CHAPTER IXThe party was in full progress when they arrived. Jack and Tom Lindabury resided, as far as they could be said to reside anywhere, in a great green stone house of the 1860 period, with a deep garden in the back on which originally stood a stable, access to which was had, in the Parisian style, by a long, vaulted passage at one side. The Lindaburys, having discovered, as many other young men of fortune did at this period, the social adaptability of the artist's atelier, had transformed the stable into a great studio, with a kitchen and two or three dressing-rooms, which served when the place was given over to amateur theatricals or to the not always restrained fêtes of the brothers' invention.Gunther's party emerged from the hollow passage into the sudden cool of the short garden, where masked stone seats and arbors were faintly disclosed by the great stable lantern which swung at the entrance of the studio. Several couples, profiting by the obscurity, could be seen moving in the sudden shadows of the garden, laughing with a nervous, stifled laughter, as groups crossed or joined one another.Holliday and Beecher, recognizing acquaintances, saluted them with the light banter, which was the note of the evening. Mme. Fornez, inside, called her companions with exclamations of surprise which drew the whispered curiosity of every one to her entrance."Oh, how funny it is! Look, Teddy, what do you call it? It is your—cowboy life, is it not?"The great room had been transformed into a mining saloon of the type made popular by a certain play of the day. A bar ran across one end, presided over by an impossibly wicked bartender. A roulette-wheel was crowded at one side, while a negro orchestra, in 1850 costume, was busily sawing away, led by a cotton-head darky on a soap-box, who droned out his directions. Three-fourths of the room were in costume, Indian, Spanish, cowboy or frontier At the appearance of the new arrivals in evening dress, a shout went up:"Tenderfeet, tenderfeet!""Fine them!""Shoot 'em up!"But, in deference to Mrs. Fontaine and Emma Fornez, the protest was not so boisterous or accompanied by such rushing tactics as had greeted others. Nevertheless they were fined and escorted to one of the dressing-rooms. The men were forced to don dusters and white top-hats, and the women were given sombreros and mantillas.Mme. Fornez, despite the frowns of Holliday, clung to Beecher's arm, insisting on being personally conducted, plying him with innumerable questions."Oh what a terrible man! What an awful knife. I like the black men—sont ils rigolots—with their red and white collars. I want to see the bar-man toss drinks—so, in the air, Teddy. Come this way."All at once she stopped, and, facing about, took him by the lapels of the coat."It does not annoy you that I adopt you—that I call you Teddy?" she said, with a simulation of timidity and a sudden concentration of her swimming black eyes."Emma," he said, laughing, "if you stop there I shall die of disappointment."She frowned a little at the "Emma," but yielded the point."You are not very responsive, Monsieur Beecher," she said, with a flash, "when I am so nice to you.""My dear Emma," said Beecher, who, not being in love, could see clearly, "if I don't fall at your feet, it's because I know very well that the moment I did you would bulldoze me like Bob Holliday."Emma Fornez looked at him with a sudden gay approval."Teddy, you are very nice," she said decidedly. "You understand how to play. I forbid you to fall in love, to get caught by any other woman, you understand. You are to be mine for the whole season—hein?""Nothing promised," said Beecher, laughing.Holliday came with two or three friends, clamoring to be introduced. Beecher profited by the confusion to make the turn of the room, which was crowded with laughing groups striving to penetrate the disguises of others while maintaining their own. At the faro table, a group from his club called to him to join them, but he kept on, saluting the dealer, costumed according to Bret Harte, with an approving wave of the hand.The assembly was one of those curious social demarcations which prevail when formal society essays to be Bohemian, and which is probably evolved by the women in their always curious desire to study at close range those whose lives they are generally condemning. As is usually the case, the guests were made up of those who remained wrapped up in a mantel of inquisitive respectability, and would go early; a large body who waited impatiently for this first secession; and a certain element, not all professionals, at present exceedingly punctilious, who would inherit the right to put out the lanterns and close up the doors.Young Beecher, pacing restlessly, nodding and smiling, searched in the crowd without quite admitting to himself what it was he sought. In the short period of his return, he had gone into many different sets, always retaining the prerogatives of his own. The women, besides those of the younger married women whom he knew, were of the opera, the stage, one or two, even, whose names were electrically displayed in vaudeville. He was caught up, greeted enthusiastically, and extricated himself with deftness, seeking in a general way to reach the great fireplace near which he had detected the figure of Mrs. Kildair.The men, without exception, were of his own kind—of that second generation which is the peculiar problem of America. They were strong, well put together, with heads chiseled somewhat on the vigorous lines of the father spirits, condemned by the accident of wealth to the most un-American of professions, the idler. Without the mental languor of the foreign dilettante, consumed in reality by their own imprisoned energy, they were a restless, dissatisfied testimony of the error of their own civilization, the inability of the great, barbaric, money-acquiring American to comprehend the uses of wealth. Tonight, threatened with tomorrow's disaster, stirred by the restlessness of the multitude, this excess of baffled energy was felt everywhere: at the bar, in the Anglo-Saxon intensity; at the faro table where the play had a certain desperate counterpart of the spirit that had assembled the future; in the momentary sudden accesses of gaiety that began to spread through the hesitant crowd, as an overturned bottle spreads its fluid over the cloth.Beecher, too, without comprehending it, felt the stimulus, awakening all the nervous unemployed funds of energy within him and the intoxication of movement and laughter that brought him a sudden feverish hilarity, brought also a sense of unrest and dissatisfaction. Underneath all the over-excited spirits of frivolity was a current of grave apprehension which he felt in the occasional groupings of men and the low snatches of conversation which reached him."Bo Lynch's cleaned out.""—not the only one.""—and thousands thrown on the market.""Eddie Fontaine's crowd.""Copper'll blow up higher than a kite!""—if Slade goes too.""They say there's a line formed in front of the Atlantic."In his progress he encountered Jack Lindabury, lank and broad-shouldered, with the magnificent shell of a head that might have been set on the shoulders of a Gladstone. They shook hands with cordiality."Devil of a mess about Majendie," said Lindabury."Are you hit?""Of course; Eddie Fontaine's had us all in on his tip. Some of the crowd are liable to be wiped out. They tell me Bo Lynch had plunged every cent in the world.""Shouldn't wonder," said Beecher, reflecting. "Is he here?""Sure; he's the bartender," said Lindabury.Beecher, surprised, nodded and made his way toward the end that had been converted into a frontier saloon, where, behind enormous mustaches, he recognized the long features of his fellow lodger."What'll y'have?" said Lynch, in hoarse accents. Then, perceiving that he was recognized, he drew Beecher aside and said anxiously:"You owe me fifty, Ted; we pulled it out. Go over and stake it at the table for me, if you've got it.""Sorry," said Beecher, eying him critically and resolving to lie."Oh, well," said Lynch philosophically, "it'll look big as a house to-morrow.""Are you cleaned out, Bo?" said Beecher anxiously."Oh, no; I'm worth thousands," said Lynch, with a grin, "until the market opens to-morrow.""Tough luck.""Steve Plunkett's worse—he's got to negotiate his gold fillings, they say."A party came up, clamoring for attention, and Lynch hastened to the rescue. Beecher continued curiously toward the faro table, admiring with an admiration tinged with compassion thesang froidof the losers, who in a desperate attempt to recover the imminent loss of the morrow, were staking sums that made the spectators raise their eyebrows in amazement."Supposing that Jap came back and sneaked the ring the second time," said Gunther, taking his arm.Beecher started in surprise."I wasn't thinking of that," he said."But I was. That puzzle of yours has been running in my head ever since. I've got six people now absolutely logically worked out for the thief—perfect deduction. Take me over to Mrs. Kildair; I want to meet that woman.""I say, Bruce," said Beecher as they started to cross the room, "it's going to be an awful smash. All the boys are caught. There'll be the deuce to pay here later on.""Shouldn't wonder—they started in pretty fierce.""Eat, drink, and be merry—eh?""Sure."By the hazards of the crowd they found themselves opposite Nan Charters, who was on the arm of Charlie Lorraine, a clean-cut, pleasant type of the racing set, decidedly handsome in a dark way."Hello, fellows, any old clothes to give away?" said Lorraine, who had the topic of the evening in jest. "I speak first. How the deuce did Eddie Fontaine miss you two? Heard what we are doing? We are organizing the Eddie Club. Every one who's taken his tip is going up to live on Eddie's farm for the winter—great idea, eh?"While Gunther and Lorraine were laughing over this plan, a creation of Bo Lynch's, Beecher was listening to Nan Charters, with a difficult attempt at calming the sudden emotion which her appearance with Lorraine had fired within him."What a dreadful time you chose to call!" she said directly. "Don't you know that it takes a modern woman hours to mix her war-paint?"She looked at him with a little tantalizing malice in her eyes."Coquette," he thought furiously. "She is delighted because I was ass enough to call and give her the opportunity to refuse to see me.""Oh, not a call," he said aloud, committing the stupidity of lying. "I was just rushing downtown, and stopped to inquire how you were after last night."This answer brought a natural pause. Each looked at the other, he with defiance, she with laughter in her eyes."You're staying late," he said at last, because her listening attitude forced him to say something."Yes, indeed.""It'll be more amusing when it thins out," he said in a purposely languid tone."When the sight-seers have left—yes," she said, smiling.Wishing to show what slight importance he attached to the encounter, he contrived to nudge Gunther as a signal that he was ready; but, his friend proving insensible, he was forced to proceed."Did you come with Mrs. Kildair?" he said perfunctorily."No.""With whom?" he asked, regretting the question as soon as it was uttered."With Mr. Lorraine—of course," she said, looking down modestly, but beneath her eyelids he divined again the cunning malice.At this moment, to his delight, Emma Fornez perceived him, and, being profoundly bored by her chance cavalier, a purely passive listener thoroughly bewildered by her sallies, gave a cry of joy:"Teddy, traitor, where have you been?"Dismissing her companion with a bob of her head, she seized Beecher's arm, exclaiming:"Heavens—save me! I have been shrieking at a deaf-mute."In the crowd, the head of her late companion could be seen, rolling his uncomprehending eyes. Beecher, overjoyed at the arrival, which gave him an advantage he was quick to perceive, nodded to Miss Charters and departed, exaggerating, for her benefit, the confidential intimacy which Mme. Fornez's attitude permitted."Who is that woman?" said Emma Fornez immediately. "She is watching us. She doesn't seem pleased.Tant pis!""Nan Charters—one of our younger actresses.""Ah! Good?""Yes.""She is pretty—in a way," said Mme. Fornez, using her lorgnette, without caring in the least that Miss Charters perceived it. "Pas mal—pas mal. Not much temperament—afraid to uncover her shoulders. It is not an actress; it is a woman. You are interested, Teddy?""No.""Oh,avec ça. You are in love?""I met her last night for the first time.""That's not an answer. Yes, you have a guilty look. You are a little taken—she provokes you—these little dolls always do. I will give you good advice; I will help you.""How?" said Beecher, a bit confused."I will be very, very nice with you," said his companion gaily, her feet dancing to the music. "A woman always wants what another woman wants, particularly when she is a little actress and I am Emma Fornez. It's very simple, but it never fails; only, I will not help you if you are really in love, you understand?"Beecher solemnly assured her that she need have no fear."Very well, then. Be sure to pay attention to Madame Fontaine too; she likes you. We are the two women most distinguished here tonight—both high, high above your little Charters. It will double the effect. Do as I say; it'll be amusing."Gunther joined them, protesting."I say, Madame Fornez, it's not fair. We'll have to get up a Whitecaps party and kidnap Ted, if you don't stop.""Oh, we understand each other perfectly," said Beecher, delighted to perceive that Nan Charters was still following his progress. "Whenever Emma wants to escape from some one, she remembers that she's crazy about me. It is all arranged."Emma Fornez burst out laughing and gave him a little pat on his shoulder with the lorgnon."We are—chums, you say—hein, Teddy? Monsieur Gunthère is different. I like to talk with him—seriously."But at this moment, in response to a clamor, one of the negroes began dancing a shuffle in a quickly formed circle. Emma Fornez rushed off, with a cry of delight, deserting both young men."You've made a killing, Ted," said