Mrs. Bruce. That lady paled visibly. She realized that there was no coincidence here.
"It seems too bad, too," she said, fixing the hostess firmly with an angry eye. "Because women could have the world at their feet—if they'd only keep their feet still long enough."
It was the turn of the duchess to start, and start she did. As one who could not believe her ears, she stared at Mrs. Bruce. The "wittiest hostess in San Marco" was militantly under way.
"Women are not what they used to be," she continued. "Either they are mad about clothes, or they go to the other extreme and harbor strange ideas about the vote, eugenics, what not. In fact, the sex reminds me of the type of shop that abounds in a small town—its specialty is drygoods and notions."
The duchess pushed away a plate which had only that moment been set before her. She regarded Mrs. Bruce with the eye of Mrs. Pankhurst face to face with a prime minister.
"We are hardly kind to our sex," she said, "but I must say I agree with you. And the extravagance of women! Half the women of my acquaintance wear gorgeous rings on their fingers—while their husbands wear blue rings about their eyes."
Mrs. Bruce's face was livid.
"Madam!" she said through her teeth.
"What is it?" asked the duchess sweetly.
They sat glaring at each other. Then with one accord they turned—to glare at Mr. Jack Paddock.
Mr. Paddock, prince of assurance, was blushing furiously. He stood the combined glare as long as he could—then he looked up into the night.
"How—how close the stars seem," he murmured faintly.
It was noted afterward that Mrs. Bruce maintained a vivid silence during the remainder of that dinner. The duchess, on the contrary, wrung from her purchased lines every possibility they held.
And in that embattled setting Mr. Minot sat, deaf to the delicious lisp of the debutante at his side. What was woman's greatest privilege? Wasn't it——
His forehead grew damp. His knees trembled beneath the table. "Jephson—Thacker, Jephson—Thacker," he said over and over to himself.
After dinner, when the added guests invited by the duchess for the dance crowded the ballroom, Minot encountered Jack Paddock. Mr. Paddock was limp and pitiable.
"Ever apologize to an angry woman?" he asked. "Ever try to expostulate with a storm at sea? I've had it out with Mrs. Bruce—offered to do anything to atone—she said the best thing I could do would be to disappear from San Marco. She's right. I'm going. This is my exit from the butterfly life. And I don't intend to say good-by to the duchess, either."
"I wish I could go with you," said Minot sadly.
"Well—come along——"
"No. I—I'll stick it out. See you later."
Mr. Paddock slipped unostentatiously away in the direction of the elevator. On a dais hidden by palms the orchestra began to play softly.
"You haven't asked to see my card," said Cynthia Meyrick at Minot's side.
He smiled a wan smile, and wrote his name opposite number five. She drifted away. The music became louder, rising to the bright stars themselves. The dances that had furnished so much bitter conversation at table began to break out. Minot hunted up the balcony and stood gazing miserably down at fairy-land below.
There Miss Meyrick found him when the fifth dance was imminent.
"Is it customary for girls to pursue their partners?" she inquired.
"I'm sorry," he said weakly. "Shall we go in?"
"It's so—so glorious out here."
He sighed—a sigh of resignation. He turned to her.
"You asked me—what is woman's greatest privilege," he said.
"Yes."
"Is it—to change her mind?"
She looked timidly into his eyes.
"It—is," she whispered faintly.
The most miserably happy man in history, he gasped.
"Cynthia! It's too late—you're to be married to-morrow. Do you mean—you'd call it all off now—at the last minute?"
She nodded her head, her eyes on the ground.
"My God!" he moaned, and turned away.
"It would be all wrong—to marry Harrowby," she said faintly. "Because I've come to—I—oh, Dick, can't you see?"
"See! Of course I see!" He clenched his fists. "Cynthia, my dearest——"
Below him stretched six stories of open space. In his agony he thought of leaping over the rail—of letting that be his answer. But no—it would disarrange things so—it might even postpone the wedding!
"Cynthia," he groaned, "you can't understand. It mustn't be—I've given my word. I can't explain. I can never explain. But—Cynthia—Cynthia——"
Back in the shadow the girl pressed her hands to her burning cheeks.
"A strange love—yours," she said. "A love that blows hot and cold."
"Cynthia—that isn't true—I do love you——"
"Please! Please let us—forget." She stepped into the moonlight, fine, brave, smiling. "Do we—dance?"
"Cynthia!" he cried unhappily. "If you only understood——"
"I think I do. The music has stopped. Harrowby has the next dance—he'd hardly think of looking for me here."
She was gone! Minot stood alone on the balcony. He was dazed, blind, trembling. He had refused the girl without whom life could never be worth while! Refused her, to keep the faith!
