The boy went away at a late hour. He left behind him an exceedingly perplexed couple, but he felt that when Mr. Abingdon had time to assimilate the facts, and realize the great scope of the work before him, there was little doubt he would gladly associate himself with it.
At the hotel a telegram awaited him:
"Have realized for fifty-two thousand. Returning Monday.Isaacstein."
"Have realized for fifty-two thousand. Returning Monday.Isaacstein."
Here was the final proof, if proof were wanting. Philip was a millionaire many times over.
A tall, strongly built man, aged about forty-five, but looking older, by reason of his grizzled hair and a face seamed with hardship—a man whose prominent eyes imparted an air of alert intelligence to an otherwise heavy and brutal countenance, disfigured by a broken nose, stood on the north side of the Mile End Road and looked fixedly across the street at a fine building which dwarfed the mean houses on either hand.
He had no need to ask what it was. Carved in stone over the handsome arch which led to an interior covered court was its title—"The Mary Anson Home for Destitute Boys." A date followed, a date ten years old.
The observer was puzzled. He gazed up and down the wide thoroughfare with the manner of one who asked himself:
"Now, why was that built there?"
A policeman strolled leisurely along the pavement, but to him the man addressed no question. Apparently unconscious of the constable's observant glance, he still continued to scrutinize the great pile of brick and stone which thrust its splendid campanile into the warm sunshine of an April day.
Beneath the name was an inscription:
"These are they which passed through great tribulation."
A queer smile did not improve the man's expression as he read the text.
"Tribulation! That's it," he continued. "I've had ten years of it. And it started somewhere about the end of that fine entrance, too. I wonder where Sailor is, and that boy. He's a man now, mebbe twenty-six or so, if he's alive. Oh, I hope he's alive! I hope he's rich and healthy and engaged or married to a nice, young woman. If I've managed to live in hell for ten long years, a youngster like him should be able to pull through with youth and strength and a bag full of diamonds."
Without turning his head, he became aware that the policeman had halted at some little distance.
"Of course, I've got the mark on me," said the man, savagely, to himself. "He's spotted me, all right. Well, I'll let him see I don't care for him or any of his breed. I never did care, and it's too late to begin now."
He crossed the road, passed between two fine, iron gates standing hospitably open, and paused at the door of the porter's lodge, where a stalwart commissionaire met him.
"Have you called to see one of the boys?" said the official, cheerfully.
"No. I'm a stranger. It's a good many years since I was in these parts before. In those days there used to be a mews here, and some warehouses at the back, with a few old shops——"
"Oh, I expect so, but that is long before my time. The Mary Anson Home was founded ten years ago, and it took two years to build. It's one of the finest charities in London. Would you like to look round?"
"Is that allowed?"
"Certainly. Everybody is welcome. If you go in by that side door, there, you'll find an old man who has nothing else to do but take visitors to the chief departments. Bless your heart, we lose half our boarders that way. People come here, see the excellences of the training we give, and offer situations to boys who are old enough."
The man appeared to be surprised by the commissionaire's affability. He did not know that civility and kindness were essential there if any employee would retain an excellent post.
He passed on, measuring the tessellated court with a backward sweep of the eye. In the sunlit street beyond the arch stood the policeman. The visitor grinned again, an unamiable and sulky grin, and vanished.
The policeman crossed over.
"What is that chap after?" he inquired.
"Nothing special," was the answer. "Last time he was here the place was a mews, he said."
"Unless I am greatly mistaken, he has a ticket in his pocket."
"You don't say! Do you know him?"
"No. I'll look him up in the album in the station when I go off duty."
"Well, he can't do any harm here. O'Brien takes visitors over a regular round, and, in any case, the man seemed to be honest enough in his curiosity."
"You never can tell. They're up to all sorts of dodges."
"Thanks very much. I'll ring for O'Brien's relief and tell him to keep an eye on them, as the old man is blind as a bat."
Meanwhile the stranger was being conducted up a wide staircase by a somewhat tottering guide, who wore on the breast of his uniform the Crimean and Indian Mutiny medals.
As he hobbled in front, he told, with a strong, Irish brogue, the familiar story of the Mary Anson Home—how it fed, lodged and clothed six hundred boys of British parentage born in the Whitechapel district; how it taught them trades and followed their careers with fostering care; how it never refused a meal or a warm sleeping place to any boy, no matter where he came from or what his nationality, provided he satisfied the superintendent that he was really destitute or needed his small capital for trading purposes next day.
The great central hall where the six hundred regular inmates ate their meals, the dormitories, the playgrounds, the drill shed and gymnasium, the workshops, the library, the theater, were all pointed out, but the big man with the staring eyes was not interested one jot in any of these things.
"Who was Mary Anson?" he asked, when the well-worn tale was ended, "and how did she come to build such a fine place here?"
"Ah, ye may well ax that," said old O'Brien. "Sure, she didn't build it at all at all. She was a poor widdy livin' alone-st wid one son, Mr. Philip that is now. She was a born lady, but she kem down in the worruld and died, forlorn an' forgotten, in a little shanty in Johnson's Mews, as it was called in those days."
"I remember it well."
"Ye do, eh? Mebbe ye know my ould shop, the marine store near the entrance to the court?"
"Yes."
"Arrah, ye don't tell me so. Me eyes are gettin' wake, an' I can't make out yer face. What's yer name?"
"Oh, I'm afraid we didn't know one another. I can't recall your name, though I recollect the shop well enough. But, if Mrs. Anson died so poor, how was her son able to set this great house on its legs? It must have cost a mint of money."
"Faix, ye're right. Quarter of a million wint afore there was a boy under its roof. And they say it costs fifty thousand pounds a year to keep it goin'. But Mr. Philip would find that and more to delight the sowl of the mother that's dead. Sure it's aisy for him, in a way. Isn't he the Diamond King!"
"The Diamond King! Why is he called that?"
"D'ye mane to say you nivver——Man alive, what part of creation did ye live in that ye didn't hear tell of Mr. Philip Anson, the boy who discovered an extra spishul diamond mine of his own, no one knows where. Sure, now, what's wrong wid ye?"
For the visitor was softly using words which to O'Brien's dull ears sounded very like a string of curses.
"I'm sorry," growled the other, with an effort. "I've been to Africa, an' I get such a spasm now an' then in my liver that I can hardly stand."
"That's no way to cure yourself—profanin' the name of th' Almighty," cried O'Brien.
"No. I'm sorry, I tell you. But about this boy——"
"There's no more to see now, if ye plaze. That's the way out."
O'Brien was deeply offended by the language used beneath a roof hallowed by the name of Mary Anson. The sightseer had to go, and quickly. Another commissionaire, who was observing them from a distance, came up and asked O'Brien what the stranger was talking about.
