At about half past ten the following morning I turned into Prince's
Gardens, to find a four-wheel cab drawn up outside the door of Mr.
Bundercombe's house. On the roof was a dressing case made of some sort of
compressed cane and covered with linen. Accompanying it was a black tin
box, on which was painted, in white letters: "Hannah Bundercombe,
President W.S.F." Standing by the door was a footman with an article in
his hand that I believe is called a grip, which, in the present instance,
I imagine took the place of a dressing case.
I surveyed these preparations with some interest. The temporary departure
of Mrs. Bundercombe would, I felt, have an enlivening influence upon the
establishment. As I turned in at the gate Mrs. Bundercombe herself
appeared. She was followed by a young woman who looked distinctly bored
and whom I was not at first able to place. Mrs. Bundercombe was in a state
of unusual excitement.
"Say, Mr. Walmsley," she began, and her voice seemed to come from her
forehead--it was so shrill and nasal; "how long will it take me to get to
St. Pancras?"
I looked at the four-wheeler, on the roof of which another servant was now
arranging a typewriter in its tin case.
"I should say about thirty-five minutes--in that!" I replied. "A taxi
would do it in a quarter of an hour."
"None of your taxis for me!" Mrs. Bundercombe declared warmly. "I am not
disposed to trust myself to a piece of machinery that can be made to tell
any sort of lies. I like to pay my fare and no more. If thirty-five
minutes will get me to St. Pancras, then I guess I'll make my train."
"You are leaving us for a few days?" I remarked, suddenly catching a
glimpse of a face like a round moon beaming at me from the window.
"I have received a dispatch," Mrs. Bundercombe announced, drawing a letter
with pride from an article that I believe she called her reticule, "signed
by the secretary of the Women's League of Freedom, asking me to address
their members at a meeting to be held at Leeds to-night."
"Very gratifying!" I murmured.
"How the woman knew that I was in England," Mrs. Bundercombe continued,
carefully replacing the missive, "I cannot imagine; but I suppose these
things get about. In any case I felt it my duty to go. Some of us, Mr.
Walmsley," she added, regarding me with a severe air, "think of little
else save the various pleasures we are able to cram into our lives day by
day. Others are always ready to listen to the call of duty."
"I wish you a pleasant journey, Mrs. Bundercombe," I said, raising my hat.
"I suppose I shall find Eve in?"
"No doubt you will!" she snapped.
I glanced at the depressed young woman.
"I am taking a temporary secretary with me," Mrs. Bundercombe explained.
"Recent reports of my speeches in this country have been so unsatisfactory
that I have lost confidence in the Press. I am taking an experienced
shorthand-writer with me, who will furnish the various journals with a
verbatim report of what I say."
"Much more satisfactory, I am sure," I agreed, edging toward the house. "I
wish you a successful meeting, Mrs. Bundercombe. You mustn't miss your
train!"
"And I trust," Mrs. Bundercombe concluded, as she turned to enter the cab,
"that if you accompany Eve in her shopping expeditions to-day, or during
my absence, you will not encourage her in any fresh extravagances."
I made my way into the house and entered the morning room as the cab drove
off. Mr. Bundercombe and Eve were waltzing. Mr. Bundercombe paused at my
entrance and wiped his forehead. He was very hot.
"A little ebullition of feeling, my dear Paul," he explained, "on seeing
you. You met Mrs. Bundercombe? You have heard the news?"
"I gathered," I remarked, "that Mrs. Bundercombe's sense of duty is taking
her to Leeds."
Mr. Bundercombe breathed a resigned sigh.
"We shall be alone," he announced, with ill-concealed jubilation, "if we
have any luck at all, for three days! One never knows, though! I propose
that we celebrate to-night, unless," he added, with a sudden gloom, "you
two want to go off and dine somewhere alone."
"Not likely!" I assured him quickly.
"Daddy!" Eve exclaimed reproachfully.
Mr. Bundercombe cheered up.
"Then, if you're both agreeable," he proposed, "let us go and pay Luigi a
visit. I have rather a fancy to show him a reestablished Mr. Bundercombe.
You know, I sometimes think," he went on, "that Luigi was beginning to
regard me with suspicion!"
"There isn't any doubt about it," I observed dryly.
"We will dine there to-night," Mr. Bundercombe decided, "that is, if you
two are willing."
I hesitated for a moment. Eve was looking at me for my decision.
"I really see no reason why we shouldn't go there," I said. "I have to
take Eve to some rather dull relatives for luncheon, and I suppose we
shall be shopping afterward. It will brighten up the day."
"We will give Luigi no intimation of our coming," Mr. Bundercombe
suggested with relish. "We shall be in no hurry; so we can order our
dinner when we arrive there. At eight o'clock?"