Gunther, laughing."Pooh! she'll forget my name tomorrow," said Beecher, who, however, believed nothing of the sort. "Come on."Mrs. Kildair was standing by the great Italian fireplace, her glance playing incessantly through the crowd, nodding from time to time, but without hearing the remarks of two or three older men who surrounded her. So different was the magnetic animation of her whole attitude from the ordinary feline languor of her pose, that Beecher noticed it at once, an impression heightened by the flash of the eyes and the almost electric warmth of her hand as she greeted him. Mrs. Kildair, who had followed his entrance with Mrs. Craig Fontaine and Emma Fornez and moreover was particularly pleased at his presenting young Gunther, was unusually gracious.Gunther, with his direct, almost obtrusive stare, studied her with unusual curiosity, conversed a little, and departed, after receiving a cordial invitation from her to call."What is the matter with you, Rita?" said Beecher immediately."Matter—how do you mean?""I have never seen you so excited.""Really, do I seem so?" she said, waving to some one on the floor."Extraordinarily so.""I am generally—dormant," she said, laughing. "Yes, I am excited tonight.""You are on the track of the ring—you have found it," he said instantly, with a pang of disappointment."No, not that," she said, with a frown.An idea came to him. He imagined that she too, like the good gambler he felt her to be, was laughing before the irretrievable disaster of the morrow."Look here, Rita," he said sympathetically, "you're not caught in the stock market, are you?"No, no, of course not." She saw the look on his face, and was touched by it. "Ruined and dying game? No, no; I am excited, very much excited, that's all. Will you ask me to dance, sir?""Are they dancing?""Of course. Hurry up!"Some of the more ardent spirits, impatient for the crowd to thin out, were whirling about, clearing an expanding circle by force of their revolving attacks. In a moment they were moving among the dancers.Mrs. Kildair danced remarkably well. In this lithe body, so pliant and yet so inspired with the vertigo of the waltz, Beecher was again aware of the strange excitement that seemed to animate her whole being, and continued to ask himself the cause of such an unusual emotion. From time to time, the light fingers on his arms contracted imperiously, urging him to a wilder measure. He had a strange sensation of mystery and flight, as though he were no longer dancing, but whirling around with her in his arms, each striving, in the frantic flight, to conquer the other.The dance ended. The spectators burst into applause. Mrs. Kildair, half opening her eyes, thanked him with a grateful smile. He walked away with her on his arm, agitated and troubled. What all the brilliance of Emma Fornez had not been able to accomplish, one touch of Rita Kildair had effected."I've lots of things to ask you," he said hurriedly, remembering McKenna's suggestions."No, no; not now—tomorrow," she said breathlessly, with the same caressing, half-veiled look. She gave him her hand in dismissal.He understood. The sensation which had come in the few moments of their vertigo had been too extraordinary to be dimmed by a descent to conversation.He left her, as always, aware of the artist in her, that never failed in the conception of a situation."If I fall in love, it won't be with Nan Charters," he said, following Mrs. Kildair with his eyes.Then, mindful of Emma Fornez's advice, he joined Mrs. Fontaine, staying with her until she gave the signal to leave for those who had come to watch.With this departure, in which Mrs. Kildair joined, a certain element of restraint disappeared. The unmistakable rising note of loosened tongues freed from Anglo-Saxon restraint by the scientifically contrived punch, began to mount above the rhythmic beat of the music, which itself seemed suddenly possessed of a wilder abandon. At the roulette table the players, coldly concentrated, continued in strained attitudes, oblivious of all but the blinding green nap before them.Toward two o'clock the thirty or forty who still remained formed a circle, camping on the floor, Indian fashion, clamoring for songs and vaudeville turns. Jack Lindabury and Bo Lynch gave their celebrated take-off on grand opera. Elsie Ware, riotously acclaimed, accompanied by an hilarious chorus, sang her famous successes, turning to and fro coquetting with first one man and then another.Emma Fornez, excited as a child, without waiting to be urged, ran to the piano and struck the first riotous chords of the "Habanera" ofCarmen. Instantly there was a scramble for the sides of the long piano, and when she looked up again it was into a score of comically adoring faces, each striving to attract her attention. But Beecher, first to a position of vantage, received the full concentration of the diva's glances. Flushed with the peculiar fleeting intoxication of exuberant youth—the knowledge of the evening's success with women others coveted—he leaned far over the piano, resting his chin in his hands, gazing with a provoking malice into the eyes of the singer, exaggerating the intensity of his look, maliciously obvious of Nan Charters, whom he felt at his side. Emma Fornez, lending herself to the maneuver, opened her wide, languorous eyes, singing to him alone, with a little forward leaning of her body:"L'amour est enfant de la Bohême,Il n'a jamais connu de loiSi tu m'aimes."The song ended in a furore. Mme. Fornez was overwhelmed with spontaneous adulation, and Beecher, laughing and struggling, was choked and carried away by the indignant suitors. Escaping, he came back, happy and resolved on more mischief. He had always had a passion for what is called fancy dancing, and in Europe had learned the dances of the country. He proposed to Emma Fornez a Spanish dance, and the idea was received with shouts of enthusiasm. Every one camped on the floor again, while three or four of the men, converting their sombreros into imaginary tambourines, shook them frantically in the air, led by Bo Lynch, who had somehow procured a great tin tray."You dance—are you sure?" asked Emma Fornez, looking at his flushed face with an anxious look; for some of the men, notably Lorraine and Lynch, were in a visibly excited state."Very well," he said confidently."Allons, then!"The dance he had chosen was one somewhat akin to the tarantella, a slow movement gradually and irresistibly singing up into a barbaric frenzy at the climax—one of those dances that are the epitome of primal coquetry, of the savage fascinating allurements of the feline, provoking to the dancer, doubly provoking to the spectator, bewildered by the sudden antagonisms of the poses and the brusque yieldings. At the end, according to Spanish custom, the dance ended in an embrace. Emma Fornez, surprised to find so inspired a partner, transported by the mood, ended laughingly with a kiss, her warm arms remaining languidly a moment about the shoulders of the young man, whom she complimented with expressions of surprise. Besieged at every side with cries for an encore, they repeated the dance, freer in their revolving movements from the intimacy of the first passage.From time to time Beecher had managed to steal a glance in the direction of Nan Charters. She was sitting straight and unrelaxing, her eyes never leaving him, the lines of her mouth drawn a little tightly. When Emma Fornez had embraced him for the second time, Beecher, relaxing, perceived that Nan Charters turned her back and was conversing volubly, her shoulders rising and falling with little rapid movements, while her fan had the same nervous lashing that one sees in the uneasy panther.He was delighted at his success, at the revenge he had inflicted, at the superiority he had regained. The dances began again, but he did not dance. He held himself near the entrance, surveying the scene triumphantly. The experience was new to him; in the few years he had passed since college, he had been really out of the world. This game—the most fascinating of all the games of chance that can fascinate the gambler in each human being—the game between man and woman, came to him as a revelation, with a zest that was almost a discovery of his youth.All at once a feminine hand was laid on his arm and the voice of Nan Charters said:"Come outside—in the garden. I want to speak to you. Come quietly."[image]"'Come outside—in the garden. I want to speak to you. Come quietly'"Elated by a strange, almost cruel feeling of conquest, he followed her, with a last look back at the studio, at the littered bar, where Bo Lynch was still calling raucously for customers, at the silent intensity of the gamblers, whom he occasionally perceived between the flitting dresses of the dancers. In the middle of the floor Lorraine and Plunkett, stumbling and unsteady, were solemnly waltzing in each other's arms—the specter of the morning forgotten.He closed the door softly and joined the young actress, who was waiting for him at some distance."Can you take me home?" she asked directly. "Mr. Lorraine is in such a condition that I do not wish to go with him.""Certainly," he said, a feeling of protection replacing the first victorious perception of the fire of jealousy he had awakened in her.Gunther's automobile was waiting, and they entered it. She did not say a word to him, and he, determined to force her to begin the conversation, waited with a pleased enjoyment until three-quarters of the journey had been accomplished. All at once she turned, and, taking him by the lapels of the coat, brought him toward her as one scolds a child."Are you so angry because I didn't see you this afternoon?" she said, smiling.The feminine defensive instinct of avoiding the issue by ambushing it with subterfuges, is equaled only by that instinct for attack which brushes aside all preliminaries and strikes directly. Beecher, taken off his guard, was a prey to two contrary impulses. Two replies, absolutely opposed and illogically joined, came to his lips. One brutal, still charged with the savageness of the evening, to say:"Angry? Not at all. Aren't you claiming a little too much?"And the other, a warm, yielding desire to blurt out frankly:"Yes, I was angry. I wanted to see you."She waited. Her large eyes, seeming larger in the dim light of the carriage, continued steadily on him. The first impulse dominated the second, but was modified by it."Angry? What a curious idea!" he began, with a half laugh. "You were so upset—"She interrupted him, shaking her head."Why did you act the way you did tonight? Don't do things that are not like you. That is not the way we began."He was silent, not knowing what to answer. Presently she withdrew into her corner, glanced out of the window, as if to assure herself that they were near their destination, and, placing her hand over his, said gently:"You are very sympathetic to me. Keep it so."For all that he said to himself that it was his favor with other women that made him precious to her, he felt a certain yielding of the spirit. He wondered if he could take her in his arms; but he restrained himself, and closed his two hands over hers."Yes, we are very sympathetic," he said; but he did not say all he meant."What a foolish boy you are," she said finally, looking up at him. "Don't you know that if I say one word you will go wherever I want you to?"He was so taken by surprise at the audacity and confidence of her remark, that he could not collect himself for an answer, outgeneraled by the woman who had so calculated to a nicety her last words that the arrival of the automobile left him without response.He went home, repeating to himself what she had asserted, resisting a wild desire to return to the Lindaburys' and forget there the disorder in his soul; and, though he rebelled scornfully against her confident assertion, the incessant repetition of it did leave an impression.As he passed the great marble façade of the Atlantic Trust, an unusual sight made him bend out of the window. In the chill gray of the coming dawn, a thin line of depositors was waiting, some standing, others huddled on campstools. At the sight the seriousness of life smote him, and he returned home, the tremulous turns of the human gamble he had played feverishly blended and confused with the dark realities of the rising tragedy of speculation.CHAPTER XWhen, the next morning, Beecher struggled out of a profound stupor, it was to be awakened by the sounds of Bo Lynch at the telephone. He rolled out of bed after a startled gaze at his watch, recalling in a flash the incidents of the night before. As he emerged he heard the final phrase, and the click of the released receiver:"Sell at once—throw them over."Bo Lynch, a pad of paper in one hand, a tumbler of cracked ice in the other, already dressed for the day, greeted him nonchalantly:"Morning.""How late did you stay?" asked Beecher."Oh, we breakfasted together," said Lynch, with a wry smile; "charming little repast. But I picked up enough to pay for my winter's stabling."Beecher glanced at the clock, which was approaching the hour."Waiting for the opening?""Yes." His glance followed Beecher's with a sudden concentration, and, taking up a matchbox, he struck a match and threw it away. "Waiting to see if I can escape working another year."Beecher, comprehending that sympathy would be distasteful, picked up the morning papers. The scareheads were alive with the note of panic: a dozen banks were threatened with runs; a rumor was abroad that the Atlantic Trust and two other great institutions might close their doors within the next twenty-four hours; an interview with Majendie protested against the action of the Clearing-house, asserting the recklessness of the move and the solvency of the Trust Company; a riot was feared on the East Side, where the small Jewish depositors, always prey to alarms, were in a state of frenzy; vague, guarded hints of further actions to be expected by the Clearing-house against another prominent chain of banks, and a report that John G. Slade was to tender his resignation, were joined with rumors from the office of the State Examiner of Banks that