"Ye nivver heard sich a blaggard," said the old man, indignantly. "I was in the middle of tellin' him about Mr. Philip, when he began to curse like Ould Nick himself."
In the Mile End Road the rawboned person who betrayed such excitement found the policeman awaiting him. He sprang onto a 'bus, and purposely glared at the officer in a manner to attract his attention. When at a safe distance he put his fingers to his nose. The constable smiled.
"I knew I was right," he said. "I don't need to look twice at that sort of customer."
And he entered the Mary Anson Home again to ask the porter what had taken place.
It was an easy matter for Jocky Mason, released from Portland Prison on ticket-of-leave, after serving the major portion of a sentence of fourteen years' penal servitude—the man he assaulted had died, and the ex-convict narrowly escaped being hanged—to ascertain the salient facts of Philip Anson's later career.
It was known to most men. He was biographed briefly inWho's Whoand had often supplied material for a column of gossip in the newspapers. Every free library held books containing references to him.
It was quite impossible that the source of his great wealth should remain hidden for all time. In one way and another it leaked out, and he became identified with the ragged youth who created a sensation in the dock of the Clerkenwell Police Station.
But this was years later, and the clever manipulation of Mr. Abingdon, as his estate agent, and of Mr. Isaacstein, as his representative in the diamond trade, completely frustrated all attempts to measure the true extent of the meteor's value.
For now Philip owned a real diamond mine in South Africa; he had a fine estate in Sussex, a house in Park Lane, a superb sea-going yacht, a colliery in Yorkshire, and vast sums invested in land and railways. The latent value of his gems had been converted into money-earning capital.
Mr. Abingdon proved himself to be a very able business man. When the administration of Philip's revenue became too heavy a task for his unaided shoulders, he organized a capital estate office, with well-trained lawyers, engineers and accountants to conduct its various departments, while he kept up an active supervision of the whole until Philip quitted his university, and was old enough to begin to bear some portion of the burden.
They agreed to differ on this important question. Philip was fond of travel and adventure. With great difficulty his "guardian" kept him out of the army, but compromised the matter by allowing the young millionaire to roam about the odd corners of the world in his yacht for eight months of the year, provided he spent four months of the season in London and Sussex attending to affairs.
In this month of April he was living in his town house. In July he would go to Fairfax Hall, in August to Scotland, and a month later would joyfully fly to the Forth, where theSea Maidenawaited him.
This lady, whose waist measured eighteen feet across and whose length was seventy feet, with a fine spread of canvas and auxiliary steam, was the only siren able to charm him.
He was tall now, and strongly built, with something of the naval officer in his handsome, resolute face and well set-up figure. As a hobby, he had taken out a master mariner's certificate, and he could navigate his own ship in the teeth of an Atlantic gale. He loved to surround himself with friends, mostly Oxford men of his year, but he seldom entertained ladies, either on board theSea Maidenor in either of his two fine mansions.
He avoided society in its general acceptance, refused all overtures to mix in politics, took a keen delight in using his great wealth to alleviate distress anonymously, and earned a deserved reputation as a "bear" among the few match-making mammas who managed to make his acquaintance.
In other respects, as the boy was so was the man—the same downright character, the same steadfast devotion to his mother's memory, the same relentless adherence to a course already decided on, and the same whole-hearted reciprocity of friendship.
As he stood in his drawing room before dinner on the evening of the day Jocky Mason re-visited the locality, if not the surroundings, of his capture, Philip's strong face wore an unwonted expression of annoyance. He walked to and fro from end to end of the beautiful room, pausing each time he reached the window to gaze out over the park.
A servant, who entered for the purpose of turning on the electric lights and lowering the blinds, was bidden, almost impatiently, to wait until Philip and his guests were at dinner.
A telegram came. Anson opened it and read:
"Was dressing to come to your place when Grainger telegraphed for me to act as substitute Lincoln Quarter Sessions. Must go down at once."Fox."
"Was dressing to come to your place when Grainger telegraphed for me to act as substitute Lincoln Quarter Sessions. Must go down at once.
"Fox."
"No answer," he said, adding, to himself:
"That's better. Fox's caustic humor would have worried me to-night. I wish Abingdon would come. I am eager to tell him what has happened."
Now, punctuality was one of Mr. Abingdon's many virtues. At half-past seven to the tick his brougham deposited him at the door.
The two met with a cordial greeting that showed the close ties of mutual good fellowship and respect which bound them together.
"Fox won't be here," said Philip. "Grainger has broken down—ill health, I suppose—and wired for him to go to Lincoln."
"Ah, that's a lift for Fox. He is a clever fellow, and if he manages to tell the jury a joke or two he will influence a verdict as unfairly as any man I know."
"Does it not seem to you to be rather an anomaly that justice, which in the abstract is impeccable, too often depends on other issues which have no possible bearing on the merits of the dispute itself?"
"My dear boy, that defect will continue until the crack of doom. Pascal laid it bare in an epigram—'Plaisante justice! qu'une rivière ou une montaigne borne! Vérité au deçà du Pyrénées, erreur au delà!' It all depends on which side the Pyrenees Fox happens to be."
"Unfortunately, I am straddling the water shed at this moment. I have made a very unpleasant discovery, Abingdon, and I am glad we are alone to-night—we can speak freely. Some people named Sharpe & Smith wrote to me yesterday."
"I know them—an old-established firm of solicitors."
"Well, they urged me to give them an appointment on a private matter, and I did so. They began by trying to cross-examine me, but that was an abject failure. Seeing that whatever they had to say must stand on its own legs, they told me an extraordinary story. It appears that at a place called The Hall, Beltham, Devon, lives an elderly baronet, named Sir Philip Morland."
"Morland! Philip Morland!"
"Ah, you remember the name! It was given to a young derelict who once figured in the dock before you on a charge of being in unlawful possession——"
"The matter is not serious, then?"
"It is very serious. The real Philip Morland is my uncle."
"Do you mean to say that you learned this fact for the first time to-day from Sharpe & Smith?"
Philip laughed. By this time they were seated at the table, and their talk depended to a certain extent on the comings and goings of servants. At a dinneren famille, the presence of a ponderous butler and solemn lackeys was dispensed with.
"Oh, you lawyers!" he cried. "That's a nice sort of leading question. But, marvelous as it may seem to you, I must answer 'Yes.' My mother's maiden name was Morland. Her brother was much older than she, and it appears the dear woman married to please herself, thereby mortally offending the baronet."
"Why the 'offense'?"
