CHAPTER XIIA GENTLEMAN OF PLEASURE
Therewere at least four persons that Clifford knew it was desirable to keep under surveillance—Bradley, Peter Loveman, Mr. Morton, and Hilton; but the professional ladies’ man he regarded as the best clue to the immediate situation. “Yes, you stick to Hilton,” Uncle George agreed decisively that evening at dinner. “When it comes to twisting women, that dear limber guy is a better committee on ways and means than any charmer that ever adorned himself in a smile, pumps, and a dress suit.”
That night Clifford trailed Hilton from restaurant to theater, and then to three of the smartest hotel ballrooms, and then, toward three in the morning, saw him to his hotel. He picked Hilton up at noon the next morning; lunched (it was Hilton’s breakfast) at a table near him at the Ritz-Carlton; followed him to a few restaurants where afternoon dancing was under way; and at exactly half-past five he followed him into the Mordona.
He gave Hilton a minute’s start, then rode up to the “Graysons’” apartment. Hilton had evidently been admitted, for the corridor was empty. Muffling the lock with a handkerchief, Clifford slippedin the pass-key, and swiftly, but with velvet caution, he opened the door. Inside, he closed the door with as great care, and stood, unbreathing, listening kitchenward for the maid—fingers on lips and a bill held out to check immediately any words should that young lady appear: a needless stratagem, since Mary had given her maid that afternoon out. Hearing nothing, he moved softly to the curtained doorway of the drawing-room, and glanced in. Apparently Mary had planned to go out to an early dinner, for she wore an evening gown. She was standing erect in the middle of the room, gazing with level eyes at the immaculate Mr. Hilton.
“I am here at five-thirty, as I said I’d be,” Hilton was saying, smiling pleasantly. “I hope you have seen the wisdom of my remarks and have reconsidered your defiant attitude of yesterday. You undoubtedly have a very good plan, and it would be most unfortunate”—his voice was soothingly argumentative—“if you compelled me to tell Mr. Morton about the marriage, and tell them both who your relatives are, and just who is Mary Regan. Most unfortunate, I assure you.”
“You need not squander your emotion. I have the money.”
“I approve your good sense! You have the full amount?”
“You may count it for yourself.” She held out a little roll.
“Ten five-hundred-dollar bills. Correct. Thoughit pinches me that you could not make it the ten thousand I asked for. However! I suppose”—in high good humor—“you’d like a receipt for this. It might help you in court if you ever decided to bring action against me.”
“Your jocularity is not greatly appreciated. Now that you have the money, I suggest that you go.”
“As pleases you.” Drawing back the lapel of his slender afternoon coat—it had been a warm afternoon, and he had worn no outer coat—he slipped the bank-notes into the top pocket of his vest. “In leaving you, Mrs.—ah—Grayson, let me wish your little enterprise the most complete success. Good-afternoon.”
Clifford was on the point of springing into the room, when, to his amazement, from the door which opened into the library, there emerged the plump figure of Peter Loveman. On the face of the shrewd little lawyer was a bewildered, almost sickly look, the like of which Clifford had never beheld on that usually amiable and ruddy countenance.
“Just a minute!” said Loveman.
Hilton whirled about. “Oh, it’s Loveman! Hello, Loveman.”
Loveman crossed toward the other. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Just making a little afternoon call. Will you return the courtesy and tell me how you come to be here?”
“I was here when you came, and was waitinguntil you had gone to finish my talk with Mrs. Grayson.” Clifford could see that the control which had slipped away from Loveman was regained, for the little man was benign again—therefore, dangerous. “Are you sure, Hilton,” he said softly, “that your purpose here was only to call?”
“Merely social, Loveman,” the other replied, smiling.
“I think, Hilton,” continued Loveman, in his soft, pleasant tone, “that anything you got here you’d better return to Mrs. Grayson.”
“I have nothing to return.”
“I think you’ll find it wiser and more profitable in the end to return it,” went on Loveman’s pleasant voice.
“I have nothing to return,” repeated the other, drawing on his gloves.
The two men gazed at each other steadily. Clifford could see that beneath Hilton’s smiling politeness there was defiance, that beneath Loveman’s soft manner there was menace. He was puzzled by this hostility, for he had figured that the pair, with Bradley, were working together. But he instantly perceived why this hostility should be masked; the two spoke thus indirectly because neither, or at least not Loveman, wished Mary to understand what lay between them. And Mary did not understand; the bewildered look she gave the pair told Clifford that.
Hilton ended the brief tableau by picking up hishat and stick, which he had carried into the room with him. “Good-afternoon, Mrs. Grayson; this has been a most pleasant occasion. So-long, Loveman.”
He was turning away when Clifford sprang through the doorway and upon him. Clifford seized his right wrist and swung the arm upward and backward with a vicious twist—an old police trick—and thrust a hand through the flaring front of the exquisitely tailored coat and possessed himself of the bank-notes. Hilton’s stick and hat went flying; he let out a cry of surprise and pain; but before he knew what had happened to him there had snapped about his wrists a pair of handcuffs.