there might be grounds for the criminal prosecution of certain officials.The telephone rang. Lynch went to the receiver, arranging his pad methodically on the table. Beecher stopped reading, listening to the broken threads."All right, go ahead." ..."How much?" ..."Whew! Give me the Northern Pacific figures now." ..."Yes—yes—I see." ..."Something of a break, isn't it?" ..."All right." ..."No—that's all in the game. Thank you. I'll send my check to-day. Thanks."He put up the receiver, glanced curiously at the clock, which marked twelve minutes after ten, and studied the pad.Beecher had never been intimate with Lynch, but he liked him and his standards of Britannic phlegm. He belonged to that curious freemasonry of men, an indefinable, invisible standard of association, but one that cannot be counterfeited."How did you come out?" he said carelessly."About as I expected. The market has gone wild."Bo Lynch poured out a morning peg, adjusted his cravat critically in the mirror, and took up his hat."Lunching at the club?""Not to-day.""It'll be a cheerful funeral. So long."After his departure Beecher studied the jotted figures on the pad. In the twelve minutes of the opening, Lynch had lost a clear thirty-two thousand dollars.By the time he had dressed and breakfasted, he had answered the telephone a dozen times, messages from men he knew, anxious to learn if his intimacy with young Gunther had brought him any valuable information; inquiries as to the effect on his personal fortunes, and rumors of individual losses.He himself remained undisturbed by the frenzy. His own fortune, thanks to the wise provision of a hard-headed father, was safely invested in solid properties, and the world of speculation had not entered his ken. He returned to his newspapers, read everything bearing on the personal fate of John G. Slade, which interested him extraordinarily since his encounter with that abrupt and forceful personality, and, rising, asked himself how he could kill the time until the hour of his luncheon with Rita Kildair.The irritation he had felt at the end of his ride with Nan Charters had disappeared. Studying the evening calmly, he analyzed her words with a clearer perception. He comprehended that, beyond all the cleverness of her attitude, she had been veritably piqued by his indifference and his absorption by Emma Fornez, who treated her as a little actress. Considering the encounter thus, he smiled occasionally, congratulating himself that the conversation had ended so abruptly—when a continuance would have led him perhaps to say some of those sudden, illogical remarks which are irresistibly drawn from a man by the provoking contact of certain feminine personalities."She may say what she wants," he said, selecting a cigarette. "She was caught by her own tricks." He took several steps, and grinned to himself. "It's an amusing game, and a game that will be amusing to play."Despite this feeling of confidence and elation, he had an irresistible desire to telephone her, to indulge himself in the pleasure of hearing her voice again. He had resisted the impulse several times, convincing himself of the tactical error; and yet, the more he argued against it, the more the desire haunted him.Ordinarily he spent an agreeable half-hour after breakfast, calling up on the telephone those of the opposite sex with whom he was in the relation of a good comrade. He enjoyed these morning snatches of intimacy, with an enjoyment untouched with any seriousness. This morning, as he took the telephone in hand, he thought first of Emma Fornez, but as he had neglected to make his adieu to her on leaving with Nan Charters, he considered a moment while he formulated an acceptable apology.The prima donna answered him from the languid idleness of her bed, where she was resting in a state of complete exhaustion."I am ab-so-lutelyfini," she said in an anguished tone. "It is fright-ful. I shall never be able to sing—never!" Then she remembered. "I am very angry with you—yes, yes,—very angry."Beecher explained, with crocodile tears, how he had been forced to come to the aid of a distressed and helpless female."Ta-ta-ta! Stuff and nonsense! You could have boxed her up in a carriage and sent her home—yes, yes, you could. But you are in love—you are weak—you wanted an excuse—she made a fool of you—she twisted you around her finger!"Beecher denied the charge with indignation."If you wanted to, you could have come back to me—yes, you could.""But you had deserted me—I was furious."The conversation continued ten minutes on these purely conventional lines and ended with a promise to drop in that afternoon for tea.He had hardly ended when Mrs. Fontaine called up with an invitation to her box, for Mme. Fornez's début in Carmen the following week.Then he called up Miss Rivers, not because he particularly wished to talk with her, for he had determined on her decapitation, so to speak, but in order to appease somewhat the desire he had to telephone some one else. In conversing over the telephone, he felt a revival of interest and promised to try to drop in for a call that afternoon.He rose, looking down at the telephone in a dissatisfied way, and, turning his back, went in search of his hat."She'll expect me to telephone, of course," he thought; "besides, what excuse could I give? I'm not going to play into her game—not by a long shot. I know the kind—entirely too much brain-work to suit me. Oh, yes, she'd like to annex me—because I've been attentive to Emma Fornez—sure; but when it comes down to business. Mr. Charles Lorraine has a hundred thousand a year and I have thirty. She knows that." He laughed disdainfully and repeated, "You bet she knows that—well, so do I."He returned to the sitting-room and selected a cane, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the accursed telephone."I won't," he said, taking three steps toward it and then turning abruptly away.At the moment when he stood wavering, it began to ring. He went to it hastily. Miss Charters was calling him..."How lucky!" he said purposely. "I was just going out. I heard you from the hall.""You know, I never realized until this morning what I had done," said the voice at the other end. "I was so upset by Mr. Lorraine's condition that I forgot you were there with Madame Fornez.""Clever girl," he said to himself, smiling. Then aloud: "Oh, I explained matters.""I was afraid I'd got you into trouble.""No, indeed. Madame Fornez is a good sort; she understood at once.""I'm so glad. You've 'phoned her already then?""Yes."He remembered McKenna's suggestion, but he did not wish to make the demand direct."Something of a smash in Wall Street to-day," he said carelessly."You weren't caught, were you?" she said, with a note of quick sympathy which he admired."No; I don't speculate.""I was afraid you might have.""By Jove," he said, "I hope you didn't lose anything.""No, I don't think so," she said doubtfully. "I had some money invested, but I suppose if I hold on that'll come up again.""Not on margins?""No, indeed.""Who's your broker?""Mr. Garraboy.""Who?""Mr. Garraboy."The news produced on him a strangely ominous effect. He forgot all the parleying and the tactical planning of his campaign, overshadowed by a sudden sense of sympathy."I want to talk to you about that," he said anxiously. "Have you much in his hands?""Much for me—about twenty thousand.""Are you going to be in this afternoon? Can I see you?""I wish you would."Something in her voice struck him by its weakness."You are not worried, are you?" he said."A little.""Why don't you call him up?""I've been trying to."He was going to offer to telephone for her, when he remembered the antagonism he had felt for the broker, and refrained until a fuller knowledge. He reassured her, making light of her doubts, though feeling an instinctive anxiety for himself. Then he called up McKenna; but the detective was out, and, leaving word that he would try later, he went for his morning ride.A little before one o'clock he was in the softly lighted studio of Mrs. Kildair, waiting for his hostess with the pleasurable anticipation of a confidential tête-à-tête. On one thing he was thoroughly resolved—to convince her of the seriousness of his purpose in offering his assistance. As he paced slowly and irregularly about the room, his mind, perplexed by the mystery of the disappearance of the ring, instinctively considering the possibilities for concealment, he was surprised to hear, behind the closed doors of the bedroom, the sound of voices in agitated discussion. He stopped, perplexed, for in his walk about the room he had arrived at a point in such close proximity that the tones were easily distinguishable."But I have already made up my mind," cried a voice which he recognized at once as Mrs. Bloodgood's.Mrs. Kildair answered her, but in a lower tone—a note of warning and remonstrance."Oh, what do I care for the world!" repeated the voice, on a higher note. "The world is all against me. I have only one life—I want to live some of it."Beecher, ill at ease, realizing that he had stumbled on a situation which he had no right to surprise, tip-toed away. Hardly had he seated himself when the door opened brusquely, and Mrs. Bloodgood appeared, saying:"No, no; it is decided. I'm going. My only regret is that we waited so long."Two spots of red showed on her dark cheeks, while her head was carried defiant, alive with sudden energy. Beecher was struck with the unwonted brilliancy and youth which the emotion that possessed her had communicated to her whole body. Mrs. Kildair followed her, with the frown of one who disapproves, but who knows the futility of any contradiction.Beecher rose hastily, emerging from the shadow. The two women stopped, surprised at his presence, considering him nervously. The few snatches of conversation he had heard, coupled with what Gunther had revealed to him of the infatuation of Mrs. Bloodgood and Majendie, made him divine the intention of elopement they had been discussing. His sympathy was touched by the distress of the young woman, and, advancing quickly, he said, with a pretense of shame:"By Jove, I must have been nodding! A thousand pardons.""How long have you been here?" said Mrs. Kildair."About ten minutes," he said, rubbing his eyes and laughing. "Confound that chair—it's infernally comfortable, after being up all night. You made me jump."Mrs. Bloodgood had regained her calm. She embraced Mrs. Kildair and held out her hand to Beecher."Won't you let me see you to your carriage?" he said eagerly, with a smile of such good will that she perceived that whatever he had overheard, she had no need to fear."It's not necessary—but thank you," she said, giving him a grateful smile.He went to the door, opening it with a little exaggerated courtesy, and returned thoughtfully to Mrs. Kildair, who was watching him fixedly."You overheard?" she said directly."A little.""And what did you understand from it?""Why, frankly, knowing what I do, I should believe that Mrs. Bloodgood had decided to run away," he answered slowly; "which means, of course, one man. I am sorry. I could not help hearing."Mrs. Kildair had seated herself on the Récamier sofa and was studying him, undecided as to what she should say."You have heard too much, Teddy, not to know all," she said, reassured by the directness of his glance. "Besides, in twenty-four hours it will be in every paper in the country. I do not need to ask your promise to keep secret what you have heard. She is leaving her home and going openly away with Mr. Majendie—this very afternoon.""Majendie running off?" said Beecher, astounded."Yes.""Now—at such a time as this—when he is under fire? I don't believe it!""I should not have believed it either," said Mrs. Kildair thoughtfully."I know his kind," declared Beecher warmly; "he would never commit such a folly—never!""And yet, that is what is going to happen.""That is terrible. Doesn't she realize that he lays himself open to every charge? He'll be called a defaulter and an absconder—it is worse than death!""She realizes nothing," said Mrs. Kildair in a solemn voice, "except that she has hated one man and lived with him ten years, and that now, when everything is against the man she adores, she will sacrifice anything to be at his side.""But the sacrifice he is making—""Her sacrifice is too great—she doesn't realize that," said Mrs. Kildair, rising. "Poor Elise! Her life has been terrible. She is wild with anxiety, with the thought of what Majendie may do. When one has suffered as much as she has, one more sorrow will not stop her."Beecher was silent, overcome by the vision of an emptiness which he could divine only in a general way, having as yet little knowledge of the silent tragedies that pass at our elbows. When Mrs. Kildair turned again, it was with all her accustomed poise."We can do nothing," she said calmly. "Let us forget it. Luncheon is a little late. We shall be three; I asked Mr. Slade to join us. By the way, you were kind enough to offer me your help in the matter of my ring. I shan't need it now, but thanks all the same.""What do you mean?" he asked, surprised."My detectives assure me they are on the right track," she said carelessly. "All I ask of you, as I have of every one, is to keep this unfortunate occurrence to yourself."Beecher had been on the point of informing her of his retaining McKenna, confident of her approval. Ignorant as he was of Mrs. Kildair's dread that Slade's ownership of the ring might come to light, with all the consequent public misunderstanding, he was disagreeably impressed by her announcement. He did not for one moment believe her statement that the right clue had been found. All he understood was that, for some reason, she desired to keep him out of the case, and this understanding irritated him. And the introduction of Slade at what he had considered his privileged hour annoyed him even more. His curiosity increased twofold as he was forced to retain his information. Then he remembered McKenna's hint, and said carelessly:"By Jove, that reminds me—I want the address of your detective agency."She raised her eyes very slowly, and her glance rested on his for a full moment."Why