He entered upon the bright scene inside, slipped unnoticed to the elevator and, still dazed, descended to the lobby. He would walk in the moonlight until his senses were regained. Near the main door of the De la Pax he ran into Henry Trimmer. Mr. Trimmer had a newspaper in his hand.
"What's the matter with the women nowadays?" he demanded indignantly. Minot tried in vain to push by him. "Seen what those London suffragettes have done now?" And Trimmer pointed to a head-line.
"What have they done?" asked Minot.
"Done? They put dynamite under the statue of Lord Nelson in Trafalgar Square and blew it sky-high. It fell over into the Strand——"
"Good!" cried Minot wildly. "Good! I hope to hell it smashed the whole of London!" And, brushing aside the startled Trimmer, he went out into the night.
It was nearly twelve o'clock when Mr. Minot, somewhat calmer of mind, returned to the De la Pax. As he stepped into the courtyard he was surprised to see a crowd gathered before the hotel. Then he noticed that from a second-floor window poured smoke and flame, and that the town fire department was wildly getting into action.
He stopped—his heart almost ceased beating. That was her window! The window to which he had called her on that night that seemed so far away—last night! Breathlessly he ran forward.
And he ran straight into a group just descended from the ballroom. Of that group Cynthia Meyrick was a member. For a moment they stood gazing at each other. Then the girl turned to her aunt.
"My wedding dress!" she cried. "I left it lying on my bed. Oh, I can't possibly be married to-morrow if that is burned!"
There was a challenge in that last sentence, and the young man for whom it was intended did not miss it. Mad with the injustice of life, he swooped down on a fireman struggling with a wabbly ladder. Snatching away the ladder, he placed it against the window from which the smoke and flame poured. He ran up it.
"Here!" shouted the chief of the fire department, laying angry hands on the ladder's base. "Wot you doing? You can't go in there."
"Why the devil can't I?" bellowed Minot. "Let go of that ladder!"
He plunged into the room. The smoke filled his nostrils and choked him. His eyes burned. He staggered through the smoky dusk into another room. His hands met the brass bars of a bed—then closed over something soft and filmy that lay upon it. He seized the something close, and hurried back into the other room.
A fireman at another window sought to turn a stream of water on him. Water—on that gown!
"Cut that out, you fool!" Minot shouted. The fireman, who had suspected himself of saving a human life, looked hurt. Minot regained his window. Disheveled, smoky, but victorious, he half fell, half climbed, to the ground. The fire chief faced him.
"Who was you trying to rescue?" the chief demanded. His eyes grew wide. "You idiot," he roared, "they ain't nobody in that dress."
"Damn it, I know that," Minot cried.
He ran across the lawn and stood, a panting, limp, battered, ludicrous figure before Cynthia Meyrick.
"I—I hope it's the right one," he said, and held out the gown.
She took his offering, and came very close to him.
"I hate you!" she said in a low tone. "I hate you!"
"I—I was afraid you would," he muttered.
A shout from the firemen announced that the blaze was under control. To his dismay, Minot saw that an admiring crowd was surrounding him. He broke away and hurried to his room.
Cynthia Meyrick's final words to him rang in his ears. Savagely he tore at his ruined collar.
Was this ridiculous farce never to end?
As if in answer, a distant clock struck twelve. He shuddered.
To-morrow, at high noon!
Early Tuesday morning, while Mr. Minot still slept and mercifully forgot, two very wide awake gentlemen sat alone together in the office of theSan Marco Mail. One was Manuel Gonzale, proprietor of that paper, as immaculate as the morn; the other was that broad and breezy gentleman known in his present incarnation as Mr. Martin Wall.
"Very neat. Very neat indeed," said Mr. Wall, gazing with evident approval at an inky smelling sheet that lay before him. "It ought to do the work. If it does, it will be the first stroke of luck I've had in San Marco."
Gonzale smiled, revealing two even rows of very white teeth.
"You do not like San Marco?" he ventured.
Mr. Wall snorted angrily.
"Like it? Does a beheaded man like the ax? In a long and golden professional career, I've never struck anything like this town before for hard luck. I'm not in it twenty-four hours when I'm left alone, my hands tied, with stuff enough to make your eyes pop out of your head. That's pleasant! Then, after spending two months and a lot of money trailing Lord Harrowby for the family jools, I finally cop them. I give the crew of my borrowed boat orders to steam far, far away, and run to my cabin to gloat. Do I gloat? Ask me. I do not gloat. I find the famous Chain Lightning's Collar is a very superior collection of glass, worth about twenty-three cents. I send back the glass, and stick around, hoping for better days. And the best I get is a call from the owner of my yacht, with orders to vacate at once. When I first came here I swore I'd visit that jewelry store again—alone. But—there's a jinx after me in this town. What's the use? I'm going to get out."