Clifford jerked him forward, so that their faces were within a foot of each other. “Well, Hilton, this time I’ve got you with the goods on!” he snapped. “This will be the last woman you’ll squeeze money out of for about five years!”
“See here, I’ve done nothing,” gasped the breathless Hilton. “That’s my own money—I had it when I came here.”
Clifford turned to Mary. “I warned you what he was—one of the cleverest of that new trade whose specialty is squeezing big money out of women!”
“He’s done nothing,” Mary affirmed, looking directly at Clifford. “You—how did you get in here? I heard no ring.”
“Pass-key. That story doesn’t go, Mrs. Grayson—it doesn’t go, Hilton. I was right on Hilton’sheels when he entered. I heard him demand the money on threat of exposure. I saw the money passed.”
He turned abruptly on Loveman. “And you, Loveman, you fit into this pretty little game, too!”
“Me, Bob, my dear boy?” protested Loveman. “Why is it,” he demanded, in a tone of mourning, “that the innocent bystander is the one that always gets the copper’s stick over his new spring derby?”
“Your suspicions against Mr. Loveman—” began Mary.
“Don’t say a word, Mrs. Grayson,” Loveman cut in quickly.
“Your suspicions against Mr. Loveman are mistaken,” persisted Mary. “Mr. Loveman gave me that money.”
“Gave you the money!” exclaimed Clifford.
“Mrs. Grayson!” appealed Loveman.
But Mary went on, speaking very steadily and with a formal precision. “You are right about Mr. Hilton. He came yesterday afternoon, demanding money which had to be paid by half-past five to-day. I at first refused; afterwards I recognized I didn’t dare not pay. I did not know where to get such a sum, so I telephoned Mr. Loveman that I wished to see him. He came at once, and I told him of my situation and that I could not possibly raise the amount upon such short notice. Jack did not have the money, and I could not have asked him for the amount, anyhow; and my uncle is awayout on the coast. I asked Mr. Loveman’s advice. He saw my predicament, and himself offered to give me the money. Half an hour ago he came, bringing the money which you have. I believe that completely exonerates Mr. Loveman.”
“Yes, Bob,” Loveman said cheerfully, “I guess that lets me out.”
Clifford looked keenly at the little man’s round, good-natured face—behind which played an unmatched shrewdness. Clifford did not disbelieve Mary, yet it seemed to him out of the man’s character to play such a rôle as Mary had described. This was one more aspect of the whole situation which for the moment bewildered him.
“I think, Peter, we’ll soon figure out just where you fit into this case,” he said shortly. He turned to his prisoner. “At any rate, I’ve got you for fair, Hilton,” he said grimly. “Loveman, kindly oblige Mr. Hilton by picking up his stick and hat.”
“You may have me all right,” said Hilton, with a pale, twitching smile that he tried to force to be jauntily indifferent, “but when the evidence against me is produced in court what will happen to Mrs. Mary Regan Morton Grayson?”
“Oh, I say, Bob,” Loveman spoke up quickly, “call it square if he gives the money back to—”
But his words were cut off by the ringing of the apartment bell. They all suddenly became as fixed as so many statues. Then Mary spoke, and her words came rapidly:—
“It must be Jack, home from the office. He’s probably forgotten his key. Mr. Loveman, you go to the door and prevent his coming in. Say whatever you like.”
Loveman slipped through the curtained doorway, and the next moment Clifford heard the outer door open. Then he heard an amazed voice exclaim:—
“Well, if it’s not Loveman! Now what the devil are you doing here?”
Clifford and Mary both started. The amazed voice in the next room was not Jack’s voice.
“I’m here—on a little business—with Mrs. Grayson,” stammered Loveman.
“So am I,” said the voice.
“But she’s engaged—I assure you—”
“I’ll only take a minute or two. Come on; you shall introduce me. Don’t hang back.”
The next moment Loveman was pushed through the door, and behind him appeared the tall figure of Mr. Morton, evening clothes showing beneath his overcoat. He stopped short at what he saw.
“Why, Mr. Clifford!” he exclaimed. And then: “Why, I beg your pardon, Miss Gilmore! Or should I say Mrs. Grayson?”
Clifford saw that Mary had gone almost white. He sensed, and he knew that she sensed, that one of the supreme crises of her new life—the life that was to make her or break her—was unexpectedly before them.
Mary spoke calmly. “It is Mrs. Grayson now.”
“How rapidly events do happen in New York,” Mr. Morton remarked politely, his keen gray eyes full upon her. “Miss Gilmore when I saw you at the Grantham—Mrs. Grayson within a week. He must be a young Lochinvar, Mr. Grayson, the way he does things.”
Hilton had been standing beyond Clifford, blocked out of Mr. Morton’s first swift survey of the scene. He now shifted forward, and Mr. Morton saw him, the grip of Clifford fastened on his upper arm, and the glinting handcuffs on his wrists.
“What’s this all about?” Mr. Morton exclaimed.
Hilton was swift to see what advantage for him lay in the situation. He stepped nearer Mr. Morton.