"Because my father's social position was not equal to that of the aristocratic Morlands. Moreover, her brother had an accident in his youth which rendered him irritable and morose. From being a pleasant sort of man; which, indeed, he must have been did he share aught of my mother's nature—he grew into a misanthrope, and gave his life to the classification of Exmoor beetles. He treated my mother very badly, so vilely that even she, dear soul, during her married life held no further communication with him, and never mentioned him to me by name. Now, one day on Exmoor he found a lady who also was devoted to beetles. At least, she knew all that the Encyclopædia Britannica could teach her. She was a poor but handsome widow."
"Ah!"
"It is delightful to talk with you, Abingdon. Your monosyllables help the narrative along. Sir Philip married the widow. She brought him a son, aged five. There were no children born of my uncle's marriage."
"Oh!"
"When poverty overtook my dear one, she so far obliterated a cruel memory as to appeal, not once, but many times, to the human coleopterus of Exmoor, but she was invariably frozen off either by Lady Louisa Morland or by Messrs. Sharpe & Smith."
"Did they admit this?"
"By no means. I am telling you the facts. I am still on top of the Pyrenees."
"Then how did you ascertain the facts?"
"I have in my possession ever since my mother's death the letters they wrote to her. They were fresh in my memory when you and I first met in the Clerkenwell Police Court. That is why the name of Philip Morland was glib on my tongue."
"So I have only heard historical events, events prior to the last ten years?"
"Exactly. My uncle is now sixty years of age. Lady Louisa Morland's son is twenty-four. Her ladyship's whole aim in life has been to secure him as the baronet's heir. The title, of course, he cannot obtain. But, most unfortunately, he has no penchant for beetles. Indeed, Lady Louisa's researches have long since diminished in ardor. Her son's interests are divided between the Sports Club and the coryphées of the latest musical comedy—moths are more in his line, apparently. My uncle, who is preparing a monograph on the fleas which patronize Exmoor wild ponies, came to town last week to visit the British Museum. Unhappily, he heard something about his stepson which disturbed his researches. There was a row."
"Why do you say 'unhappily'?"
"Because I am dragged into the wretched business on account of it. After a lapse of more than twenty-five years, he remembered his sister, went to his solicitors, made a fearful hubbub when he heard of letters received from her and answered without his knowledge, and ascertained that she was dead, and had a son living. At any cost, they must find that son. They have guessed at my identity for some time. Now they want to make sure of it."
"And what did you say?"
"I told them I would think over the situation and communicate with them further."
"Were they satisfied?"
"By no means. They are exceedingly anxious to placate the old man. They probably control a good deal of his money."
"Um!"
"Of course! You see the delicacy of their position. After playing into the hands of Lady Louisa for nearly a quarter of a century, they suddenly find the whole situation changed by the baronet's belated discovery that he once had a sister."
"You have not told me all this without a purpose. Do you want my advice?"
Philip's face was clouded, his eyes downcast.
"You understand," he said, after a long pause, "that some one, either the man or the woman—the woman, I think—is morally responsible for my mother's death. She was poor—wretchedly, horribly poor—the poverty of thin clothing and insufficient food. She was ill, confined to a miserable hovel for weary months, and was so utterly unprovided with the barest necessaries that the parish doctor was on the point of compelling her to go to the workhouse infirmary when death came. Am I to be the instrument of God's vengeance on this woman?"
Mr. Abingdon, who had risen to light a cigar, placed a kindly hand on the young man's shoulder.
"Philip," he said, with some emotion, "I have never yet heard you utter a hasty judgment. You have prudence far beyond your years. It seems to me, speaking with all the reverence of man in face of the decrees of Providence, that God has already provided a terrible punishment for Lady Louisa Morland. What is the name of her son?"
"I do not know. I forgot to ask."
"I have a wide experience of thejeunesse doréeof London. Hardly a week passed during many years of my life that one of his type did not appear before me in the dock. What is he—aroué, a gambler, probably a drunkard?"
"All these, I gathered from the solicitors."
"And if your mother were living, what would she say to Lady Morland?"
"She would pity her from the depths of her heart. Yes, Abingdon, you are right. My uncle's wife has chosen her own path. She must follow it, let it lead where it will. I will write to Messrs. Sharpe & Smith now. But step into my dressing room with me for a moment, will you?"
In a corner of the spacious apartment to which he led his guest stood a large safe. Philip opened it. Within were a number of books and documents, but in a large compartment at the bottom stood a peculiar object for such a repository—an ordinary, leather portmanteau. He lifted it onto a couch and took a key from a drawer in the safe.
"This is one of my treasures which you have never seen," he said, with a sorrowful smile. "It has not been in the light for many years."
He revealed to his friend's wondering eyes the tattered suit, the slipshod boots, the ragged shirt and cap, the rusty doorkey, associated with that wonderful month of March of a decade earlier. He reverently unfolded some of his mother's garments, and his eyes were misty as he surveyed them.
But from the pocket of the portmanteau he produced a packet of soiled letters. One by one he read them aloud, though he winced at the remembrance of the agony his mother must have endured as she experienced each rebuff from Lady Morland and her husband's solicitors.
Yet he persevered to the end.
"I wanted a model for a brief communication to Messrs. Sharpe & Smith," he said, bitterly. "I think the general purport of their correspondence will serve my needs admirably."
As he closed the Gladstone bag his stern mood vanished.
"Do you know," he said, "that this odd-looking portmanteau, always locked and always reposing in a safe, has puzzled my valets considerably? One man got it out and tried to open it. I caught him in the act. I honestly believe both he and the others were under the impression that I kept my diamonds in it."
"By the way, that reminds me of a request from Isaacstein. As all the smaller diamonds have now been disposed of, and there remain only the large stones, he thinks that some of them might be cut into sections. They are unmarketable at present."
"Very well. Let us appoint a day next week and overhaul the entire collection. I intend to keep the big ones to form the center ornaments of a tiara, a necklace, and gewgaws of that sort."
"I am glad to hear it."
"My dear fellow, I suppose there will be a Mrs. Anson some day, but I have not found her yet."
"'Who'er she be,That not impossible she,That shall command my heart and me.'"
"'Who'er she be,That not impossible she,That shall command my heart and me.'"
And a ripple of laughter chased away the last shadows from his face.
Mr. Abingdon took his departure at an early hour; his excellent wife was indisposed, and her age rendered him anxious.
Philip wrote a curt letter to Sharpe & Smith. He had given thought to their statements, he said, and wished to hold no further communication with either Sir Philip Morland or his representatives.
Then he ordered his private hansom, intending to visit the Universities' Club.
It was a fine evening, one of those rare nights whenblaséLondon abandons herself for an hour to the delights of spring. The tops of omnibuses passing through Park Lane were enlivened by muslin dresses and flower-covered hats. Men who passed in hansoms wore evening dress without an overcoat. Old earth was growing again, and if weather-wise folk predicted that such an unusually high temperature meant thunderstorms and showers it would indeed be a poor heart that did not rejoice in the influences of the moment.