"But before you go," smiled Manuel, "one stroke of luck you shall have."
"Maybe. I leave that to you. This kind of thing"—he motioned toward the damp paper—"is not in my line." He bent over a picture on the front page. "That cut came out pretty well, didn't it? Lucky we got the photograph before big brother George arrived."
"I have always found San Marco lucky," replied Gonzale. "Always—with one trifling exception." He drummed reminiscently on his desk.
"I say—who's this?" Mr. Wall pointed to a line just beneath the name of the paper. "Robert O'Neill, Editor and Proprietor," he read.
Manuel Gonzale gurgled softly somewhere within, which was his cunning, non-committal way of indicating mirth.
"Ah—my very virtuous managing editor," he said. "One of those dogs who dealt so vilely with me—I have told you of that. Manuel Gonzale does not forget." He leaned closer. "This morning at two, after O'Neill and Howe had sent to-day's paper to press as usual, Luypas, my circulation manager, and I arrived. My virtuous editors had departed to their rest. Luypas and I stopped the presses, we substituted a new first-page form. O'Neill and Howe—they will not know. Always they sleep until noon. In this balmy climate, it is easy to lie abed."
Again Manuel Gonzale gurgled.
"May their sleep be dreamless," he said. "And should our work of the morning fail, may the name of O'Neill be the first to concern the police."
Wall laughed.
"A good idea," he remarked. He looked at his watch. "Nine-fifteen. The banks ought to be open now."
Gonzale got to his feet. Carefully he folded the page that had been lying on his desk.
"The moment for action has come," he said. "Shall we go down to the street?"
"I'm in strange waters," responded Martin Wall uneasily. "The first dip I've ever taken out of my line. Don't believe in it either—a man should have his specialty and stick to it. However, I need the money. Am I letter perfect in my part, I wonder?"
The door of theMailoffice opened, and a sly little Cuban with an evil face stepped in.
"Ah, Luypas," Gonzale said, "you are here at last? Do you understand? Your boys they are to be in the next room—yes? You are to sit near that telephone. At a word from my friend, Mr. Martin Wall, to-day's edition of theMailis to flood the streets—the news-stands. Instantly. Delay might be fatal. Is that clear?"
"I know," said Luypas.
"Very good," said Gonzale. He turned to Martin Wall. "Now is the time," he added.
The two descended to the street. Opposite the Hotel de la Pax they parted. The sleek little Spaniard went on alone and mounted boldly those pretentious steps. At the desk he informed the clerk on duty that he must see Mr. Spencer Meyrick at once.
"But Mr. Meyrick is very busy to-day," the clerk objected.
"Say this is—life and death," replied Gonzale, and the clerk, wilting, telephoned the millionaire's apartments.
For nearly an hour Gonzale was kept waiting. Nervously he paced the lobby, consuming one cigarette after another, glancing often at his watch. Finally Spencer Meyrick appeared, pompous, red-faced, a hard man to handle, as he always had been. The Spaniard noted this, and his slits of eyes grew even narrower.
"Will you come with me?" he asked suavely. "It is most important."
He led the way to a summer-house in a far forgotten corner of the hotel grounds. Protesting, Spencer Meyrick followed. The two sat down.
"I have something to show you," said Gonzale politely, and removed from his pocket a copy of theSan Marco Mail, still damp from the presses.
Spencer Meyrick took the paper in his own large capable hands. He glanced casually at the first page, and his face grew somewhat redder than its wont. A huge head-line was responsible:
HARROWBY WASN'T TAKING ANY CHANCES.
Underneath, in slightly smaller type, Spencer Meyrick read:
Remarkable Foresight of English FortuneHunter Who Weds Miss Meyrick To-DayTook Out a Policy For Seventy-FiveThousand Pounds With Lloyds.Same to be Payable in Case theBeautiful Heiress Suffered aChange of Heart
Prominent on the page was a large photograph, which purported to be "An Exact Facsimile of the Policy." Mr. Meyrick examined it. He glanced through the story, which happened to be commendably brief. He told himself he must remain calm, avoid fireworks, think quickly. Laying the paper on his knee, he turned to the little white-garbed man beside him.
"What trick is this?" he asked sharply.
"It is no trick, sir," said Gonzale pleasantly. "It is the truth. That is a photograph of the policy."
Old Meyrick studied the cut again.
"I'll be damned," he remarked.
"I have no desire to annoy," Gonzale went on. "But—there are five thousand copies of to-day'sMailat the office ready to be distributed at a signal from me. Think, sir! Newsboys on the street with that story at the very moment when your daughter becomes Lady Harrowby."