“It means that I am the victim of a most unfortunate misunderstanding,” he spoke up quickly. “Mr. Clifford believed, mistakenly, that I had come wrongfully by some five thousand dollars in my possession, and he took the money from me and placed me under arrest.”
“It’s none of my business, I suppose,” Mr. Morton said, “but is this correct, Mr. Clifford?”
Clifford remained silent for a moment. In a flash he saw that for him to answer with the full truth would lead to Mary’s instant ruin: this after he had declared that he had stepped out of her life, that he was going to leave to experience and her own decisions the shaping of her fate.
“The last part of his statement is correct,” repliedClifford—“that I took the money from him and placed him under arrest.”
“But he declares the money is his. If not, whose is it?”
In the passing moment Clifford had decided to put it squarely up to Mary, to thrust the tangled threads of her destiny into her own hands. But Hilton beat him to the very reply he intended making.
“Ask Mrs. Grayson whose money it is,” cried Hilton, and, wheeling, he gave Mary a meaning look.
But Mr. Morton’s eyes waited on Clifford. Clifford turned and gazed at Mary.
“Yes, ask Mrs. Grayson,” said Clifford.
“Mrs. Grayson,” said Mr. Morton, “the ownership of this disputed money seems to rest on your word.”
She hesitated. Clifford read beneath that white, calm face: realized that she was on the thinnest of thin ice—if indeed she were not already through it and in the black waters. He believed, and was certain she believed, that Mr. Morton already knew of the marriage—but did he know of the other things?
“Whose is it, Mrs. Grayson?” prompted Mr. Morton.
She indicated Hilton with a nod. “The money is his; give it to him, Mr. Clifford,” she said.
Clifford quickly weighed his conflicting responsibilities. To give Life the chance to test Mary outto the end of this experience weighed more important than the mere capture of Hilton.
“Here it is,” he said; and thrust the bills into one of the handcuffed hands—and as he did so, out of the tail of his eye he caught a look of dismay on Loveman’s face.
“Since your affairs seem to be adjusted,” put in Mr. Morton, “I dare say you’d like to be saying good-afternoon.”
Clifford removed the handcuffs, Loveman gave Hilton his hat and cane, and the professional entangler of women, though ruffled somewhat as to the perfection of his apparel, bowed himself out with exquisite manner.
There was a moment of silence—a strain upon all except Mr. Morton, who had the light, easy bearing of a man of the world at an afternoon tea. If he knew or guessed anything, he did not show it—and his pleasant surface made him seem all the more dangerous.
He gave Mary a slight but gracious bow. “I hope you’ll forgive my dropping in so informally. But I had learned your address by chance, I happened to be in the neighborhood, and I wished to advance my acquaintance, begun when you were Miss Gilmore.”
“I’m sure I’m glad you called,” returned Mary.
“Then we’ll have a little visit—yes?” He slipped off his overcoat. “Mr. Clifford, I know Mrs. Grayson would be glad to have you remain as ourchaperone. Mr. Loveman”—with the faintest of ironic smiles—“I know I would not have a ghost of a chance with such a famous lady’s man in the company, so I am going to have the audacity to ask you to call again.”
He had spoken with lightness, but there had been autocratic demand behind his words. Loveman disappeared into the room whence Clifford had seen him emerge, and returned with hat and coat. He tried to speak an offhand good-bye—though Clifford read that his soul was agitated with acute uneasiness—and started out.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” Clifford said to the two, and followed the little lawyer. He caught him in the hallway and held him with a hand on either shoulder.
“Loveman,” said he, looking down into the round face, “I certainly was up in the air for a time. But I’ve sized up the whole situation now.”
“What situation?”
“The situation between you, Miss Regan,—Mrs. Morton, I mean,—and Hilton. I thought that, of course, you, Bradley, and Hilton were in the game together.”
“Well?”
“I thought there was just one scheme on foot to blackmail Mrs. Morton. I’ve just tumbled to the fact that there were two schemes—and that there’s just been a head-on collision between the two.”
“Bob, my boy, please elucidate.”
“Further, Loveman, I understand your generosity in the matter of that five thousand. Bradley had demanded money, and you knew it. When Mary Regan sent for you yesterday, told you of the demand, and convinced you she could not possibly meet it, you had an inspiration. It wouldn’t do to withdraw the demand; better to give her the money yourself, and thereby increase her confidence and gratitude—that’d make her more inclined to fall in with you when you wanted to use her in some other big game. And your five thousand which you’d given her with your right hand, after she’d had it for just a few minutes, would come right back to your left hand. A great idea, Loveman!—great stuff!”
“You’re smoking too much hop,” smiled Loveman—but it was a sickly smile.
“But there’s many a slip ’twixt the right hand and the left. You never suspected that there was a second blackmailer on the job; Mrs. Morton probably thought that Bradley and Hilton were working together, and told you little more than that money was demanded. And Hilton has walked right off with your five thousand, and you’ll not get it back. And your client in there, Mr. Morton, is on to Jack and Mary Regan, and the part you’ve played, and there’s about to be an explosion, and the rest of your beans’ll be spilled. Good-night, Peter, old boy, and may you have pleasant dreams!”