do you ask that?" she said.He repeated the story he had prepared of a friend's demand, mentioning Gunther's name.Mrs. Kildair rose as though reluctantly, motioning him to wait, and, going to her room, returned after a long moment with an address on a slip of paper."There, Teddy," she said, giving it to him. Her manner had completely changed. She was again the Rita Kildair who treated himen camarade. "You are disappointed in not working out an exciting mystery," she said, laughing. "Do you know, Teddy, I am quite surprised at you.""How so?" he said warily."I should have thought by this time you would have engaged half the detectives in New York," she said, turning from him to arrange the cushions at her back. "And here you have done nothing."Beecher was not deceived by the innocence of the interrogation.In the last days his wits had been trained by contact with different feminine personalities. He understood that she wished to find out what he had done and assumed at once an attitude of boyish candor."It's not my fault, Rita," he said contritely. "You put me off—you remember.""That's so," she said. She motioned to him with a little gesture of her fingers and indicated a chair at her side. "Come here, you great boy," she said, smiling. "You are furious at me, aren't you?""Why?" he said, sitting near her, with a resolve to resist all her curiosity."You like to be the confidant of pretty women, Teddy," she said, laughing as he blushed. "To be on the inside—to know what others can't. Well, you shan't be deprived."He looked at her in surprise."What I told you is not true," she said candidly. "I have no clue, as yet, and am quite in the dark. I give you permission to do all you can. You see," she continued, holding out her hand with a charming smile, "I give you my full confidence—confidence for confidence—n'est ce pas?"Beecher made a rapid mental reservation and repeated her phrase, expecting a direct examination, but her manner became thoughtful again and she said pensively:"Besides, you have stumbled on a confidence yourself, and if you are to be trusted with that you should be trusted entirely." She looked at him quietly for a moment, and then added: "As a proof of my trust, Teddy, I am going to ask you to be my ally now. Mr. Slade will be here shortly. I do not wish to be alone with him. Do not go until he is gone."This request, implying as it did his own superior intimacy, delighted Beecher. He felt half of his suspicions vanish as he answered wisely:"I understand. He is quite daffy about you, isn't he?""Quite. But he has to be kept in place.""Oh, of course.""And now you are happy again," she said, tapping his arm with a little friendly gesture and smiling inwardly at the satisfaction which began to radiate from his face. "Teddy, you are a nice boy. I will teach you what the world is; you shall be my confidant, and we will laugh together; only, you must not be sentimental, you understand.""Never," he said with vigorous assertion. Then his conscience began to reprove him, and he blurted out: "I say, Rita, I haven't been quite honest, but you rubbed me the wrong way. I really have been on the job.""Besides Gunther, whom else have you talked with?" she asked."McKenna, the detective; and he's dead keen on the case," he said enthusiastically, not noticing what she had implied."Oh, McKenna!" she said, nodding appreciatively. "You have done well."She sat up, suddenly serious, and, extending her hand, took from him the address she had given him."Did McKenna tell you to find out my detective?" she said slowly.Beecher comprehended all at once how he had played into her game, but, with her glance on his, it was impossible to deny."Yes," he said; "he told me that he'd been on a dozen cases where the detectives who had come in to make a search had gone partners with the thief. He wanted to be certain there had been a real search."This seemed to reassure her, for she nodded with a return of her careless manner, as though comprehending the situation. Then, crumpling in her hands the paper with the address, she allowed her body to regain its former languid position and said:"I should like to meet McKenna; you must bring him around. How is he starting on the case?"Before Beecher could answer, the bell rang and Slade's bulky figure crowded the frame of the doorway. He entered, and the portières, at his passing, rolled back like two storm clouds.Whether or not Mrs. Kildair had calculated the effect of the intimacy of Beecher's position, Slade saw it at once as he noted savagely the involuntary separating movement which each unconsciously performed, and, perceiving it, exaggerated its importance. The look he gave the younger man revealed to the amused woman how much he would have liked in barbaric freedom to have seized him and crushed him in his powerful arms."Sorry to be late," he said abruptly, glancing at the clock. "I've taken the liberty to leave your telephone number, Mrs. Kildair, in case something important turns up."They passed immediately into the dining-room, Mrs. Kildair enjoying this clash of opposite personalities. Slade was not a man of small talk, disdaining the easy and ingratiating phrases with which other men establish a congenial intimacy. For the first quarter of an hour he withdrew from the conversation, and, being hungry, ate with relish. Beecher, abetted by his hostess, taking a malicious pleasure in the superiority he enjoyed, chatted of a hundred and one things which he shared with his listener, incidents of the party at Lindabury's, gossip of the world they knew, Emma Fornez and Holliday, Mrs. Fontaine and Gunther. Then, naturally drawn to the one topic that charged the air with the electricity of its drama, he related the uproar in the city, the long lines of depositors before the banks, the incident of Bo Lynch in the morning, and the effect on the men they knew. In this both he and Mrs. Kildair had an ulterior motive—to make Slade talk: Mrs. Kildair, for reasons of her own, Beecher alive to his dramatic closeness to the one man about whose success or ruin all the storm of rumor and gossip was raging."Stocks are still dropping," said Mrs. Kildair, glancing at Slade, who appeared quite unconscious. "An enormous quantity of holdings have been thrown on the market.""How long do you think it will keep up?""That depends; a day, a week—Mr. Slade knows better than any one."Slade looked up suddenly."What do they say about me?" he asked grimly."Every one expects the Associated Trust to be the next," said Beecher frankly."Probably. I'll tell you one bit of news," he added quietly. "The Clearing-house will refuse to clear for us this afternoon.""But that means failure," said Mrs. Kildair, with a quick glance at him."We shall see.""But the run has already started.""Oh, yes; we have paid off five depositors already," he said, with a smile that was almost imperceptible."Only five?""It takes a long time to verify some accounts. Then the law allows discretion in payment—takes quite a while to count out five thousand in half dollars." All at once he leaned forward heavily and began to speak, contemplatively interested. "The real truth is the thing that is never known. The newspapers never print the news. Sometimes it is given to them in confidence, to make certain that they won't print it. How much do you suppose will ever be known of the real causes of the present crisis? Nothing. They may let the market go to the dogs for three days, six days, a month, ruin thousands of victims, and the public will never know that the whole thing can be stopped now, in twenty-four hours, by ten men. And, when they get ready, ten menwillstop it. Then there'll be columns of adulation—patriotic services, unselfish devotion, and all that; and what will have happened—ten men will be in pocket a few millions as the result of their sacrificing devotion. The public must have a victim in order to be calmed, to be satisfied that everything has been changed. Then a weak man, some unlucky lieutenant, will be served up, and things will go on again, until one group of millions is ready to attack another. How the public will howl! Majendie has taken the gambler's risk; Majendie has failed. There's the crime—failure; and yet, ninety per cent. of the fortunes today have turned on the scale—up or down—win or lose. For every promoter that wins, twenty fail with a little different turn of the luck."We're all criminals—only we don't steal directly. We get it done for us. We want franchises for a great railroad system. We shut our eyes—hire an agent—go out and get this, no strings, no directions—show us only your results! Everything is in irresponsibility. A million dollars can commit no crime. After all, it's in the motive—a man who steals because he's hungry is a thief; a corporation that bribes a legislature and steals franchises, to create a great system of transportation, is performing a public service. It's all in what you're after. There're two ways to look at every big man; see the two periods—first, when he is trying to get together money—power; and second, what he creates when he has it. Same in politics—a man's better in office than running for it. Every man of power wants to arrive, anything to arrive, but when he gets there—then's the second period. The way to judge us is whether we want money only, or money to create something big.""And you?""I want sixty millions," said Slade abruptly. "Will I get it?" He shrugged his shoulders, and taking a knife balanced it in seesaw on his finger, letting it finally drop with an exclamation of impatience. "That's the danger—the getting of it. I may have it in two years more and then again—" He opened his hand as though flinging sand in the air, and added: "In a week it may be over.Rouge et noir—one bad turn at the beginning and Napoleon Bonaparte would have been shot as a conspirator. Up to the present, I've been living the first period—afterward I'll justify it; I'll build.""In what way?" said Mrs. Kildair, who, while following his brutal exposition with the tribute instinctive to force, was nevertheless aware that this unusual revelation of himself had likewise a trifling object—the over-awing of the younger rival."Railroads—a great system—an empire in itself," said Slade; and there came in his eyes a flash of the enthusiast which surprised her. But, unwilling to enlarge on this topic, he continued: "What I've said sounds raw, doesn't it? So it is. If I do what I want, I justify myself. There are only two classes of human beings—those like you two here, who get through life with the most pleasure you can, who get through—pass through; and then a few, a handful, who create something—an empire, like Rhodes, invent a locomotive or a system of electric production, add something to human history. What if they steal, or grind out the lives of others? They're the only ones who count. And the public knows it—it forgives everything to greatness; it's only petty crime it hates. Look at the sympathy a murderer gets on trial—look at the respect a great manipulator gets. Why? Because to murder and steal are natural human instincts. A couple of thousand years ago, it was a praiseworthy act for one ancestor, who coveted a hide or a cave that another ancestor had, to go out and kill him. All animals steal by instinct. We are only badly educated animals, and we admire in others what we don't dare do ourselves. Only succeed—succeed! Ah, there is the whole of it!"At this moment the telephone rang, and Slade rose and went to it with a little more emotion than he usually showed."Is this the cause of his outburst?" thought Mrs. Kildair, while she and Beecher instinctively remained silent.At the end of a short moment, Slade returned. The two observers, who glanced at him quickly, could not find the slightest clue of what had transpired. Only he seemed more composed."Speaking of stealing, take the case of the ring," he said, relaxing in a chair. "We know this—incredible as it may seem—that there were at least two thieves in the company; as a matter of fact, there were many more. My own opinion is that the crime was not an ordinary one—that whoever took it the second time took it out of an uncontrollable spirit of bravado, an overpowering impulse to do an almost impossible thing.""By the way—" Beecher began, and then suddenly looked at Mrs. Kildair interrogatively. Then, receiving permission, he continued: "You know who returned that night?"Slade nodded."Yourself, Mrs. Cheever, Garraboy, and Miss Charters.""Miss Charters?" said Beecher, turning in amazement to Mrs. Kildair.She nodded, with a little frown."As I told Mrs. Kildair," said Slade, not noticing that Beecher, overwhelmed by this discovery, did not hear him, "I do not believe for a moment that the thief would return. Any one who had the daring to seize the ring the second time had the daring to carry off the ring; in fact, had some such plan in mind. Whoever came back may have come back out of sympathy, or with the idea that the ring was still in the studio—in which case, we have a third manifestation of instinct."
CHAPTER IX
The party was in full progress when they arrived. Jack and Tom Lindabury resided, as far as they could be said to reside anywhere, in a great green stone house of the 1860 period, with a deep garden in the back on which originally stood a stable, access to which was had, in the Parisian style, by a long, vaulted passage at one side. The Lindaburys, having discovered, as many other young men of fortune did at this period, the social adaptability of the artist's atelier, had transformed the stable into a great studio, with a kitchen and two or three dressing-rooms, which served when the place was given over to amateur theatricals or to the not always restrained fêtes of the brothers' invention.
Gunther's party emerged from the hollow passage into the sudden cool of the short garden, where masked stone seats and arbors were faintly disclosed by the great stable lantern which swung at the entrance of the studio. Several couples, profiting by the obscurity, could be seen moving in the sudden shadows of the garden, laughing with a nervous, stifled laughter, as groups crossed or joined one another.