"I see," said Meyrick slowly. "Blackmail."
Manuel Gonzale shuddered in horror.
"Oh, I beg of you," he protested. "That is hardly it. A business proposition, I should call it. It happens that the men back of the Star Publishing Company, which issues theMail, have grown tired of the newspaper game in San Marco. They are desirous of closing out the plant at once—say this morning. It occurs to them that you might be very glad to purchase theMail—before the next edition goes on the street."
"You're a clever little dog," said Meyrick, through his teeth.
"You are not exactly complimentary. However—let us say for the argument—you buy theMailat once. I am, by the way, empowered to make the sale. You take charge. You hurry to the office. You destroy all copies of to-day's issue so far printed. You give orders to the composing-room to kill this first-page story—good as it is. 'Please kill,' you say. A term with newspaper men."
"You call yourself a newspaper man?"
"Why not? The story is killed. Another is put in its place—say, for example, an elaborate account of your daughter's wedding. And in its changed form theMail—your newspaper—goes on the street."
"Um—and your price?"
"It is a valuable property."
"Especially valuable this morning, I take it," sneered Meyrick.
"Valuable at any time. Our presses cost a thousand. Our linotypes two thousand. And there is that other thing—so hard to estimate definitely—the wide appeal of our paper. The price—well—fifteen thousand dollars. Extremely reasonable. And I will include—the good will of the retiring management."
"You contemptible little—" began Spencer Meyrick.
"My dear sir—control yourself," pleaded Gonzale. "Or I may be unable to include the good will I spoke of. Would you care to see that story on the streets? You may at any moment. There is but one way out. Buy the newspaper. Buy it now. Here is the plan—you go with me to your bank. You procure fifteen thousand in cash. We go together to theMailoffice. You pay me the money and I leave you in charge."
Old Meyrick leaped to his feet.
"Very good," he cried. "Come on."
"One thing more," continued the crafty Gonzale. "It may pay you to note—we are watched. Even now. All the way to the bank and thence to the office of theMail—we will be watched. Should any accident, now unforeseen, happen to me, that issue of theMailwill go on sale in five minutes all over San Marco."
Spencer Meyrick stood glaring down at the little man in white. His enthusiasm of a moment ago for the journey vanished. However, the head-lines of theMailwere staring up at him from the bench. He stooped, pocketed the paper, and growled:
"I understand. Come on!"
There must be some escape. The trap seemed absurdly simple. Across the hotel lawn, down the hot avenue, in the less hot plaza, Meyrick sought a way. A naturally impulsive man, he had difficulty restraining himself. But he thought of his daughter, whose happiness was more than money in his eyes.
No way offered. At the counter of the tiny bank Meyrick stood writing his check, Gonzale at his elbow. Suddenly behind them the screen door slammed, and a wild-eyed man with flaming red hair rushed in.
"What is it you want?" Gonzale screamed.
"Out of my way, Don Quixote," cried the red-topped one. "I'm a windmill and my arms breathe death. Are you Mr. Meyrick? Well, tear up that check!"
"Gladly," said Meyrick. "Only—"
"Notice the catbirds down here?" went on the wild one. "Noisy little beasts, aren't they? Well, after this take off your hat to 'em. A catbird saved you a lot of money this morning."
"I'm afraid I don't follow—" said the dazed Spencer Meyrick.
"No? I'll explain. I have been working on this man's paper for the last week. So has a very good friend of mine. We knew he was crooked, but we needed the money and he promised us not to pull off any more blackmail while we stayed. Last night, after we left the office, he arranged this latest. Planned to incriminate me. You little devil—"
Manuel, frightened, leaped away.
"We usually sleep until noon," went on O'Neill. "He counted on that. Enter the catbird. Sat on our window-sill at ten A.M. and screeched. Woke us up. We felt uneasy. Went to the office, broke down a bolted door, and found what was up."
"Dog!" foamed Manuel. "Outcast of the gutter—"
"Save your compliments! Mr. Meyrick, my partner is now at theMailoffice destroying to-day's issue of theMail. We've already ruined the first-page form, the cut of the policy, and the negative. And we're going north as fast as the Lord'll let us. You can do what you please. Arrest our little lemon-tinted employer, if you want to."
Spencer Meyrick stood, considering.
"However—I've done you a favor." O'Neill went on. "You can do me one. Let Manuel off—on one condition."
"Name it."
"That he hands me at once two hundred dollars—one hundred for myself, the other for my partner. It's legitimate salary money due us—we need it. A long walk to New York."
"I myself—" began Meyrick.
"Don't want your money," said O'Neill. "Want Gonzale's."
"Gonzale's you shall have," agreed Meyrick. "You—pay him!"