"At eight o'clock!" I agreed.
"More presents, Paul!" Eve informed me, taking my arm. "Come along and
help me unpack! Isn't it fun?"
Luigi's reception of us that night was most gratifying. He escorted us to
the best table in the place, from which he ruthlessly seized the mystic
label that kept it from the onslaughts of less privileged guests. He
congratulated me upon my parliamentary honors and my engagement in the
same breath.
It was perfectly clear to me that Luigi knew all about us. He addressed
Mr. Bundercombe with an air of deep respect in which was visible, too, an
air of relieved apprehension. He took our order himself, with the aid of
an assistant _maitre d'hotel_, at whom Mr. Bundercombe glanced with some
surprise.
"Where is Louis?" he inquired.
"Gone--left!" Luigi answered.
Mr. Bundercombe was obviously disappointed.
"Say, is that so!" he exclaimed, "Why, I thought he was a fixture! Been
here a long time, had'nt he?"
"Nearly twelve years," Luigi admitted.
"Has he got a restaurant of his own?" Mr. Bundercombe asked.
Luigi shook his head.
"On the contrary, sir," he replied, "I think Louis has gone off his head.
He has taken a very much inferior post at a very inferior place. A
restaurant of a different class altogether--not at all _comme il faut_; a
little place for the multitude--Giatron's, in Soho. The foolishness of it
--for all his old clients must be useless! No one would eat in such a hole.
It is most mysterious!"
We dined well and gayly. Mr. Bundercombe renewed many restaurant
acquaintances and I am quite sure he thoroughly enjoyed himself. Every now
and then, however, a shadow rested on his face. Watching him, I felt quite
certain of the reason. It was only during the last few weeks that I had
begun to realize the immense good nature of the man. He was worrying about
Louis.
We sat there until nearly ten o'clock. When we rose to go Mr. Bundercombe
turned to us. "Say," he asked, a little diffidently, "would you people
object to just dropping in at this Giatron's? Or will you go off somewhere
by yourselves and meet me afterward?"
"We will go wherever you go, dad," Eve declared. "We are not going to
leave you alone when we do have an evening off."
"I should like to find out about Louis myself," I interposed. "I always
thought he was the best _maitre d'hotel_ in London."
We drove to Giatron's and found it in a back street--a shabby,
unpretentious-looking place, with a front that had once been white, but
that was now grimy in the extreme. The windows were hung with little
curtains in the French fashion, whose freshness had also long departed.
The restaurant itself was low and teeming with the odor of past dinners.
At this hour it was almost empty. Several untidy-looking waiters were
rearranging tables. In the middle of the room Louis was standing.
He recognized us with a little start, though he made no movement whatever
in our direction. He was certainly a changed being. He stood and looked at
us as though we were ghosts. Mr. Bundercombe waved his hand in friendly
fashion. It was not until then that Louis, with marked unwillingness, came
forward to greet us.
"Come to see your new quarters, Louis!" Mr. Bundercombe said cheerfully.
"Find us a table and serve us some of your special coffee. We will dine
here another evening."
Louis showed us to a table and handed us over to the care of an
unwholesome-looking German waiter, with only a very brief interchange of
courtesies. And then, with a word of excuse, he darted away. Mr.
Bundercombe looked after him wonderingly.
The coffee was brought by the waiter and served without Louis'
reappearance. The effect of his absence on Mr. Bundercombe, however, was
only to make him more determined than ever to get at the bottom of
whatever mystery there might be.
"Just tell Louis, the _maitre d'hotel_, I wish to speak to him," he
instructed the waiter.
The man departed. Ten minutes passed, but there was no sign of Louis. Mr.
Bundercombe sent another and more imperative message. This time Louis
obeyed it. As he crossed the room a little hesitatingly toward us, it was
almost sad to notice the alteration in his appearance. At Luigi's he had
been so smart, so upright, so well dressed. Here he was a changed being.
His hair needed cutting; his linen was no longer irreproachable; his
clothes were dusty and out of shape. The man seemed to have lost all care
of himself and all pride in his work. When at last he reached the table
Mr. Bundercombe did not beat about the bush.
"Louis," he said, "we have been to Stephano's tonight for the first time
for some weeks. I came along here to see you because of what Luigi told
me. Now you can just take this from me: You've got to tell me the truth.
There's something wrong with you! What is it?"
Louis extended his hands. He was making his one effort.
"There is nothing wrong with me," he declared. "I left Stephano's to--as
they say in this country--better myself. I am in charge here--next to
Monsieur Giatron himself. If Monsieur Giatron should go back to Italy I
should be manager. It seemed like a good post. Perhaps I was foolish to
leave."