Two powdered and noiseless footmen threw open the door as Philip appeared in the hall. He stood for a little while in the entrance buttoning his gloves. A strong electric light—he loved light—fell on him and revealed his firm face and splendidly proportioned frame.
He cast a critical eye on a sleek horse in the shafts, and smiled pleasantly at the driver.
"Good gracious, Wale," he said, "your cattle are becoming as fat as yourself."
"All your fault, sir," was the cheerful reply. "You don't use 'em 'arf enough."
"I can't pass my time in being driven about town to reduce the weight of my coachman and horses. Wale, if you don't do something desperate, there will be an 'h' after the 'w' in your name."
He sprang into the vehicle. With a lively "Kim up!" Wale got his stout steed into a remarkably fast trot.
A tall man, who had been loitering and smoking beneath the trees across the road for a long time, sauntered toward a tradesman's cart which was standing near the area gate of the next house, while the man in charge gossiped with a kitchenmaid.
"Beg pardon," he said to the couple, "is that Mr. Philip Anson's place?" with an indicatory jerk of his thumb.
"Yes," said the man.
"An' was that Mr. Anson himself who drove away in a private cab?"
"Yes," said the girl.
"Thanks. It does one good to see a young chap like him so jolly and comfortable, and provided with everything he can want in the world; eh?"
"I wish I 'ad a bit of 'is little lot," sighed the greengrocer's assistant, with a side glance at the maid.
The stranger laughed harshly.
"It's hard to say when ye're well off," he growled. "Up one day and down the other. You never know your luck."
Away he went, southward. His long vigil on the pavement near the railings seemed to have ended. In Piccadilly he took an omnibus to the Circus, and there changed to another for the Elephant and Castle.
He walked rapidly through the congeries of mean streets which lie to the east of that bustling center, and paused at last before a house which was occupied by respectable people, judging by the cleanly curtains and general air of tidiness.
He knocked. A woman appeared. Did Mrs. Mason live there? No. She knew nothing of her. Had only been in the place eighteen months.
The man evidently appreciated the migratory habits of the poor too well to dream of prosecuting further inquiries among the neighbors. He strolled about, reading the names over the small shops, the corner public house, the dressmakers' semiprivate residences.
At last he paused before a somewhat grim establishment, an undertaker's office. He entered. A youth was whistling the latest music hall song.
"Do you know anything of a Mrs. Mason, who used to live in this locality about ten years ago?" he asked.
"Mrs. Mason? There may be forty Mrs. Masons. What was her Christian name an' address?"
"Mrs. Hannah Mason, 14 Frederick Street."
The youth skillfully tilted back his stool until he reached a ledger from a shelf behind him. He ran his eye down an index, found a number, and pulled out another book.
"We buried her on the twentieth of November, nine years since," he said, coolly, rattling both tomes back into their places.
"You did, eh? Is there anybody here who remembers her?"
Something in the husky voice of this stark, ill-favored man caused the boy to become less pert.
"Father's in," he said. "I'll ring for him."
Father came. He had a vague memory of the woman, a widow with two children—boys, he thought. Somebody helped her in her last days, and paid for the funeral—paid cash, according to the ledger. He did not know who the friend was, nor had he any knowledge of the children's fate. Workhouse, most probably. What workhouse? Parish of Southwark. Easy to find. Just turn so-and-so, and so-and-so.
With a grunt of acknowledgment the inquirer passed into the street. He gave an eye to the public house, but resolutely quickened his pace. At the workhouse he succeeded, with some difficulty, in interviewing the master. It was after office hours, but as he had journeyed a long way an exception would be made in his case.
Books were consulted to ascertain the fate of two boys, John and William Mason, who would now be aged twenty and eighteen respectively. Youthful Masons had certainly been in the schools—one was there at the moment, in fact—but none of them answered to the descriptions supplied. The workhouse master was sorry; the records gave no clew.
Again the man sought the dark seclusion of the street. He wandered slowly toward a main thoroughfare, and entered the first public house he encountered. He ordered six pennyworth of brandy, and drank it at a gulp. Then he lit a pipe and went forth again.
"That was an ugly-lookin' customer," said anhabituéto the barman.
"'E 'ad a fice like a fifth act at the Surrey," agreed the other.
If they knew the toast that Jocky Mason had pledged so readily, they would have better grasped the truth of this unfavorable diagnosis of his character.
"Ten years' penal servitude, four years' police supervision, my wife dead, and my children lost, all through a smack on the head given me by Philip Anson," he communed. "Here's to getting even with him!"
It was a strange outcome of his long imprisonment that the man should have acquired a fair degree of culture. He was compelled to learn in jail, to a certain extent, and reading soon became a pleasure to him. Moreover, he picked up an acquaintance with a smooth-spoken mate of the swell mobsman and long firm order—a dandy who strove to be elegant even in convict garb. Mason's great strength and indomitable courage appealed to the more artistic if more effeminate rogue; once the big man saved his comrade's life when they were at work in the quarries.
The influence was mutual. They vowed lasting friendship. Victor Grenier was released six months before Mason, and the latter now crossed the river again to go to an address where he would probably receive some news of his professed ally's whereabouts.
Grenier's name was imparted under inviolable confidence as that which he would adopt after his release. His real name, by which he was convicted, was something far less aristocratic.
Philip's driver, being of the peculiar type of Londoner which seems to be created to occupy the dicky of a hansom, did not take his master down Park Lane, along Piccadilly, and so to Pall Mall. He loved corners. Give him the remotest chance of following a zigzag course, and he would follow it in preference to a route with all the directness of a Roman road.
Thus it happened, as he spun round Carlos Place into Berkeley Square, he nearly collided with another vehicle which dashed into the square from Davies Street.
Both horses pulled up with a jerk, there was a sharp fusillade of what cabmen call "langwidge," and the other hansom drove on, having the best of the strategical position by a stolen yard.
Philip lifted the trapdoor.
"Has he a fare, Wale?"
"Yes, sir, a lydy."
"Oh. Leave him alone, then. Otherwise, I would have liked to see you ride him off at the corner of Bruton Street."
Wale, who was choleric, replied with such force that Philip tried to say, sternly:
"Stop that swearing, Wale."
"Beg pawdon, sir, I'm sure, but I wouldn't ha' minded if it wasn't my own old keb. Didn't you spot it?"
"You don't tell me so. How odd!"
"And to think of a brewer's drayman like that gettin' 'old of it. Well——"
Wale put the lid on in case his employer might hear any more of his sentiments.
Philip, leaning back to laugh, for Wale's vocabulary was amusing, if not fit for publication, suddenly realized the queer trick that even the events in the life of an individual have of repeating themselves.