"Never!" cried the Spaniard.
"Then it's the police—" hinted O'Neill.
Gonzale took two yellow bills from a wallet He tossed them at O'Neill.
"There, you cur—"
"Careful," cried O'Neill. "Or I'll punch you yet—"
He started forward, but Gonzale hastily withdrew. O'Neill and the millionaire followed to the street.
"Just as well," commented Meyrick. "I should not have cared to cause his arrest—it would have meant country-wide publicity." He laid a hand on the arm of the newspaper man. "I take it," he said, "that your fortunes are not at the highest ebb. You have done me a very great service. I propose to write two checks—one for you, one for your partner—and you may name the amounts."
But the red-haired one shook his head.
"No," he replied. "Nix on the anticlimax to virtue on a rampage. We can't be paid for it. It would sort of dim the glory. We've got the railroad fare at last—and we're going away from here. Yes—away from here. On the choo-choo—riding far—riding north."
"Well, my boy," answered Spencer Meyrick, "if I can ever do anything for you in New York, come and see me."
"You may have to make good on that," laughed O'Neill, and they parted.
O'Neill hastened to theMailoffice. He waved yellow bills before the lanky Howe.
"In the nick of time," he cried. "Me, the fair-haired hero. And here's the fare, Harry—the good old railroad fare."
"Heaven be praised," said Howe. "I've finished the job, Bob. Not a trace of this morning's issue left. The fare! North in parlor cars! My tobacco heart sings. Can't you hear the elevated—"
"Music, Harry, music."
"And the newsboys on Park Row—"
"Caruso can't touch them. Where can we find a time-table, I wonder?"
Meanwhile, in a corner of the plaza, Manuel Gonzale spoke sad words in the ear of Martin Wall.
"It's the jinx," moaned Wall with conviction. "The star player in everything I do down here. I'm going to burn the sand hot-footing it away. But whither, Manuel, whither?"
"In Porto Rico," replied Gonzale, "I have not yet plied my trade. I go there."
"Palm Beach," sighed Wall, "has diamonds that can be observed to sparkle as far away as the New York society columns. But alas, I lack the wherewithal to support me in the style to which my victims are accustomed."
"Try Porto Rico," suggested Gonzale. "The air is mild—so are the police. I will stake you."
"Thanks. Porto Rico it is. How the devil do we get there?"
Up the main avenue of San Marco Spencer Meyrick walked as a man going to avenge. With every determined step his face grew redder, his eye more dangerous. He looked at his watch. Eleven.
The eleventh hour! But much might happen between the eleventh hour and high noon!
In the Harrowby suite the holder of the title, a handsome and distinguished figure, adorned for his wedding, walked nervously the rather worn carpet. His brother, hastily pressed into service as best man, sat puffing at a cigar with a persistency which indicated a somewhat perturbed state of mind on his own part.
"Brace up, Allan," he urged. "It'll be over before you realize it. Remember my own wedding—gad, wasn't I frightened? Always that way with a man—no sense to it, but he just can't help it. Never forget that little parlor, with the flower of Marion society all about, and me with my teeth chattering and my knees knocking together."
"It is a bit of an ordeal," said Allan weakly. "Chap feels all sort of—gone—inside—"
The telephone, ringing sharply, interrupted. George Harrowby rose and stepped to it.
"Allan? You wish Allan? Very well. I'll tell him."
He turned away from the telephone and faced his brother.
"It was old Meyrick, kid. Seemed somewhat hot under the collar. Wants to see you in their suite at once."
"Wha—what do you imagine he wants?"
"Going to make you a present of Riverside Drive, I fancy. Go ahead, boy. I'll wait for you here."
Allan Harrowby went out, along the dusky corridor to the Meyrick door. Not without misgivings, he knocked. A voice boomed "Come!" He pushed open the door.
He saw Spencer Meyrick sitting purple at a table, and beside him Cynthia Meyrick, in the loveliest gown of all the lovely gowns she had ever worn. The beauty of the girl staggered Harrowby a bit; never demonstrative, he had a sudden feeling that he should be at her feet.
"You—you sent for me?" he asked, coming into the room. As he moved closer to the girl he was to marry he saw that her face was whiter than her gown, and her brown eyes strained and miserable.
"We did," said Meyrick, rising. He held out a paper. "Will you please look at that."
His lordship took the sheet in unsteady hands. He glanced down. Slowly the meaning of the story that met his gaze filtered through his dazed brain. "Martin Wall did this," he thought to himself. He tried to speak, but could not. Dumbly he stared at Spencer Meyrick.
"We want no scene, Harrowby," said the old man wearily. "We merely want to know if there is in existence a policy such as the one mentioned here?"