Holliday and Beecher, recognizing acquaintances, saluted them with the light banter, which was the note of the evening. Mme. Fornez, inside, called her companions with exclamations of surprise which drew the whispered curiosity of every one to her entrance.
"Oh, how funny it is! Look, Teddy, what do you call it? It is your—cowboy life, is it not?"
The great room had been transformed into a mining saloon of the type made popular by a certain play of the day. A bar ran across one end, presided over by an impossibly wicked bartender. A roulette-wheel was crowded at one side, while a negro orchestra, in 1850 costume, was busily sawing away, led by a cotton-head darky on a soap-box, who droned out his directions. Three-fourths of the room were in costume, Indian, Spanish, cowboy or frontier At the appearance of the new arrivals in evening dress, a shout went up:
"Tenderfeet, tenderfeet!"
"Fine them!"
"Shoot 'em up!"
But, in deference to Mrs. Fontaine and Emma Fornez, the protest was not so boisterous or accompanied by such rushing tactics as had greeted others. Nevertheless they were fined and escorted to one of the dressing-rooms. The men were forced to don dusters and white top-hats, and the women were given sombreros and mantillas.
Mme. Fornez, despite the frowns of Holliday, clung to Beecher's arm, insisting on being personally conducted, plying him with innumerable questions.
"Oh what a terrible man! What an awful knife. I like the black men—sont ils rigolots—with their red and white collars. I want to see the bar-man toss drinks—so, in the air, Teddy. Come this way."
All at once she stopped, and, facing about, took him by the lapels of the coat.
"It does not annoy you that I adopt you—that I call you Teddy?" she said, with a simulation of timidity and a sudden concentration of her swimming black eyes.
"Emma," he said, laughing, "if you stop there I shall die of disappointment."
She frowned a little at the "Emma," but yielded the point.
"You are not very responsive, Monsieur Beecher," she said, with a flash, "when I am so nice to you."
"My dear Emma," said Beecher, who, not being in love, could see clearly, "if I don't fall at your feet, it's because I know very well that the moment I did you would bulldoze me like Bob Holliday."
Emma Fornez looked at him with a sudden gay approval.
"Teddy, you are very nice," she said decidedly. "You understand how to play. I forbid you to fall in love, to get caught by any other woman, you understand. You are to be mine for the whole season—hein?"
"Nothing promised," said Beecher, laughing.
Holliday came with two or three friends, clamoring to be introduced. Beecher profited by the confusion to make the turn of the room, which was crowded with laughing groups striving to penetrate the disguises of others while maintaining their own. At the faro table, a group from his club called to him to join them, but he kept on, saluting the dealer, costumed according to Bret Harte, with an approving wave of the hand.
The assembly was one of those curious social demarcations which prevail when formal society essays to be Bohemian, and which is probably evolved by the women in their always curious desire to study at close range those whose lives they are generally condemning. As is usually the case, the guests were made up of those who remained wrapped up in a mantel of inquisitive respectability, and would go early; a large body who waited impatiently for this first secession; and a certain element, not all professionals, at present exceedingly punctilious, who would inherit the right to put out the lanterns and close up the doors.
Young Beecher, pacing restlessly, nodding and smiling, searched in the crowd without quite admitting to himself what it was he sought. In the short period of his return, he had gone into many different sets, always retaining the prerogatives of his own. The women, besides those of the younger married women whom he knew, were of the opera, the stage, one or two, even, whose names were electrically displayed in vaudeville. He was caught up, greeted enthusiastically, and extricated himself with deftness, seeking in a general way to reach the great fireplace near which he had detected the figure of Mrs. Kildair.
The men, without exception, were of his own kind—of that second generation which is the peculiar problem of America. They were strong, well put together, with heads chiseled somewhat on the vigorous lines of the father spirits, condemned by the accident of wealth to the most un-American of professions, the idler. Without the mental languor of the foreign dilettante, consumed in reality by their own imprisoned energy, they were a restless, dissatisfied testimony of the error of their own civilization, the inability of the great, barbaric, money-acquiring American to comprehend the uses of wealth. Tonight, threatened with tomorrow's disaster, stirred by the restlessness of the multitude, this excess of baffled energy was felt everywhere: at the bar, in the Anglo-Saxon intensity; at the faro table where the play had a certain desperate counterpart of the spirit that had assembled the future; in the momentary sudden accesses of gaiety that began to spread through the hesitant crowd, as an overturned bottle spreads its fluid over the cloth.
Beecher, too, without comprehending it, felt the stimulus, awakening all the nervous unemployed funds of energy within him and the intoxication of movement and laughter that brought him a sudden feverish hilarity, brought also a sense of unrest and dissatisfaction. Underneath all the over-excited spirits of frivolity was a current of grave apprehension which he felt in the occasional groupings of men and the low snatches of conversation which reached him.
"Bo Lynch's cleaned out."
"—not the only one."
"—and thousands thrown on the market."
"Eddie Fontaine's crowd."
"Copper'll blow up higher than a kite!"
"—if Slade goes too."
"They say there's a line formed in front of the Atlantic."
In his progress he encountered Jack Lindabury, lank and broad-shouldered, with the magnificent shell of a head that might have been set on the shoulders of a Gladstone. They shook hands with cordiality.
"Devil of a mess about Majendie," said Lindabury.
"Are you hit?"
"Of course; Eddie Fontaine's had us all in on his tip. Some of the crowd are liable to be wiped out. They tell me Bo Lynch had plunged every cent in the world."
"Shouldn't wonder," said Beecher, reflecting. "Is he here?"
"Sure; he's the bartender," said Lindabury.
Beecher, surprised, nodded and made his way toward the end that had been converted into a frontier saloon, where, behind enormous mustaches, he recognized the long features of his fellow lodger.
"What'll y'have?" said Lynch, in hoarse accents. Then, perceiving that he was recognized, he drew Beecher aside and said anxiously:
"You owe me fifty, Ted; we pulled it out. Go over and stake it at the table for me, if you've got it."
"Sorry," said Beecher, eying him critically and resolving to lie.
"Oh, well," said Lynch philosophically, "it'll look big as a house to-morrow."
"Are you cleaned out, Bo?" said Beecher anxiously.
"Oh, no; I'm worth thousands," said Lynch, with a grin, "until the market opens to-morrow."
"Tough luck."
"Steve Plunkett's worse—he's got to negotiate his gold fillings, they say."
A party came up, clamoring for attention, and Lynch hastened to the rescue. Beecher continued curiously toward the faro table, admiring with an admiration tinged with compassion thesang froidof the losers, who in a desperate attempt to recover the imminent loss of the morrow, were staking sums that made the spectators raise their eyebrows in amazement.
"Supposing that Jap came back and sneaked the ring the second time," said Gunther, taking his arm.
Beecher started in surprise.
"I wasn't thinking of that," he said.
"But I was. That puzzle of yours has been running in my head ever since. I've got six people now absolutely logically worked out for the thief—perfect deduction. Take me over to Mrs. Kildair; I want to meet that woman."
"I say, Bruce," said Beecher as they started to cross the room, "it's going to be an awful smash. All the boys are caught. There'll be the deuce to pay here later on."
"Shouldn't wonder—they started in pretty fierce."
"Eat, drink, and be merry—eh?"
"Sure."
By the hazards of the crowd they found themselves opposite Nan Charters, who was on the arm of Charlie Lorraine, a clean-cut, pleasant type of the racing set, decidedly handsome in a dark way.
"Hello, fellows, any old clothes to give away?" said Lorraine, who had the topic of the evening in jest. "I speak first. How the deuce did Eddie Fontaine miss you two? Heard what we are doing? We are organizing the Eddie Club. Every one who's taken his tip is going up to live on Eddie's farm for the winter—great idea, eh?"
While Gunther and Lorraine were laughing over this plan, a creation of Bo Lynch's, Beecher was listening to Nan Charters, with a difficult attempt at calming the sudden emotion which her appearance with Lorraine had fired within him.
"What a dreadful time you chose to call!" she said directly. "Don't you know that it takes a modern woman hours to mix her war-paint?"
She looked at him with a little tantalizing malice in her eyes.
"Coquette," he thought furiously. "She is delighted because I was ass enough to call and give her the opportunity to refuse to see me."
"Oh, not a call," he said aloud, committing the stupidity of lying. "I was just rushing downtown, and stopped to inquire how you were after last night."
This answer brought a natural pause. Each looked at the other, he with defiance, she with laughter in her eyes.
"You're staying late," he said at last, because her listening attitude forced him to say something.
"Yes, indeed."
"It'll be more amusing when it thins out," he said in a purposely languid tone.
"When the sight-seers have left—yes," she said, smiling.
Wishing to show what slight importance he attached to the encounter, he contrived to nudge Gunther as a signal that he was ready; but, his friend proving insensible, he was forced to proceed.
"Did you come with Mrs. Kildair?" he said perfunctorily.
"No."
"With whom?" he asked, regretting the question as soon as it was uttered.
"With Mr. Lorraine—of course," she said, looking down modestly, but beneath her eyelids he divined again the cunning malice.
At this moment, to his delight, Emma Fornez perceived him, and, being profoundly bored by her chance cavalier, a purely passive listener thoroughly bewildered by her sallies, gave a cry of joy:
"Teddy, traitor, where have you been?"
Dismissing her companion with a bob of her head, she seized Beecher's arm, exclaiming:
"Heavens—save me! I have been shrieking at a deaf-mute."
In the crowd, the head of her late companion could be seen, rolling his uncomprehending eyes. Beecher, overjoyed at the arrival, which gave him an advantage he was quick to perceive, nodded to Miss Charters and departed, exaggerating, for her benefit, the confidential intimacy which Mme. Fornez's attitude permitted.
"Who is that woman?" said Emma Fornez immediately. "She is watching us. She doesn't seem pleased.Tant pis!"
"Nan Charters—one of our younger actresses."
"Ah! Good?"
"Yes."
"She is pretty—in a way," said Mme. Fornez, using her lorgnette, without caring in the least that Miss Charters perceived it. "Pas mal—pas mal. Not much temperament—afraid to uncover her shoulders. It is not an actress; it is a woman. You are interested, Teddy?"
"No."
"Oh,avec ça. You are in love?"
"I met her last night for the first time."
"That's not an answer. Yes, you have a guilty look. You are a little taken—she provokes you—these little dolls always do. I will give you good advice; I will help you."
"How?" said Beecher, a bit confused.
"I will be very, very nice with you," said his companion gaily, her feet dancing to the music. "A woman always wants what another woman wants, particularly when she is a little actress and I am Emma Fornez. It's very simple, but it never fails; only, I will not help you if you are really in love, you understand?"
Beecher solemnly assured her that she need have no fear.
"Very well, then. Be sure to pay attention to Madame Fontaine too; she likes you. We are the two women most distinguished here tonight—both high, high above your little Charters. It will double the effect. Do as I say; it'll be amusing."
Gunther joined them, protesting.
"I say, Madame Fornez, it's not fair. We'll have to get up a Whitecaps party and kidnap Ted, if you don't stop."
"Oh, we understand each other perfectly," said Beecher, delighted to perceive that Nan Charters was still following his progress. "Whenever Emma wants to escape from some one, she remembers that she's crazy about me. It is all arranged."
Emma Fornez burst out laughing and gave him a little pat on his shoulder with the lorgnon.
"We are—chums, you say—hein, Teddy? Monsieur Gunthère is different. I like to talk with him—seriously."
But at this moment, in response to a clamor, one of the negroes began dancing a shuffle in a quickly formed circle. Emma Fornez rushed off, with a cry of delight, deserting both young men.
"You've made a killing, Ted," said Gunther, laughing.