"Louis," Mr. Bundercombe protested, "I guess I didn't come round here to
listen to lies. You and I had some little dealings together and I feel
I've the right to insist on the truth. Now, then, don't give us any more
trouble--there's a good fellow! If you'd rather talk to me alone invite me
into the office or behind that desk."
Louis looked round the room, which was almost empty, save for the waiters
preparing the tables for supper.
"Mr. Bundercombe," he said, with a little gesture of resignation, "it is
because of those dealings that I came to trouble."
Mr. Bundercombe eyed him steadily.
"Go on!" he ordered.
Louis moved closer still to the table.
"It was those banknotes, Mr. Bundercombe," he confessed. "You gave me one
packet to be destroyed in the kitchen. I obeyed; but I looked at them
first. Never did I see such wonderful work! Those notes--every one seemed
real! Every one, as I put it into the fire, gave my heart a pang.
"And then, the other time--when you slipped them under the table to me
because Mr. Cullen was about! I took them, too, to the fire. I destroyed
one, two, three, four, five--one dozen--two dozen; and then I came to the
last two or three, and my fingers--they went slow. I could not bear it. I
thought what could be done. My wife she was not well. I could send her to
Italy. I owe a little bill. The tips--they had not been good lately.
Behold! There was one ten-pound note left when all the others were
destroyed. I put him in my waistcoat pocket."
"Go on!" Mr. Bundercombe said encouragingly. "No one is blaming you. Upon
my word, it sounds natural enough."
Louis' voice grew a little bolder.
"For some time I hesitated how to change it. Then one day I came here to
see my friend Giatron--we came together from Italy. I hand him the note. I
ask him please change. He give me the change and I stay to have a drink
with the head waiter, who is a friend of mine. Presently Giatron comes
out. He calls me into the office. Then I begin to tremble. He looks at me
and I tremble more.
"Then he knows that he have got me. Giatron's a very cruel man, Mr.
Bundercombe. He make hard terms. He made me give up my good place at
Luigi's. He made me come here and be his head man. He gives me half as
much as Luigi and there are no tips; besides which the place offends me
every moment of the day. The service, the food, the wines--everything is
cheap and bad. I take no pride in my work.
"I go to Giatron and I pray him to let me go. But not so! I know my work
well. He thinks that I will bring clients. Nowhere else could he get a
head man so good as I at the wages of a common waiter. So I stay here--a
slave!"
The man's story was finished. In a sense it seemed ordinary enough, and
yet both Eve and I felt a curious thrill of sympathy as he finished. There
was something almost dramatic in the man's sad voice, his depressed
bearing, the story of this tragedy that had come so suddenly into his
life. One looked round and realized the truth of all he had said. One
realized something, even, of the bitterness of his daily life.
Mr. Bundercombe sipped his coffee thoughtfully.
"Tell me why you did not come to me or write, Louis?" he asked.
The man stretched out his hands.
"But it was to you, sir, that I had broken my word!" he pointed out. "When
you gave me that first little bundle you looked at me so steadfastly--when
you told me that every scrap was to be destroyed; and I promised--I
promised you faithfully. And you asked me afterward about that last batch.
You said to me: 'Louis, you are sure that they are all quite gone?
Remember that there is trouble in the possession of them!' And I told you
a lie!"
Mr. Bundercombe coughed and poured himself out a little more of the
coffee.
"Louis," he declared, "you are a fool! You are a blithering idiot! You are
a jackass! It never occurred to me before. I am the guilty one for placing
such a temptation in your way. Now where's this Monsieur Giatron of
yours?"
Louis looked at him wonderingly. There was a dawn of hope in his face,
blended with a startled fear.
"He arrives in ten minutes," he announced. "He comes down for the supper.
He is here."
Mr. Bundercombe glanced round. A stout man, with a black mustache, had
entered the room. His eyes fell at once on the little group. Mr.
Bundercombe turned round.
"So that is Monsieur Giatron?"
Louis bowed. Mr. Bundercombe beckoned the proprietor to approach.
"An old patron of Luigi's," Mr. Bundercombe explained, introducing
himself--"come round to see our friend Louis, here."
"Delighted, I am very sure!" Mr. Giatron exclaimed, bowing to all of us.
"It will be a great pleasure to us to do the very best possible for any of
Louis' friends."
Mr. Bundercombe rose to his feet. He pointed to the little glass-framed
office at the other side of the room.
"Mr. Giatron," he said, "I have always been a great patron of Louis. You
and I must have a chat. Will you not invite us into your little office and
show us whether there is not something better to be found than this
coffee? We will take a glass of brandy together and drink success to your
restaurant."