In one day, after an interval of many years, he had been suddenly confronted by personages connected with the period of his sufferings, with the very garments he wore at that time, with the cab in which he drove from Clerkenwell to Hatton Garden. Abingdon had dined with him; Isaacstein had sent him a message; his driver, even, was the cabman who made him a present of two shillings, a most fortunate transaction for Wale, as it led to his selection to look after Philip's London stable.
All who had befriended the forlorn boy in those early days had benefited to an extraordinary degree. The coffee-stall keeper who gave him coffee grounds and crusts, the old clothes man who cut down the price of his first outfit, Mrs. Wrigley, going hopelessly to her toil in a Shepherd's Bush laundry; Mr. Wilson, of Grant & Sons, the kindly jeweler of Ludgate Hill, were each sought out, and either placed in a good business or bounteously rewarded for the services they had rendered. O'Brien, of course, was found a sinecure office at the Mary Anson Home.
As for the doctor, he owed his Harley Street practice to the millionaire's help and patronage.
It is worthy of note that Philip never wore a watch other than that presented to him by the police of the Whitechapel Division.
It was an ordinary English silver lever, and he carried it attached to a knotted bootlace.
Did he but know how far the historical parallel had gone that day—how Jocky Mason had waited for hours outside his residence in the hope of seeing him and becoming acquainted with his appearance—he might have been surprised, but he would never have guessed the evil that this man would accomplish, and, in some measure, accomplish unconsciously.
He was not in his club five minutes when a friend tackled him for a concert subscription.
"Anson, you are fond of music. Here is a new violinist, a Hungarian, who wants a start. I heard him in Budapest last autumn. He is a good chap. Take some stalls."
Philip glanced at the program.
"Eckstein at the piano. I see! He must be a star. Who is the soprano? I have never heard her name before."
"Miss Evelyn Atherley," read his friend over his shoulder. "I don't know her myself. Dine with me here to-morrow night. We will go and hear the performance afterward."
"Can you distribute stalls among your acquaintances?"
"My dear fellow, I will be delighted. Sorry I can't help Jowkacsy a bit myself."
"You are helping him very well. I will take a dozen; two for you and me; ten elsewhere, for the claque."
"Youarea good chap. Hello! There's Jones. Jones is good for a couple. Don't forget to-morrow night."
And the good-natured enthusiast, who was a terror to many of his friends, ran off to secure another victim.
Philip had sent his hansom home. Shortly before eleven he quitted the club, intending to walk to Park Lane by a circuitous route, long enough to consume a big cigar.
He chanced to pass the hall in which the concert was to take place. A few people were hurrying from the stage door. Evidently a rehearsal had just taken place. A short man, with a huge cluster of flowing locks, that offered abundant proof of his musical genius, ran out with a violin case in his hand.
He was about to enter a hansom waiting near the curb, but the driver said:
"Engaged, sir."
The man did not seem to understand, so the cabby barred his way with the whip and shook his head. Then the stranger rushed to a neighboring cab rank—evidently an excitable gentleman, with the high-strung temperament of art.
A lady quitted the hall a few seconds later.
"Are you engaged?" Philip heard her ask the cabman.
"No, miss."
"Take me to No. 44, Maida Crescent, Regent's Park," she said. After arranging her skirts daintily, she entered the vehicle.
"That is odd," thought Philip, who had witnessed both incidents in the course of a six yards' walk. He glanced at the cabman, and fancied the man gave a peculiar look of intelligence toward a couple of fashionably dressed loungers who stood in the shadow of the closed public entrance.
The two men, without exchanging a word to Philip's hearing, went to a brougham standing at some little distance. They entered. The coachman, who received no instructions, drove off in the same direction as the hansom, and, as if to make sure he was being followed, the cab driver turned to look behind him.
Once, in Naples, Philip saw a man stealthily following a woman down an unlighted alley. Without a moment's hesitation he went after the pair, and was just in time to prevent the would-be assassin from plunging an uplifted stiletto into the woman's back. The recollection of that little drama flashed into his mind now; there was a suggestion of the Neapolitan bravo's air in the manner in which these men stalked a girl who was quite unaware of their movements.
He asked himself why a cabman should refuse one fare and pick up another in the same spot. The affair was certainly odd. He would see further into it before he dismissed it from his thoughts. The distance to Maida Crescent was not great.
While thinking he was acting. He sprang into the nearest hansom.
"A brougham is following a hansom up Langham Place," he said to the driver. "Keep behind them. If they separate, follow the brougham. When it stops, pull up at the best place to avoid notice."
The man nodded. Nothing surprises a London cabman. Soon the three vehicles were spinning along the Outer Circle.
It was not a very dark night, the sky being cloudless and starlit. Away in front, at a point where the two lines of lamps curved sharply to the right and vanished amidst the trees, a row of little, red lights showed that the road was up.
The leading hansom drove steadily on. There was nothing remarkable in this. When the driver reached the obstruction, he would turn out of the park by the nearer gate—that was all.
But he did nothing of the kind. There was a sudden crash of wood, a woman's scream, and the horse was struggling wildly amidst a pile of loose, wooden blocks, while one wheel of the cab dropped heavily into a shallow trench.
Simultaneously the brougham pulled up and its two occupants rushed to the scene of the accident.
Philip's driver, of course, obeyed instructions, but he shouted to his fare as he jumped into the road:
"That feller's either drunk or 'e did it a-puppuss."
Philip was of the same opinion. He reached the overthrown barricade almost as soon as the two hurrying men in front, both of whom were in evening dress.
One of them held the horse's head and steadied him; the other was just in time to help the young lady to leave her dangerous conveyance.
"I hope you have received no injury, madam," he said, politely.
"Oh, not at all. I was frightened for an instant. How could it have happened? I saw the lamps quite plainly. The man seemed to pull his horse deliberately into the barrier."
The voice was singularly sweet and well modulated. A neighboring arc lamp illuminated the girl's face with its white, unpitying radiance. It revealed features beautifully modeled, and large, startled eyes that looked wonderingly from the man who came so promptly to her rescue to the driver who had caused the mishap. Philip, behind the hansom, was unseen. He remained a critical observer.
"I fear he is intoxicated," was the reply. "Here, you! How came you to make such a blunder?"
"Blind as an owl," came the gurgling answer. "I saw some red spots dancin' abaht, but I thort it must be that larst gill o' beer."
Nevertheless the cabman extricated his horse and vehicle from their predicament with singular ease for a half-drunken man.
"Goin' on, miss?" he grinned. "There's nothin' extry for the steeplechise."
"No, no," cried the lady. "I will walk. I will pay you now."
"Take my advice and pay him not a cent," protested the man by her side. "Leave him to me. My friend here will take his number. If you will accept a seat in my brougham——"
The cabman began to swear and threaten them all with personal violence. The lady, clearly unwilling to avail herself of the accommodating offer made to her, tried to edge away. The driver of the hansom whipped his horse on to the pavement. By this time he had turned his back to the road-menders' barrier.