"Pooh! she'll forget my name tomorrow," said Beecher, who, however, believed nothing of the sort. "Come on."
Mrs. Kildair was standing by the great Italian fireplace, her glance playing incessantly through the crowd, nodding from time to time, but without hearing the remarks of two or three older men who surrounded her. So different was the magnetic animation of her whole attitude from the ordinary feline languor of her pose, that Beecher noticed it at once, an impression heightened by the flash of the eyes and the almost electric warmth of her hand as she greeted him. Mrs. Kildair, who had followed his entrance with Mrs. Craig Fontaine and Emma Fornez and moreover was particularly pleased at his presenting young Gunther, was unusually gracious.
Gunther, with his direct, almost obtrusive stare, studied her with unusual curiosity, conversed a little, and departed, after receiving a cordial invitation from her to call.
"What is the matter with you, Rita?" said Beecher immediately.
"Matter—how do you mean?"
"I have never seen you so excited."
"Really, do I seem so?" she said, waving to some one on the floor.
"Extraordinarily so."
"I am generally—dormant," she said, laughing. "Yes, I am excited tonight."
"You are on the track of the ring—you have found it," he said instantly, with a pang of disappointment.
"No, not that," she said, with a frown.
An idea came to him. He imagined that she too, like the good gambler he felt her to be, was laughing before the irretrievable disaster of the morrow.
"Look here, Rita," he said sympathetically, "you're not caught in the stock market, are you?
"No, no, of course not." She saw the look on his face, and was touched by it. "Ruined and dying game? No, no; I am excited, very much excited, that's all. Will you ask me to dance, sir?"
"Are they dancing?"
"Of course. Hurry up!"
Some of the more ardent spirits, impatient for the crowd to thin out, were whirling about, clearing an expanding circle by force of their revolving attacks. In a moment they were moving among the dancers.
Mrs. Kildair danced remarkably well. In this lithe body, so pliant and yet so inspired with the vertigo of the waltz, Beecher was again aware of the strange excitement that seemed to animate her whole being, and continued to ask himself the cause of such an unusual emotion. From time to time, the light fingers on his arms contracted imperiously, urging him to a wilder measure. He had a strange sensation of mystery and flight, as though he were no longer dancing, but whirling around with her in his arms, each striving, in the frantic flight, to conquer the other.
The dance ended. The spectators burst into applause. Mrs. Kildair, half opening her eyes, thanked him with a grateful smile. He walked away with her on his arm, agitated and troubled. What all the brilliance of Emma Fornez had not been able to accomplish, one touch of Rita Kildair had effected.
"I've lots of things to ask you," he said hurriedly, remembering McKenna's suggestions.
"No, no; not now—tomorrow," she said breathlessly, with the same caressing, half-veiled look. She gave him her hand in dismissal.
He understood. The sensation which had come in the few moments of their vertigo had been too extraordinary to be dimmed by a descent to conversation.
He left her, as always, aware of the artist in her, that never failed in the conception of a situation.
"If I fall in love, it won't be with Nan Charters," he said, following Mrs. Kildair with his eyes.
Then, mindful of Emma Fornez's advice, he joined Mrs. Fontaine, staying with her until she gave the signal to leave for those who had come to watch.
With this departure, in which Mrs. Kildair joined, a certain element of restraint disappeared. The unmistakable rising note of loosened tongues freed from Anglo-Saxon restraint by the scientifically contrived punch, began to mount above the rhythmic beat of the music, which itself seemed suddenly possessed of a wilder abandon. At the roulette table the players, coldly concentrated, continued in strained attitudes, oblivious of all but the blinding green nap before them.
Toward two o'clock the thirty or forty who still remained formed a circle, camping on the floor, Indian fashion, clamoring for songs and vaudeville turns. Jack Lindabury and Bo Lynch gave their celebrated take-off on grand opera. Elsie Ware, riotously acclaimed, accompanied by an hilarious chorus, sang her famous successes, turning to and fro coquetting with first one man and then another.
Emma Fornez, excited as a child, without waiting to be urged, ran to the piano and struck the first riotous chords of the "Habanera" ofCarmen. Instantly there was a scramble for the sides of the long piano, and when she looked up again it was into a score of comically adoring faces, each striving to attract her attention. But Beecher, first to a position of vantage, received the full concentration of the diva's glances. Flushed with the peculiar fleeting intoxication of exuberant youth—the knowledge of the evening's success with women others coveted—he leaned far over the piano, resting his chin in his hands, gazing with a provoking malice into the eyes of the singer, exaggerating the intensity of his look, maliciously obvious of Nan Charters, whom he felt at his side. Emma Fornez, lending herself to the maneuver, opened her wide, languorous eyes, singing to him alone, with a little forward leaning of her body:
"L'amour est enfant de la Bohême,Il n'a jamais connu de loiSi tu m'aimes."
"L'amour est enfant de la Bohême,Il n'a jamais connu de loiSi tu m'aimes."
"L'amour est enfant de la Bohême,
Il n'a jamais connu de loi
Si tu m'aimes."
The song ended in a furore. Mme. Fornez was overwhelmed with spontaneous adulation, and Beecher, laughing and struggling, was choked and carried away by the indignant suitors. Escaping, he came back, happy and resolved on more mischief. He had always had a passion for what is called fancy dancing, and in Europe had learned the dances of the country. He proposed to Emma Fornez a Spanish dance, and the idea was received with shouts of enthusiasm. Every one camped on the floor again, while three or four of the men, converting their sombreros into imaginary tambourines, shook them frantically in the air, led by Bo Lynch, who had somehow procured a great tin tray.
"You dance—are you sure?" asked Emma Fornez, looking at his flushed face with an anxious look; for some of the men, notably Lorraine and Lynch, were in a visibly excited state.
"Very well," he said confidently.
"Allons, then!"
The dance he had chosen was one somewhat akin to the tarantella, a slow movement gradually and irresistibly singing up into a barbaric frenzy at the climax—one of those dances that are the epitome of primal coquetry, of the savage fascinating allurements of the feline, provoking to the dancer, doubly provoking to the spectator, bewildered by the sudden antagonisms of the poses and the brusque yieldings. At the end, according to Spanish custom, the dance ended in an embrace. Emma Fornez, surprised to find so inspired a partner, transported by the mood, ended laughingly with a kiss, her warm arms remaining languidly a moment about the shoulders of the young man, whom she complimented with expressions of surprise. Besieged at every side with cries for an encore, they repeated the dance, freer in their revolving movements from the intimacy of the first passage.
From time to time Beecher had managed to steal a glance in the direction of Nan Charters. She was sitting straight and unrelaxing, her eyes never leaving him, the lines of her mouth drawn a little tightly. When Emma Fornez had embraced him for the second time, Beecher, relaxing, perceived that Nan Charters turned her back and was conversing volubly, her shoulders rising and falling with little rapid movements, while her fan had the same nervous lashing that one sees in the uneasy panther.
He was delighted at his success, at the revenge he had inflicted, at the superiority he had regained. The dances began again, but he did not dance. He held himself near the entrance, surveying the scene triumphantly. The experience was new to him; in the few years he had passed since college, he had been really out of the world. This game—the most fascinating of all the games of chance that can fascinate the gambler in each human being—the game between man and woman, came to him as a revelation, with a zest that was almost a discovery of his youth.
All at once a feminine hand was laid on his arm and the voice of Nan Charters said:
"Come outside—in the garden. I want to speak to you. Come quietly."
[image]"'Come outside—in the garden. I want to speak to you. Come quietly'"
[image]
[image]
"'Come outside—in the garden. I want to speak to you. Come quietly'"
Elated by a strange, almost cruel feeling of conquest, he followed her, with a last look back at the studio, at the littered bar, where Bo Lynch was still calling raucously for customers, at the silent intensity of the gamblers, whom he occasionally perceived between the flitting dresses of the dancers. In the middle of the floor Lorraine and Plunkett, stumbling and unsteady, were solemnly waltzing in each other's arms—the specter of the morning forgotten.
He closed the door softly and joined the young actress, who was waiting for him at some distance.
"Can you take me home?" she asked directly. "Mr. Lorraine is in such a condition that I do not wish to go with him."
"Certainly," he said, a feeling of protection replacing the first victorious perception of the fire of jealousy he had awakened in her.
Gunther's automobile was waiting, and they entered it. She did not say a word to him, and he, determined to force her to begin the conversation, waited with a pleased enjoyment until three-quarters of the journey had been accomplished. All at once she turned, and, taking him by the lapels of the coat, brought him toward her as one scolds a child.
"Are you so angry because I didn't see you this afternoon?" she said, smiling.
The feminine defensive instinct of avoiding the issue by ambushing it with subterfuges, is equaled only by that instinct for attack which brushes aside all preliminaries and strikes directly. Beecher, taken off his guard, was a prey to two contrary impulses. Two replies, absolutely opposed and illogically joined, came to his lips. One brutal, still charged with the savageness of the evening, to say:
"Angry? Not at all. Aren't you claiming a little too much?"
And the other, a warm, yielding desire to blurt out frankly:
"Yes, I was angry. I wanted to see you."
She waited. Her large eyes, seeming larger in the dim light of the carriage, continued steadily on him. The first impulse dominated the second, but was modified by it.
"Angry? What a curious idea!" he began, with a half laugh. "You were so upset—"
She interrupted him, shaking her head.
"Why did you act the way you did tonight? Don't do things that are not like you. That is not the way we began."
He was silent, not knowing what to answer. Presently she withdrew into her corner, glanced out of the window, as if to assure herself that they were near their destination, and, placing her hand over his, said gently:
"You are very sympathetic to me. Keep it so."
For all that he said to himself that it was his favor with other women that made him precious to her, he felt a certain yielding of the spirit. He wondered if he could take her in his arms; but he restrained himself, and closed his two hands over hers.
"Yes, we are very sympathetic," he said; but he did not say all he meant.
"What a foolish boy you are," she said finally, looking up at him. "Don't you know that if I say one word you will go wherever I want you to?"
He was so taken by surprise at the audacity and confidence of her remark, that he could not collect himself for an answer, outgeneraled by the woman who had so calculated to a nicety her last words that the arrival of the automobile left him without response.
He went home, repeating to himself what she had asserted, resisting a wild desire to return to the Lindaburys' and forget there the disorder in his soul; and, though he rebelled scornfully against her confident assertion, the incessant repetition of it did leave an impression.
As he passed the great marble façade of the Atlantic Trust, an unusual sight made him bend out of the window. In the chill gray of the coming dawn, a thin line of depositors was waiting, some standing, others huddled on campstools. At the sight the seriousness of life smote him, and he returned home, the tremulous turns of the human gamble he had played feverishly blended and confused with the dark realities of the rising tragedy of speculation.
CHAPTER X
When, the next morning, Beecher struggled out of a profound stupor, it was to be awakened by the sounds of Bo Lynch at the telephone. He rolled out of bed after a startled gaze at his watch, recalling in a flash the incidents of the night before. As he emerged he heard the final phrase, and the click of the released receiver:
"Sell at once—throw them over."
Bo Lynch, a pad of paper in one hand, a tumbler of cracked ice in the other, already dressed for the day, greeted him nonchalantly:
"Morning."
"How late did you stay?" asked Beecher.
"Oh, we breakfasted together," said Lynch, with a wry smile; "charming little repast. But I picked up enough to pay for my winter's stabling."
Beecher glanced at the clock, which was approaching the hour.
"Waiting for the opening?"
"Yes." His glance followed Beecher's with a sudden concentration, and, taking up a matchbox, he struck a match and threw it away. "Waiting to see if I can escape working another year."