The paper slipped from his lordship's lifeless hands. He turned miserably away. Not daring to face either father or daughter, he answered very faintly:
"There is."
Spencer Meyrick sighed.
"That's all we want to know. There will be no wedding, Harrowby."
"Wha—what!" His lordship faced about "Why, sir—the guests must be—down-stairs—"
"It is—unfortunate. But there will be no wedding." The old man turned to his daughter. "Cynthia," he asked, "have you nothing to say?"
"Yes." White, trembling, the girl faced his lordship. "It seems, Allan, that you have regarded our marriage as a business proposition. You have gambled on the stability of the market. Well, you win. I have changed my mind. This is final. I shall not change it again."
"Cynthia!" And any who had considered Lord Harrowby unfeeling must have been surprised at the anguish in his voice. "I have loved you—I love you now. I adore you. What can I say in explanation—of this. We gamble, all of us—it is a passion bred in the family. That is why I took out this absurd policy. My dearest—it doesn't mean that there was no love on my side. There is—there always will be, whatever happens. Can't you understand—"
The girl laid her hand on his arm, and drew him away to the window.
"It's no use, Allan," she said, for his ears alone. "Perhaps I could have forgiven—but somehow—I don't care—as I thought I did. It is better, embarrassing as it may be for us both, that there should be no wedding, after all."
"Cynthia—you can't mean that. You don't believe me. Let me send for my brother—he will tell you of the passion for gambling in our family—he will tell you that I love you, too—"
He moved toward the telephone.
"No use," said Cynthia Meyrick, shaking her head. "It would only prolong a painful scene. Please don't, Allan."
"I'll send for Minot, too," Harrowby cried.
"Mr. Minot?" The girl's eyes narrowed. "And what has Mr. Minot to do with this?"
"Everything. He came down here as the representative of Lloyds. He came down to make sure that you didn't change your mind. He will tell you that I love you—"
A queer expression hovered about Miss Meyrick's lips. Spencer Meyrick interrupted.
"Nonsense," he cried. "There is no need to—"
"One moment." Cynthia Meyrick's eyes shone strangely. "Send for your brother, Allan. And—for—Mr. Minot."
Harrowby stepped to the telephone. He summoned his forces. A strained unhappy silence ensued. Then the two men entered the room together.
"Minot—George, old boy," Lord Harrowby said helplessly. "Miss Meyrick and her father have discovered the existence of a certain insurance policy about which you both know. They have believed that my motive in seeking a marriage was purely mercenary—that my affection for the girl who is—was—to have become my wife can not be sincere. They are wrong—quite wrong. Both of you know that. I've sent for you to help me make them understand—I can not—"
George Harrowby stepped forward, and smiled his kindly smile.
"My dear young lady," he said. "I regret that policy very deeply. When I first heard of it I, too, suspected Allan's motives. But after I talked with him—after I saw you—I was convinced that his affection for you was most sincere. I thought back to the gambling schemes for which the family has been noted—I saw it was the old passion cropping out anew in Allan—that he was really not to blame—that beyond any question he was quite devoted to you. Otherwise I'd have done everything in my power to prevent the wedding."
"Yes?" Miss Meyrick's eyes flashed dangerously. "And—your other witness, Allan?"
The soul of the other witness squirmed in agony. This was too much—too much!
"You, Minot—" pleaded Harrowby. "You have understood—"
"I have felt that you were sincerely fond of Miss Meyrick," Minot replied. "Otherwise I should not have done—what I have done."
"Then, Mr. Minot," the girl inquired, "you think I would be wrong to give up all plans for the wedding?"
"I—I—yes, I do," writhed Minot
"And you advise me to marry Lord Harrowby at once?"
Mr. Minot passed his handkerchief over his damp forehead. Had the girl no mercy?
"I do," he answered miserably.
Cynthia Meyrick laughed, harshly, mirthlessly.
"Because that's your business—your mean little business," she said scornfully. "I know at last why you came to San Marco. I understand everything. You had gambled with Lord Harrowby, and you came here to see that you did not lose your money. Well, you've lost! Carry that news back to the concern you work for! In spite of your heroic efforts, you've lost! At the last moment Cynthia Meyrick changed her mind!"
Lost! The word cut Minot to the quick. Lost, indeed! Lost Jephson's stake—lost the girl he loved! He had failed Jephson—failed himself! After all he had done—all he had sacrificed. A double defeat, and therefore doubly bitter.
"Cynthia—surely you don't mean—" Lord Harrowby was pleading.
"I do, Allan," said the girl more gently. "It was true—what I told you—there by the window. It is better—father! Will you go down and—say—I'm not to be married, after all?"
Spencer Meyrick nodded, and turned toward the door.