The girl, angered and alarmed, shrank toward the gentleman, who seemed to give her some measure of protection from the infuriated cause of all the trouble.
"Do step into my brougham," he said, civilly. "Victor, just grab the gee-gee's head again, and keep that idiot quiet until we get away. Now, madam, take my advice. You will be quite safe instantly."
Even yet she hesitated. There was, perchance, a timbre in the quiet, cultured tone of the speaker that did not ring truly. The note of a bell cannot be perfect if there is a flaw in the metal, and the human voice often betrays a warped nature when to all outward seeming there is a fair exterior.
The man who addressed her was youthful, not much older than herself. He was evidently a gentleman, with the polish and easy repose of society. His words, his attitude, were in the best of taste. Yet——
A loud altercation broke out between the cabman and "Victor." The latter did not appear to be so ready to lay hands on the reins again, and the whip fell viciously on the horse's flank, causing him to plunge forward in dangerous proximity to the couple on the sidewalk. He came close, but not too close. Philip was now quite certain that he was witnessing the dexterous display of a skilled driver.
"Really, I am at a loss for words to persuade you that your only course is to use my carriage. Otherwise there will be a confounded row."
The stranger's voice was a trifle petulant She was such an unreasonable young lady. She turned to him irresolutely—to find Philip at her side—thrusting himself in front of her would-be rescuer.
"You have been the victim of a plot, madam," he said. "Your driver is not drunk. He caused the accident purposely. These two scoundrels are in league with him. If——"
"What the devil——" cried the other, fiercely, but Philip swung him bodily against the iron railings.
"If you care to take my cab, alone, it is at your service. I will look after these cads."
His quick eyes caught a signal from Victor to the cabman. He was sorry for the horse, but this comedy must be stopped. He instantly caught the bridle, and backed the cab violently toward the excavation. The cabman lashed at him in vain, and swore, too, with remarkable fluency for one so drunk. Both wheels crunched on top of the stout barrier, and became locked there.
Then Anson ran back toward the girl, whose arm was held by the owner of the brougham.
"Take your hands off that lady, or I will hurt you," said Philip, and there was that in his emphatic order which brooked no delay.
The stranger dropped his restraining hand, but shouted furiously:
"By what right do you interfere? I am only offering the lady some assistance?"
Philip ignored him.
"What do you say, madam?" he inquired, somewhat sternly, for she seemed loath to trust any of them. "Will you occupy my cab? It is there. Rest assured that neither of these men shall follow you."
She stood her ground, came nearer to him.
"I believe you," she murmured. "I thank you from my heart. It is inexplicable that such wretches can exist as these two seeming gentlemen, who stooped to such artifice against a helpless woman."
"Most fortunately I saw you leaving the Regent's Hall," he replied. "This cab was waiting for you, and you only. The man refused at least one fare to my presence. The others followed in a brougham. Do you know them?"
"No. I have never, to my knowledge, seen either of them before in my life. How came you——"
"I happened to hear your address. I will write to you and explain. Go now," he quickly interrupted, for Victor and his friend were approaching them after a hasty conference.
"Leave you to deal with these assassins alone! Not I! I can defend myself. I can help you. I will scream for assistance. There are too many of them for you to resist them single-handed."
Philip vowed afterward that fire flashed in her eyes. There was a splendid passion in the gesture with which she pointed to the enraged hansom driver, who had climbed from his perch, and was running to join his employers.
This was a new experience for Philip, and the blood leaped in his veins at the girl's courageous words. But he laughed, in his pleasant, musical way.
"Men who would attack a defenseless woman," he said, "are poor creatures where a man's heart is needed. Now just watch me, and don't be alarmed."
He strode to meet the advancing trio. They halted.
"I give you a last warning," he cried. "Drive off in your carriage, and you," to the cabman, "go back and help your horse. You must go now, this instant, or take the consequences."
There was the silence of indecision. This strong-faced man, with the figure of an athlete, meant what he said.
Victor caught his friend's arm.
"Come away," he whispered. "She does not know you. You have failed this time."
Without another word the pair crossed the road to their waiting brougham. The cabman, who became remarkably sober, began to whine:
"It's on'y a lark, guv'nor. The lydy would ha' took no 'arm. I didn't mean——"
Philip was strongly tempted to kick him, but refrained. He grasped the man's shoulder and lifted his badge to the light.
"I will spare you for the lady's sake," he said, grimly, "but I want your number, in case you try any more such tricks."
"My Gawd, it's Mr. Anson!"
For the first time the driver saw Philip's face clearly.
"Ah, you know me then? Who were those blackguards who employed you?"
"S'elp me, sir, I on'y know one of 'em. 'E's a Mr. Victor Grenier. I offen pick 'im up at the Gardenia. 'E said 'is pal was sweet on the young lydy an' wanted a put-up job ter 'elp 'er. That's all, guv'nor, on me life."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," was Philip's only comment.
He rejoined the girl, who was watching the retreating brougham.
"Now," he cried, pleasantly, "you can go home."
"Please drive me there. I will not deprive you of your cab."
So they drove away together, and the driver of the hansom, striving to free his vehicle from the broken trestles, paused to scratch his head.
"'E fairly bested the crowd," he growled, "an' got the girl as well. My eye, but she's a beauty."
Maida Crescent was little more than half a mile beyond the park.
Philip thought it due to the lady he had beguiled that she should know exactly how he came to interfere in her behalf. She listened in silence, and when she spoke, there was a suggestion of shy nervousness oddly at variance with her spirited action of a few minutes earlier.
"I cannot understand it at all," she said. "I am seldom out so late. My professional engagements are few and far between, I am sorry to say."
"Were you attending a rehearsal at the Regent's Hall?"
"Yes."
"A rehearsal for Monsieur Jowkacsy's concert?"
"Yes."
She volunteered no further information, but Philip was a persistent person.
"I do not remember another day in my life previously," he said, "when so many fortuitous events grouped themselves together in such a curious relationship. Even this adventure is a sequel to a prior incident. Just before I joined in the chase after you I had purchased some tickets for Jowkacsy's musicale. The strangest item of all is that I was practically walking away from the direction in which I live when my attention was drawn to the cabman's behavior."
"Good gracious!" she protested, "am I taking you out of your way? I thought you merely happened to be driving after us through the park."
She invited no confidences. She adhered strictly to the affair of the moment, and he had no option but to follow her cue.
"I do not think I have ever been in Regent's Park before."
"What an amazing circumstance—that you should gallop off in such fashion to the rescue of an unknown woman, I mean."
"That, again, is original, or nearly so."
"Are you a Londoner?"