Beecher, comprehending that sympathy would be distasteful, picked up the morning papers. The scareheads were alive with the note of panic: a dozen banks were threatened with runs; a rumor was abroad that the Atlantic Trust and two other great institutions might close their doors within the next twenty-four hours; an interview with Majendie protested against the action of the Clearing-house, asserting the recklessness of the move and the solvency of the Trust Company; a riot was feared on the East Side, where the small Jewish depositors, always prey to alarms, were in a state of frenzy; vague, guarded hints of further actions to be expected by the Clearing-house against another prominent chain of banks, and a report that John G. Slade was to tender his resignation, were joined with rumors from the office of the State Examiner of Banks that there might be grounds for the criminal prosecution of certain officials.
The telephone rang. Lynch went to the receiver, arranging his pad methodically on the table. Beecher stopped reading, listening to the broken threads.
"All right, go ahead." ...
"How much?" ...
"Whew! Give me the Northern Pacific figures now." ...
"Yes—yes—I see." ...
"Something of a break, isn't it?" ...
"All right." ...
"No—that's all in the game. Thank you. I'll send my check to-day. Thanks."
He put up the receiver, glanced curiously at the clock, which marked twelve minutes after ten, and studied the pad.
Beecher had never been intimate with Lynch, but he liked him and his standards of Britannic phlegm. He belonged to that curious freemasonry of men, an indefinable, invisible standard of association, but one that cannot be counterfeited.
"How did you come out?" he said carelessly.
"About as I expected. The market has gone wild."
Bo Lynch poured out a morning peg, adjusted his cravat critically in the mirror, and took up his hat.
"Lunching at the club?"
"Not to-day."
"It'll be a cheerful funeral. So long."
After his departure Beecher studied the jotted figures on the pad. In the twelve minutes of the opening, Lynch had lost a clear thirty-two thousand dollars.
By the time he had dressed and breakfasted, he had answered the telephone a dozen times, messages from men he knew, anxious to learn if his intimacy with young Gunther had brought him any valuable information; inquiries as to the effect on his personal fortunes, and rumors of individual losses.
He himself remained undisturbed by the frenzy. His own fortune, thanks to the wise provision of a hard-headed father, was safely invested in solid properties, and the world of speculation had not entered his ken. He returned to his newspapers, read everything bearing on the personal fate of John G. Slade, which interested him extraordinarily since his encounter with that abrupt and forceful personality, and, rising, asked himself how he could kill the time until the hour of his luncheon with Rita Kildair.
The irritation he had felt at the end of his ride with Nan Charters had disappeared. Studying the evening calmly, he analyzed her words with a clearer perception. He comprehended that, beyond all the cleverness of her attitude, she had been veritably piqued by his indifference and his absorption by Emma Fornez, who treated her as a little actress. Considering the encounter thus, he smiled occasionally, congratulating himself that the conversation had ended so abruptly—when a continuance would have led him perhaps to say some of those sudden, illogical remarks which are irresistibly drawn from a man by the provoking contact of certain feminine personalities.
"She may say what she wants," he said, selecting a cigarette. "She was caught by her own tricks." He took several steps, and grinned to himself. "It's an amusing game, and a game that will be amusing to play."
Despite this feeling of confidence and elation, he had an irresistible desire to telephone her, to indulge himself in the pleasure of hearing her voice again. He had resisted the impulse several times, convincing himself of the tactical error; and yet, the more he argued against it, the more the desire haunted him.
Ordinarily he spent an agreeable half-hour after breakfast, calling up on the telephone those of the opposite sex with whom he was in the relation of a good comrade. He enjoyed these morning snatches of intimacy, with an enjoyment untouched with any seriousness. This morning, as he took the telephone in hand, he thought first of Emma Fornez, but as he had neglected to make his adieu to her on leaving with Nan Charters, he considered a moment while he formulated an acceptable apology.
The prima donna answered him from the languid idleness of her bed, where she was resting in a state of complete exhaustion.
"I am ab-so-lutelyfini," she said in an anguished tone. "It is fright-ful. I shall never be able to sing—never!" Then she remembered. "I am very angry with you—yes, yes,—very angry."
Beecher explained, with crocodile tears, how he had been forced to come to the aid of a distressed and helpless female.
"Ta-ta-ta! Stuff and nonsense! You could have boxed her up in a carriage and sent her home—yes, yes, you could. But you are in love—you are weak—you wanted an excuse—she made a fool of you—she twisted you around her finger!"
Beecher denied the charge with indignation.
"If you wanted to, you could have come back to me—yes, you could."
"But you had deserted me—I was furious."
The conversation continued ten minutes on these purely conventional lines and ended with a promise to drop in that afternoon for tea.
He had hardly ended when Mrs. Fontaine called up with an invitation to her box, for Mme. Fornez's début in Carmen the following week.
Then he called up Miss Rivers, not because he particularly wished to talk with her, for he had determined on her decapitation, so to speak, but in order to appease somewhat the desire he had to telephone some one else. In conversing over the telephone, he felt a revival of interest and promised to try to drop in for a call that afternoon.
He rose, looking down at the telephone in a dissatisfied way, and, turning his back, went in search of his hat.
"She'll expect me to telephone, of course," he thought; "besides, what excuse could I give? I'm not going to play into her game—not by a long shot. I know the kind—entirely too much brain-work to suit me. Oh, yes, she'd like to annex me—because I've been attentive to Emma Fornez—sure; but when it comes down to business. Mr. Charles Lorraine has a hundred thousand a year and I have thirty. She knows that." He laughed disdainfully and repeated, "You bet she knows that—well, so do I."
He returned to the sitting-room and selected a cane, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the accursed telephone.
"I won't," he said, taking three steps toward it and then turning abruptly away.
At the moment when he stood wavering, it began to ring. He went to it hastily. Miss Charters was calling him...
"How lucky!" he said purposely. "I was just going out. I heard you from the hall."
"You know, I never realized until this morning what I had done," said the voice at the other end. "I was so upset by Mr. Lorraine's condition that I forgot you were there with Madame Fornez."
"Clever girl," he said to himself, smiling. Then aloud: "Oh, I explained matters."
"I was afraid I'd got you into trouble."
"No, indeed. Madame Fornez is a good sort; she understood at once."
"I'm so glad. You've 'phoned her already then?"
"Yes."
He remembered McKenna's suggestion, but he did not wish to make the demand direct.
"Something of a smash in Wall Street to-day," he said carelessly.
"You weren't caught, were you?" she said, with a note of quick sympathy which he admired.
"No; I don't speculate."
"I was afraid you might have."
"By Jove," he said, "I hope you didn't lose anything."
"No, I don't think so," she said doubtfully. "I had some money invested, but I suppose if I hold on that'll come up again."
"Not on margins?"
"No, indeed."
"Who's your broker?"
"Mr. Garraboy."
"Who?"
"Mr. Garraboy."
The news produced on him a strangely ominous effect. He forgot all the parleying and the tactical planning of his campaign, overshadowed by a sudden sense of sympathy.
"I want to talk to you about that," he said anxiously. "Have you much in his hands?"
"Much for me—about twenty thousand."
"Are you going to be in this afternoon? Can I see you?"
"I wish you would."
Something in her voice struck him by its weakness.
"You are not worried, are you?" he said.
"A little."
"Why don't you call him up?"
"I've been trying to."
He was going to offer to telephone for her, when he remembered the antagonism he had felt for the broker, and refrained until a fuller knowledge. He reassured her, making light of her doubts, though feeling an instinctive anxiety for himself. Then he called up McKenna; but the detective was out, and, leaving word that he would try later, he went for his morning ride.
A little before one o'clock he was in the softly lighted studio of Mrs. Kildair, waiting for his hostess with the pleasurable anticipation of a confidential tête-à-tête. On one thing he was thoroughly resolved—to convince her of the seriousness of his purpose in offering his assistance. As he paced slowly and irregularly about the room, his mind, perplexed by the mystery of the disappearance of the ring, instinctively considering the possibilities for concealment, he was surprised to hear, behind the closed doors of the bedroom, the sound of voices in agitated discussion. He stopped, perplexed, for in his walk about the room he had arrived at a point in such close proximity that the tones were easily distinguishable.
"But I have already made up my mind," cried a voice which he recognized at once as Mrs. Bloodgood's.
Mrs. Kildair answered her, but in a lower tone—a note of warning and remonstrance.
"Oh, what do I care for the world!" repeated the voice, on a higher note. "The world is all against me. I have only one life—I want to live some of it."
Beecher, ill at ease, realizing that he had stumbled on a situation which he had no right to surprise, tip-toed away. Hardly had he seated himself when the door opened brusquely, and Mrs. Bloodgood appeared, saying:
"No, no; it is decided. I'm going. My only regret is that we waited so long."
Two spots of red showed on her dark cheeks, while her head was carried defiant, alive with sudden energy. Beecher was struck with the unwonted brilliancy and youth which the emotion that possessed her had communicated to her whole body. Mrs. Kildair followed her, with the frown of one who disapproves, but who knows the futility of any contradiction.
Beecher rose hastily, emerging from the shadow. The two women stopped, surprised at his presence, considering him nervously. The few snatches of conversation he had heard, coupled with what Gunther had revealed to him of the infatuation of Mrs. Bloodgood and Majendie, made him divine the intention of elopement they had been discussing. His sympathy was touched by the distress of the young woman, and, advancing quickly, he said, with a pretense of shame:
"By Jove, I must have been nodding! A thousand pardons."
"How long have you been here?" said Mrs. Kildair.
"About ten minutes," he said, rubbing his eyes and laughing. "Confound that chair—it's infernally comfortable, after being up all night. You made me jump."
Mrs. Bloodgood had regained her calm. She embraced Mrs. Kildair and held out her hand to Beecher.
"Won't you let me see you to your carriage?" he said eagerly, with a smile of such good will that she perceived that whatever he had overheard, she had no need to fear.
"It's not necessary—but thank you," she said, giving him a grateful smile.
He went to the door, opening it with a little exaggerated courtesy, and returned thoughtfully to Mrs. Kildair, who was watching him fixedly.
"You overheard?" she said directly.
"A little."
"And what did you understand from it?"
"Why, frankly, knowing what I do, I should believe that Mrs. Bloodgood had decided to run away," he answered slowly; "which means, of course, one man. I am sorry. I could not help hearing."
Mrs. Kildair had seated herself on the Récamier sofa and was studying him, undecided as to what she should say.
"You have heard too much, Teddy, not to know all," she said, reassured by the directness of his glance. "Besides, in twenty-four hours it will be in every paper in the country. I do not need to ask your promise to keep secret what you have heard. She is leaving her home and going openly away with Mr. Majendie—this very afternoon."
"Majendie running off?" said Beecher, astounded.
"Yes."
"Now—at such a time as this—when he is under fire? I don't believe it!"
"I should not have believed it either," said Mrs. Kildair thoughtfully.
"I know his kind," declared Beecher warmly; "he would never commit such a folly—never!"
"And yet, that is what is going to happen."
"That is terrible. Doesn't she realize that he lays himself open to every charge? He'll be called a defaulter and an absconder—it is worse than death!"
"She realizes nothing," said Mrs. Kildair in a solemn voice, "except that she has hated one man and lived with him ten years, and that now, when everything is against the man she adores, she will sacrifice anything to be at his side."
"But the sacrifice he is making—"
"Her sacrifice is too great—she doesn't realize that," said Mrs. Kildair, rising. "Poor Elise! Her life has been terrible. She is wild with anxiety, with the thought of what Majendie may do. When one has suffered as much as she has, one more sorrow will not stop her."
Beecher was silent, overcome by the vision of an emptiness which he could divine only in a general way, having as yet little knowledge of the silent tragedies that pass at our elbows. When Mrs. Kildair turned again, it was with all her accustomed poise.
"We can do nothing," she said calmly. "Let us forget it. Luncheon is a little late. We shall be three; I asked Mr. Slade to join us. By the way, you were kind enough to offer me your help in the matter of my ring. I shan't need it now, but thanks all the same."