"Cynthia," cried Harrowby brokenly. There was no reply. Old Meyrick went out.
"I'm sorry," his lordship said. "Sorry I made such a mess of it—the more so because I love you, Cynthia—and always shall. Good-by."
He held out his hand. She put hers in it.
"It's too bad, Allan," she said. "But—it wasn't to be. And, even now, you have one consolation—the money that Lloyds must pay you."
"The money means nothing, Cynthia—"
"Miss Meyrick is mistaken," Minot interrupted. "Lord Harrowby has not even that consolation. Lloyds owes him nothing."
"Why not?" asked the girl defiantly.
"Up to an hour ago," said Minot, "you were determined to marry his lordship?"
"I should hardly put it that way. But—I intended to."
"Yes. Then you changed your mind. Why?"
"I changed it because I found out about this ridiculous, this insulting policy."
"Then his lordship's taking out of the policy caused the calling off of the wedding?"
"Y—yes. Why?"
"It may interest you to know—and it may interest Lord Harrowby to recall—that five minutes before he took out this policy he signed an agreement to do everything in his power to bring about the wedding. And he further promised that if the wedding should be called off because of any subsequent act of his, he would forfeit the premium."
"By gad," said Lord Harrowby.
"The taking out of the policy was a subsequent act," continued Minot. "The premium, I fancy, is forfeited."
"He's got you, Allan," said George Harrowby, coming forward, "and I for one can't say I'm sorry. You're going to tear up that policy now—and go to work for me."
"I for one am sorry," cried Miss Meyrick, her flashing eyes on Minot. "I wanted you to win, Allan. I wanted you to win."
"Why?" Minot asked innocently.
"You ought to know," she answered, and turned away.
Lord Harrowby moved toward the door.
"We're not hard losers," he said blankly. "But—everything's gone—it's a bit of a smash-up. Good-by, Cynthia."
"Good-by, Allan—and good luck."
"Thanks." And Harrowby went out with his brother.
Minot stood for a time, not daring to move. Cynthia Meyrick was at the window; her scornful back was not encouraging. Finally she turned, saw Minot and gave a start of surprise.
"Oh—you're still here?"
"Cynthia, now you understand," he said. "You know why I acted as I did. You realize my position. I was in a horrible fix—"
She looked at him coldly.
"Yes," she said, "I do understand. You were gambling on me. You came down here to defend your employer's cash. Well, you have succeeded. Is there anything more to be said?"
"Isn't there? On the ramparts of the old fort the other night—"
"Please do not make yourself any more ridiculous than is necessary. You have put your employer's money above my happiness. Always. Really, you looked rather cheap to-day, with your sanctimonious advice that I marry Harrowby. Aren't you beginning to realize your own position—the silly childish figure you cut?"
"Then you—"
"Last night when you came staggering across the lawn to me with this foolish gown in your arms—I told you I hated you. Do you imagine I hate you any less now. Well, I don't." Her voice became tearful. "I hate you! I hate you!"
"But some day—"
She turned away from him, for she was sobbing outright now.
"I never want to see you again as long as I live," she cried. "Never! Never! Never!"
Limp, pitiable, worn by the long fight he had waged, Minot stood staring helplessly at her heaving shoulders.
"Then—I can only say I'm sorry," he murmured. "And—good-by."
He waited. She did not turn toward him. He stumbled out of the room.
Minot went below and sent two messages, one to Jephson, the other to Thacker. The lobby of the De la Pax was thronged with brilliantly attired wedding guests who, metaphorically, beat their breasts in perplexity over the tidings that had come even as they craned their necks to catch the first glimpse of that distinguished bridal party. The lavishly decorated parlor that was to have been the scene of the ceremony stood tragically deserted. Minot cast one look at it, and hurried again to his own particular cell.
He took a couple of time-tables from his desk, and sat down in a chair facing the window. All over now. Nothing to do but return to the North, as fast as the trains would take him. He had won, but he had also lost. He felt listless, weary. He let the time-tables fall to the floor, and sat gazing out at that narrow street—thinking—wondering—wishing—
It was late in the afternoon when the clamor of his telephone recalled him to himself. He leaped up, and seized the receiver. Allan Harrowby's voice came over the wire.
"Can you run down to the room, Minot?" he inquired. "The last call, old boy."
Minot went. He found both the Harrowbys there, prepared to say good-by to San Marco forever.
"Going to New York on theLady Evelyn," said George Harrowby, who was aggressively cheerful. "From there I'm taking Allan to Chicago. Going to have him reading George Ade and talking our language in a week."
Lord Harrowby smiled wanly.