"To some extent—a little while each year. I live mostly on the sea."
"Oh, that accounts for your gallantry. You are a sailor."
"A yachtsman," corrected Philip.
"How delightful. I have not even seen the sea for ages. One has to work so hard nowadays to obtain recognition. I do not object to the work, for I love music, but the bread-and-butter aspect is disagreeable, and—and—you have learned to-night how even the small amount of publicity I have achieved brings with it the risk of insult."
"By the way," he said, quietly, striving not to add to the excitement under which she was certainly laboring, "one of those men is named Victor Grenier. You ought to know."
"Thank you. How did you ascertain it?"
"The cabman told me. He knew me."
"The cabman knew you?"
"Yes. I fly about town in hansoms. I am too lazy to walk."
He regretted the slip. He was known to the tribe of Jehus on account of his generosity to their charities; moreover, was not one of the order his horse-master?
The girl laughed, with a delightful merriment that relieved the tension.
"You acted like an indolent person," she cried. "Do you know, I felt that you would have banged the heads of those men together in another instant."
Their vehicle slackened pace, and curved toward the pavement in a quiet street.
"Here I am at home," she said, and Philip assisted her to alight.
"Oh, my music!" she wailed, suddenly. "I left it in that horrid cab."
Philip repressed a smile.
"Tell me your name," he said, "and I will recover it for you early in the morning."
"Are you sure? Oh, what a trouble I have been. How good you are."
"It is not the least trouble. I took the cabman's number."
"Indeed, indeed, I am grateful to you. My name is Evelyn Atherley. I would ask you to call some day and see my mother, but—but——"
"You do not wish her to hear of your adventure to-night? It would frighten her."
"She would be terrified each time I went out alone. Believe me, I can ill afford a hansom, but I take one late at night to please her, as the walk from the nearest 'bus route is lonely."
"You are singing at the Regent's Hall. I will be there. By the way, my name is Philip Anson."
The girl's big eyes—he fancied they were blue, but in the dim light he could not be sure—looked into his. There was a sparkle of merriment in them, he thought—a quick perception of a hint delicately conveyed. But she said, quite pleasantly:
"My last song is at ten-fifteen. I will leave the hall at ten-thirty. I hope my mother will be with me. I will be most pleased to see you there, and thank you more coherently than is possible now, especially if you recover my music."
The quick trot of a fast-driven horse came round the corner.
Philip was assuring her that they would certainly meet next evening, when a hansom pulled up behind the waiting vehicle, and the driver said:
"Beg pawdon, miss, you left this," and he held forth the lost portfolio. The cabman was anxious to atone for his share in the night's proceedings.
Philip tipped him in a manner that caused the man to murmur his renewed regret, but he was sternly told to go. Philip's own reward from Miss Atherley was a warm handshake, and a grateful smile.
He drove homeward, wondering how he could best help her in her career.
And she, after kissing her mother "Good-night," went to her room to wonder also, but her wonderment was mixed with regret. For such a nice young man as Philip Anson must have troops of friends, he must be rich, he must be far removed from the orbit of a girl who, whatever her birth and breeding, was driven in the flower of her youth to earn her living on the concert platform.
Jowkacsy won his laurels with superb ease. Philip, listening to the Polish genius, found himself hoping that the fair English girl might achieve some measure of the rapturous applause bestowed on the long-haired enthusiast. He murmured the thought, in guarded commonplace, to his musical friend.
"Impossible, my dear fellow," was the instant verdict. "She is mediocre; just an average singer, and no more. Music is divine, but its exploiters suffer from the petty jealousies of housemaids. Jowkacsy can have no rivals to-night. Eckstein is a master, of course, but a necessary evil as an accompanist. The other artists are mere fill-ups—good, or they would not be here, but not in the front rank. Listen. I am connected with a choral society in my county, and we once engaged a leading tenor and a second-rate baritone. The tenor had a name with fourteen letters, and the baritone only owned four. The unfortunate local printer selected his type to fill the lines on the bills by size and not by merit. The moment the tenor saw the four-letter man looming large across the poster he absolutely refused to sing a note unless fresh bills were printed with his fourteen letters in larger type. And we were compelled to humor him. That is music from the agent's point of view."
When Miss Evelyn Atherley advanced to the front of the platform Philip thought he had never seen a woman so beautiful. She had the grace of a perfect figure and the style of an aristocrat. She was dressed in light blue chiffon, with a spray of forget-me-nots, the color of her eyes, arranged across the front of her bodice. Anson experienced a thrill of pleasure when he saw that the bouquet he caused to be forwarded to her contained flowers of a kindred hue. The skill of the florist had correctly interpreted his description, which, indeed, was largely guesswork on his part.
A high forehead and a mouth and chin of patrician mold gave an air of caste to an otherwise sweetly pretty face.
"By Jove!" whispered the critic, "if she sings as well as she looks I may be mistaken."
Her first song was Goring Thomas' "A Summer Night." Instantly it was perceptible that her voice was true, the outpouring of a soul. In volume it was in no way remarkable, but its melodious cadence was fresh, innocent, virginal. The notes were those of a joyous bird.
Anson, biassed by other sentiments, thought he had never heard her equal, but his friend, after joining in his vigorous applause, gave him a douche of accurate judgment.
"The old story," he growled; "a fine artist retarded, perhaps spoiled, by the need to make too early an appearance. She wants a year in Milan, another year with Randegger or Leoni, and she might, if all went well, be a star."
His hearer chafed inwardly, but only hazarded the opinion that she was already a singer of rare intensity, while, as for appearance——
"Ah, there you are right," was the ready rejoinder. "The Gaiety is her right place. She would be admirable in light opera."
The conversation languished. The suggestion that Miss Atherley was best fitted for the stage was displeasing to Philip, he scarce knew why.
The girl was given a hearty encore, and her next song was a simple, humorous little ballad about a miller and a maid. It was charmingly sung and acted. The critic leaned back in his chair, and smiled at Philip with the indulgent air of the man who says:
"I told you so."
Soon Philip rose to go.
"Good heavens, man, you do not intend to leave before Jowkacsy plays the suite in F minor?" queried his amazed acquaintance.
"Sorry. I have an engagement."
He quitted the hall, his tall figure riveting a good many eyes as he made his way toward an exit. One man, watching from the gallery, smiled cynically, and rose at the same time.
Philip found the foyer to be practically deserted. He asked a policeman on duty to call Mr. Anson's carriage from the ranks, and a footman came, quickly running lest he had incurred a reprimand for not being on the lookout for his master at the entrance.
In a very little time Miss Atherley appeared, and with her a handsome, elderly lady, who was quite obviously her mother. The girl was radiant. She never expected a cordial reception from a high-class audience, such as gathered to worship the violinist.