"What do you mean?" he asked, surprised.
"My detectives assure me they are on the right track," she said carelessly. "All I ask of you, as I have of every one, is to keep this unfortunate occurrence to yourself."
Beecher had been on the point of informing her of his retaining McKenna, confident of her approval. Ignorant as he was of Mrs. Kildair's dread that Slade's ownership of the ring might come to light, with all the consequent public misunderstanding, he was disagreeably impressed by her announcement. He did not for one moment believe her statement that the right clue had been found. All he understood was that, for some reason, she desired to keep him out of the case, and this understanding irritated him. And the introduction of Slade at what he had considered his privileged hour annoyed him even more. His curiosity increased twofold as he was forced to retain his information. Then he remembered McKenna's hint, and said carelessly:
"By Jove, that reminds me—I want the address of your detective agency."
She raised her eyes very slowly, and her glance rested on his for a full moment.
"Why do you ask that?" she said.
He repeated the story he had prepared of a friend's demand, mentioning Gunther's name.
Mrs. Kildair rose as though reluctantly, motioning him to wait, and, going to her room, returned after a long moment with an address on a slip of paper.
"There, Teddy," she said, giving it to him. Her manner had completely changed. She was again the Rita Kildair who treated himen camarade. "You are disappointed in not working out an exciting mystery," she said, laughing. "Do you know, Teddy, I am quite surprised at you."
"How so?" he said warily.
"I should have thought by this time you would have engaged half the detectives in New York," she said, turning from him to arrange the cushions at her back. "And here you have done nothing."
Beecher was not deceived by the innocence of the interrogation.
In the last days his wits had been trained by contact with different feminine personalities. He understood that she wished to find out what he had done and assumed at once an attitude of boyish candor.
"It's not my fault, Rita," he said contritely. "You put me off—you remember."
"That's so," she said. She motioned to him with a little gesture of her fingers and indicated a chair at her side. "Come here, you great boy," she said, smiling. "You are furious at me, aren't you?"
"Why?" he said, sitting near her, with a resolve to resist all her curiosity.
"You like to be the confidant of pretty women, Teddy," she said, laughing as he blushed. "To be on the inside—to know what others can't. Well, you shan't be deprived."
He looked at her in surprise.
"What I told you is not true," she said candidly. "I have no clue, as yet, and am quite in the dark. I give you permission to do all you can. You see," she continued, holding out her hand with a charming smile, "I give you my full confidence—confidence for confidence—n'est ce pas?"
Beecher made a rapid mental reservation and repeated her phrase, expecting a direct examination, but her manner became thoughtful again and she said pensively:
"Besides, you have stumbled on a confidence yourself, and if you are to be trusted with that you should be trusted entirely." She looked at him quietly for a moment, and then added: "As a proof of my trust, Teddy, I am going to ask you to be my ally now. Mr. Slade will be here shortly. I do not wish to be alone with him. Do not go until he is gone."
This request, implying as it did his own superior intimacy, delighted Beecher. He felt half of his suspicions vanish as he answered wisely:
"I understand. He is quite daffy about you, isn't he?"
"Quite. But he has to be kept in place."
"Oh, of course."
"And now you are happy again," she said, tapping his arm with a little friendly gesture and smiling inwardly at the satisfaction which began to radiate from his face. "Teddy, you are a nice boy. I will teach you what the world is; you shall be my confidant, and we will laugh together; only, you must not be sentimental, you understand."
"Never," he said with vigorous assertion. Then his conscience began to reprove him, and he blurted out: "I say, Rita, I haven't been quite honest, but you rubbed me the wrong way. I really have been on the job."
"Besides Gunther, whom else have you talked with?" she asked.
"McKenna, the detective; and he's dead keen on the case," he said enthusiastically, not noticing what she had implied.
"Oh, McKenna!" she said, nodding appreciatively. "You have done well."
She sat up, suddenly serious, and, extending her hand, took from him the address she had given him.
"Did McKenna tell you to find out my detective?" she said slowly.
Beecher comprehended all at once how he had played into her game, but, with her glance on his, it was impossible to deny.
"Yes," he said; "he told me that he'd been on a dozen cases where the detectives who had come in to make a search had gone partners with the thief. He wanted to be certain there had been a real search."
This seemed to reassure her, for she nodded with a return of her careless manner, as though comprehending the situation. Then, crumpling in her hands the paper with the address, she allowed her body to regain its former languid position and said:
"I should like to meet McKenna; you must bring him around. How is he starting on the case?"
Before Beecher could answer, the bell rang and Slade's bulky figure crowded the frame of the doorway. He entered, and the portières, at his passing, rolled back like two storm clouds.
Whether or not Mrs. Kildair had calculated the effect of the intimacy of Beecher's position, Slade saw it at once as he noted savagely the involuntary separating movement which each unconsciously performed, and, perceiving it, exaggerated its importance. The look he gave the younger man revealed to the amused woman how much he would have liked in barbaric freedom to have seized him and crushed him in his powerful arms.
"Sorry to be late," he said abruptly, glancing at the clock. "I've taken the liberty to leave your telephone number, Mrs. Kildair, in case something important turns up."
They passed immediately into the dining-room, Mrs. Kildair enjoying this clash of opposite personalities. Slade was not a man of small talk, disdaining the easy and ingratiating phrases with which other men establish a congenial intimacy. For the first quarter of an hour he withdrew from the conversation, and, being hungry, ate with relish. Beecher, abetted by his hostess, taking a malicious pleasure in the superiority he enjoyed, chatted of a hundred and one things which he shared with his listener, incidents of the party at Lindabury's, gossip of the world they knew, Emma Fornez and Holliday, Mrs. Fontaine and Gunther. Then, naturally drawn to the one topic that charged the air with the electricity of its drama, he related the uproar in the city, the long lines of depositors before the banks, the incident of Bo Lynch in the morning, and the effect on the men they knew. In this both he and Mrs. Kildair had an ulterior motive—to make Slade talk: Mrs. Kildair, for reasons of her own, Beecher alive to his dramatic closeness to the one man about whose success or ruin all the storm of rumor and gossip was raging.
"Stocks are still dropping," said Mrs. Kildair, glancing at Slade, who appeared quite unconscious. "An enormous quantity of holdings have been thrown on the market."
"How long do you think it will keep up?"
"That depends; a day, a week—Mr. Slade knows better than any one."
Slade looked up suddenly.
"What do they say about me?" he asked grimly.
"Every one expects the Associated Trust to be the next," said Beecher frankly.
"Probably. I'll tell you one bit of news," he added quietly. "The Clearing-house will refuse to clear for us this afternoon."
"But that means failure," said Mrs. Kildair, with a quick glance at him.
"We shall see."
"But the run has already started."
"Oh, yes; we have paid off five depositors already," he said, with a smile that was almost imperceptible.
"Only five?"
"It takes a long time to verify some accounts. Then the law allows discretion in payment—takes quite a while to count out five thousand in half dollars." All at once he leaned forward heavily and began to speak, contemplatively interested. "The real truth is the thing that is never known. The newspapers never print the news. Sometimes it is given to them in confidence, to make certain that they won't print it. How much do you suppose will ever be known of the real causes of the present crisis? Nothing. They may let the market go to the dogs for three days, six days, a month, ruin thousands of victims, and the public will never know that the whole thing can be stopped now, in twenty-four hours, by ten men. And, when they get ready, ten menwillstop it. Then there'll be columns of adulation—patriotic services, unselfish devotion, and all that; and what will have happened—ten men will be in pocket a few millions as the result of their sacrificing devotion. The public must have a victim in order to be calmed, to be satisfied that everything has been changed. Then a weak man, some unlucky lieutenant, will be served up, and things will go on again, until one group of millions is ready to attack another. How the public will howl! Majendie has taken the gambler's risk; Majendie has failed. There's the crime—failure; and yet, ninety per cent. of the fortunes today have turned on the scale—up or down—win or lose. For every promoter that wins, twenty fail with a little different turn of the luck.
"We're all criminals—only we don't steal directly. We get it done for us. We want franchises for a great railroad system. We shut our eyes—hire an agent—go out and get this, no strings, no directions—show us only your results! Everything is in irresponsibility. A million dollars can commit no crime. After all, it's in the motive—a man who steals because he's hungry is a thief; a corporation that bribes a legislature and steals franchises, to create a great system of transportation, is performing a public service. It's all in what you're after. There're two ways to look at every big man; see the two periods—first, when he is trying to get together money—power; and second, what he creates when he has it. Same in politics—a man's better in office than running for it. Every man of power wants to arrive, anything to arrive, but when he gets there—then's the second period. The way to judge us is whether we want money only, or money to create something big."
"And you?"
"I want sixty millions," said Slade abruptly. "Will I get it?" He shrugged his shoulders, and taking a knife balanced it in seesaw on his finger, letting it finally drop with an exclamation of impatience. "That's the danger—the getting of it. I may have it in two years more and then again—" He opened his hand as though flinging sand in the air, and added: "In a week it may be over.Rouge et noir—one bad turn at the beginning and Napoleon Bonaparte would have been shot as a conspirator. Up to the present, I've been living the first period—afterward I'll justify it; I'll build."
"In what way?" said Mrs. Kildair, who, while following his brutal exposition with the tribute instinctive to force, was nevertheless aware that this unusual revelation of himself had likewise a trifling object—the over-awing of the younger rival.
"Railroads—a great system—an empire in itself," said Slade; and there came in his eyes a flash of the enthusiast which surprised her. But, unwilling to enlarge on this topic, he continued: "What I've said sounds raw, doesn't it? So it is. If I do what I want, I justify myself. There are only two classes of human beings—those like you two here, who get through life with the most pleasure you can, who get through—pass through; and then a few, a handful, who create something—an empire, like Rhodes, invent a locomotive or a system of electric production, add something to human history. What if they steal, or grind out the lives of others? They're the only ones who count. And the public knows it—it forgives everything to greatness; it's only petty crime it hates. Look at the sympathy a murderer gets on trial—look at the respect a great manipulator gets. Why? Because to murder and steal are natural human instincts. A couple of thousand years ago, it was a praiseworthy act for one ancestor, who coveted a hide or a cave that another ancestor had, to go out and kill him. All animals steal by instinct. We are only badly educated animals, and we admire in others what we don't dare do ourselves. Only succeed—succeed! Ah, there is the whole of it!"
At this moment the telephone rang, and Slade rose and went to it with a little more emotion than he usually showed.
"Is this the cause of his outburst?" thought Mrs. Kildair, while she and Beecher instinctively remained silent.
At the end of a short moment, Slade returned. The two observers, who glanced at him quickly, could not find the slightest clue of what had transpired. Only he seemed more composed.
"Speaking of stealing, take the case of the ring," he said, relaxing in a chair. "We know this—incredible as it may seem—that there were at least two thieves in the company; as a matter of fact, there were many more. My own opinion is that the crime was not an ordinary one—that whoever took it the second time took it out of an uncontrollable spirit of bravado, an overpowering impulse to do an almost impossible thing."
"By the way—" Beecher began, and then suddenly looked at Mrs. Kildair interrogatively. Then, receiving permission, he continued: "You know who returned that night?"
Slade nodded.
"Yourself, Mrs. Cheever, Garraboy, and Miss Charters."
"Miss Charters?" said Beecher, turning in amazement to Mrs. Kildair.
She nodded, with a little frown.
"As I told Mrs. Kildair," said Slade, not noticing that Beecher, overwhelmed by this discovery, did not hear him, "I do not believe for a moment that the thief would return. Any one who had the daring to seize the ring the second time had the daring to carry off the ring; in fact, had some such plan in mind. Whoever came back may have come back out of sympathy, or with the idea that the ring was still in the studio—in which case, we have a third manifestation of instinct."