"Nothing left but Chicago," he drawled. "I wanted to see you before I went, Minot, old chap. Not that I can thank you for all you did—I don't know how. You stood by me like—like a gentleman. And I realize that I have no claim on Lloyds—it was all my fault—if I'd never let Martin Wall have that confounded policy— But what's the use of if-ing? All my fault. And—my thanks, old boy." He sighed.
"Nonsense," said Minot. "A business proposition, solely, from my point of view. There's no thanks coming to me."
"It seems to me," said George Harrowby, "that as the only victor in this affair, you don't exhibit a proper cheerfulness. By the way, we'd be delighted to take you north on our boat. Why not—"
But Minot shook his head.
"Can't spare the time—thank you just the same," he replied. "I'd like nothing better—"
Amid expressions of regret, the Harrowbys started for the elevator. Minot walked along the dusky corridor with them.
"We've had a bit of excitement—what?" said Allan. "If you're ever in London, you're to be my guest. Old George has some sort of a berth for me over there—"
"Not a berth, Allan," objected George, pressing the button for the elevator. "You're not going to sleep. A job. Might as well begin to talk the Chicago language now. Mr. Minot, I, too, want to thank you—"
They stepped into the elevator, the door slammed, the car began to descend. Minot stood gazing through the iron scroll work until the blond head of the helpless Lord Harrowby moved finally out of sight. Then he returned to his room and the time-tables, which seemed such dull unhappy reading.
Mr. Jack Paddock appeared to invite Minot to take dinner with him. His bags, he remarked, were all packed, and he was booked for the seven o'clock train.
"I've slipped down the mountain of gold," he said in the course of the dinner. "But all good things must end, and I certainly had a good thing. Somehow, I'm not so gloomy as I ought to be."
"Where are you going, Jack?" Minot asked.
Mr. Paddock leaned over confidentially.
"Did I say her father was in the plumbing business?" he inquired. "My error, Dick. He owns a newspaper—out in Grand Rapids. Offered me a job any time I wanted it. Great joke then—pretty serious now. For I'm going out to apply."
"I'm glad of it."
"So am I, Dick. I was a fool to let her go back like that. Been thinking it all over—and over—one girl in—how many are there in the world, should you say? The other day I had a chill. It occurred to me maybe she'd gone and married the young man with the pale purple necktie who passes the plate in the Methodist Church. So I beat it to the telegraph counter. And—"
"She's heart whole and fancy free?"
"O.K. in both respects. So it's me for Grand Rapids. And say, Dick, I—er—I want you to know I'd sent that telegram before the accident last night. As a matter of fact, I sent it two days ago."
"Good boy," said Minot. "I knew this game down here didn't satisfy you. May I be the first to wish you joy?"
"You? With a face like a defeated candidate? I say, cheer up! She'll stretch out eager arms in your direction yet."
"I don't believe it, Jack."
"Well, while there's life there's still considerable hope lying loose about the landscape. That's why I don't urge you to take the train with me."
An hour later Mr. Paddock spoke further cheering words in his friend's ear, and departed for the North. And in that city of moonlight and romance Minot was left (practically) alone.
He took a little farewell walk through that quaint old town, then retired to his room to read another chapter in the time-table. At four-twenty in the morning, he noted, a small local train would leave for Jacksonville. He decided he would take it. With no parlor cars, no sleepers, he would not be likely to encounter upon it any of the startled wedding party bound north.
The call he left did not materialize, and it was four o'clock when he awoke. Hastily in the chill dawn he bade farewell to town and hotel. In fifteen minutes he had left both behind, and was speeding toward the small yellow station set on the town's edge. He glanced feverishly at his watch. There was need of haste, for this train was made up in San Marco, and had had as yet no chance to be late.
He rushed through the gate just as it was being closed, and caught a dreary little train in the very act of pulling out. Gloomy oil lamps sought vainly to lessen the dour aspect of its two coaches. Panting, he entered the rear coach and threw himself and his bag into a seat.
Five seconds later he glanced across the aisle and discovered in the opposite seat Miss Cynthia Meyrick, accompanied by a very sleepy-eyed family!
"The devil!" said Minot to himself. He knew that she would see in this utter accident nothing save a deliberate act of following. What use to protest his innocence?
He considered moving to another seat. But such a theatric act could only increase the embarrassment. Already his presence had been noted—Aunt Mary had given him a glare, Spencer Meyrick a scowl, the girl a cloudy vague "where have I seen this person before?" glance in passing.
Might as well make the best of it. He settled himself in his seat. Once again, as on another railroad car, he sought to keep his eyes on the landscape without—the dim landscape with the royal palms waving like grim ghosts in the half light. The train sped on.
A most uncomfortable situation! If only it would grow light! It seemed so silly to be forced to find the view out the window entrancing while it was still very dark.