"Mother dear," she cried, "this is Mr. Anson, who very kindly came to my assistance when a cabman gave me some trouble last night."
Mrs. Atherley gave him a pleasant greeting, but turned to her daughter.
"Why didn't you tell me of any dispute when you returned home? You know how nervous I am when you are out at night."
The girl laughed merrily.
"You have answered your own question,carissima. That is precisely why I did not tell you."
"Miss Atherley was good enough to permit me to meet you here after the concert," put in Philip, "so that I might add my assurances to her own that the affair was of no consequence. It is early yet. Will you come with me for some supper, and thus give me a chance of telling you how much I enjoyed your daughter's singing?"
Wise Philip, to pay court to the mother.
Mrs. Atherley, in no way deceived, yet gratified by the deference shown to her, gave the girl a questioning glance.
"Oh, do let us go, mamma! I am famished, I candidly admit it. Mr. Anson, I have subsisted since luncheon without a morsel."
"We will be delighted——" began the older lady, but her attention was attracted by the footman holding open the door of the carriage.
"Is that carriage yours?" she said to Philip.
"Yes."
"Where do we sup?"
"At the Savoy."
She flushed slightly.
"Not the Savoy," she faltered.
"Why not, mother?" cried the girl, spiritedly. "Mr. Anson, my mother does not care to meet associates of—of other days. I tell her she thinks far too much of these considerations. Why should she fear to face them simply because we are poor?"
"I think, Mrs. Atherley," he said, quietly, "that you are very rich, far richer than many amère de famillewe shall meet at the restaurant."
This neat compliment turned the scale of the mother's hesitation. Indeed, she might well be proud of her beautiful daughter.
The two ladies seated themselves in the luxurious landau with an ease that showed familiarity, but Mrs. Atherley, being a woman, could not help being troubled in the matter of dress.
"The Savoy!" she murmured, as the rubber-tired vehicle glided away noiselessly. "I have not been there for years. And people at supper are always attired so fashionably. Could we not——"
The girl put her arm around her waist.
"Just for once, mamma, you shall not care a little bit, and none may be the wiser. Here is Mr. Anson—quite anéléganthimself—he would never guess that our gowns were homemade."
"The women, dear one. They will know."
"Oh, you deceiver! You said my toilet was perfect, and I am quite sure yours is."
This logic was incontrovertible. Mrs. Atherley sighed, and asked what took place the previous night.
Philip imagined that the girl hung back, so he boldly undertook an explanation. By describing the cabman as apparently intoxicated, and certainly impudent, he covered a good deal of ground, and the rest was easy.
When they reached the Savoy, the anxious mother had relegated the incident to the limbo of unimportant things. Only one other matter troubled her—the somewhat unconventional origin of her daughter's acquaintance with this pleasant-mannered young gentleman.
She was far too tactful to hint at such a point just then. It should be reserved for home discussion.
Meanwhile, they were early arrivals. The head waiter marshaled them to a window table. Mrs. Atherley smiled; she knew her London.
"You were sure we would accompany you?" she cried.
"Not at all sure; only hopeful," said Philip.
"Ah, well. It is good occasionally to revisit the old scenes. No, Elf, I will sit here; I will not been faceto that row of tables. Half a dozen people would certainly recognize me, and I do not wish it."
Elf! The name drove Philip's thoughts backward with a bound—back to a torrential night in a London square, and the tearing open of a carriage door in time to save a sweet little girl all robed in white, who, but for him, would have fallen with an overturned vehicle.
Elf! It was an unusual pet name. The child of ten years ago would be about the age of the lively and spirituelle girl by his side. The child had faced her enraged uncle on that memorable night; the woman had refused to leave him when she thought danger threatened in the park.
Could it be possible! He was startled, bewildered, utterly dumfounded by even the remote possibility that another figure from the past should come before him in such wise.
"Mr. Anson! What have you found in the menu to perplex you so terribly? Does danger lurk in theagneau du printemps? Is there a secret horror in thesalmi?"
Evelyn's raillery restored his scattered wits.
"May I say something personal?" he inquired.
"About the lamb?"
"About you? Mrs. Atherley called you 'Elf' just now."
"Yes. I regret that I earned the title in ages past. The habits have ceased, but the name remains."
"I once met a little girl named Elf. It was ten years ago, on a March evening, in a West End square. There had been a carriage accident. A pair of horses were frightened by a terrific thunderstorm. The girl was accompanied by a somewhat selfish gentleman. He jumped out and left her to her own devices; indeed, slammed the door in her face. A ragged boy——"
"A boy with newspapers—a boy who spoke quite nicely—saved her by running into the road. The carriage overturned in front of Lord Vanstone's house. I was the girl!"
Both ladies were amazed at the expression on Philip's face. He betrayed such eagerness, such intense longing, such keen anxiety to establish her identity with the child who figured in an accident of no very remarkable nature, that they could not help being vastly surprised.
Their astonishment was not lessened when Philip exclaimed:
"And I was the boy!"
"But I said 'a boy with newspapers.'"
"Yes, a very urchin, a waif of the streets."
"My uncle struck you."
"And you defended me, saved me from being locked up, in fact."
"Oh, this is too marvelous. Mother, you must remember——"
"My dear one, I remember the event as if it had taken place yesterday. Your uncle would not have cared were you killed that night. All he wanted was your money. Now he has that, and mine. He was, indeed, a wicked man."
"Mother dear, he is unhappy. Are we? But, Mr. Anson, what wonderful change in your fortunes has taken place since our first meeting? Is the newspaper trade so thriving that a carriage and pair, a supper at the Savoy, stalls at the Regent's Hall, and a bouquet from Rosalind's, are mere trimmings, so to speak, to a busy day?"
"Evelyn!" protested Mrs. Atherley.
But the girl was too buoyant, too utterly oblivious of all that this meeting meant to Philip, to cease from chaffing him.
"Please, Mr. Anson, do tell us the secret. I will sell any paper you name. I get five guineas for singing two songs, I admit, but I may only sing them once a month. I have loads of time to run about crying, 'Extrey speshul! 'Orrible disawster.' Or does the magic spring from writing those thrilling stories one sees placarded on the hoardings? I believe I could do it. I once won a prize in a lady's magazine for a set of verses, the genuine and unaided production of a girl aged under fourteen."
Philip compelled himself to respond to her mood. He promised to reveal his specific for money-making at some future period, when she was sufficiently dazzled to accept his words as those of a prophet.
With the tact of a woman of the world, Mrs. Atherley led the conversation back to less personal channels. The great restaurant was rapidly filling now. The occupants of neighboring tables cast occasional glances at the merry trio which discussed the foibles of the musical world, the ways of agents, the little meannesses and petty spites of the greatest artists, and, incidentally, did ample justice to an excellent meal.