Giatron hastened to lead the way. Eve, in response to a glance from her
father, remained at the table; but I followed Mr. Bundercombe. We went
into the office; Giatron himself placed three glasses upon the desk and
produced from a cupboard a bottle of what appeared to be very superior
brandy. Mr. Bundercombe sipped his with relish. Then he glanced at the
closed door.
"Mr. Giatron," he began, "I have been having a chat with Louis. He has
told me of his troubles--told me the reason for his leaving Luigi and
accepting this post with you."
Giatron paused, with the bottle suspended in mid-air. He slowly set it
down. A frown appeared on his face.
"Mind you," Mr. Bundercombe continued, "I am not sympathizing with Louis.
If what he said is true I am inclined to think you have been very
merciful."
Giatron recovered his confidence.
"He tried--Louis tried--my old friend," he complained, "to take advantage
of me; to enrich himself at my expense by means of a false note."
"That is the only point," Mr. Bundercombe said.
"Was the note bad? Do you know I can scarcely bring myself to believe it!"
The restaurant keeper smiled. Very deliberately he produced a great bunch
of keys from his pocket and opened the safe, which stood in a corner of
the office. Mr. Bundercombe whispered a scarcely audible word in my ear
and became absorbed once more in the brandy. Presently Giatron returned.
He laid on the desk and smoothed out carefully what was to all appearances
a ten-pound note.
"If you will examine that carefully, sir," he begged, "you will see that
it is the truth. That note, he is very well made; but he is not a good
Bank of England note."
Mr. Bundercombe slowly adjusted his glasses, placed the note in front of
him and smoothed it carefully with his large hand. "This is very
interesting," he murmured. "Allow me to make a close examination. I've
seen some high-class printing in my----"
Giatron started as though he were shot and jumped round toward me. With
unpardonable clumsiness I had upset my glass in leaning over to look at
the note.
"I'm awfully sorry!" I exclaimed, glancing ruefully at my trousers. "Would
you give me a napkin quickly?"
Giatron hastened to the door of the office and called to a passing waiter.
The napkin was soon procured and I rubbed myself dry. The restaurant
keeper returned to the desk at Mr. Bundercombe's side.
"All I can say," Mr. Bundercombe declared, as he drew away from the note,
which he had been examining, "is that I do not wonder you were deceived,
Mr. Giatron. This note is the most perfect imitation I have ever seen in
my life. A wicked piece of work, sir!"
"You recognize the fact, however, that the note is beyond question
counterfeit?" Mr. Giatron persisted.
"I fear you are right," Mr. Bundercombe admitted. "There is a slight
imperfection. Yes, yes--a very bad business, Mr. Giatron! We must come
here often and try to see whether we cannot make you a second Luigi."
Giatron returned to the safe with the note, which he carefully locked up.
"Very excellent brandy!" Mr. Bundercombe pronounced warmly. "You will see
a great deal more of us, my friend. I promise you that. We shall haunt
you!"
Mr. Giatron bowed to the ground.
"You are always very welcome--and the young lady!"
We rejoined Eve, paid our bill, and made our way to the door. Louis,
looking very pathetic, was in the background. Mr. Bundercombe beckoned to
him.
"Louis, you can give your shark of an employer a week's notice to-night! I
have the note in my pocket," he whispered. "It's cost me a good one; but I
owed you that. On Monday week, Louis, I shall order my dinner from you at
Luigi's."
The man's face was wonderful! He came a little closer. He was shaking at
the knees, his hands were trembling, and his mouth was twitching. "Mr.
Bundercombe," he pleaded hoarsely, "you would not deceive me!"
Mr. Bundercombe looked at him steadfastly.
"On my honor, Louis, the note is in my pocket, already torn in four pieces
when I put my hand into my waistcoat pocket to pay my bill. In three
minutes it will be in a hundred pieces--gone! You need have no fear. The
note Mr. Giatron is guarding so carefully is a very excellent ten-pound
note of my own."
At a quarter to eight on the following Monday week Mr. Bundercombe and I
entered Luigi's restaurant. Louis himself advanced to greet us--the old
Louis, whose linen was irreproachable, whose bearing and deportment and
gracious smile all denoted the Louis of old. Mr. Bundercombe ordered
dinner and beckoned Louis to come a little nearer.
"Was there any trouble?" he inquired.
"For me, no," Louis replied; "but Monsieur Giatron--never, never have I
seen a man like it! He fetched out the note. 'Now,' he said, 'I take your
notice! You take mine! Ring up the police! Or shall I?'
"Then I tell him. I say: 'I don't believe the note bad at all!' He laughed
at me. He got it from the safe and laid it on the desk. 'Not bad!' he
jeered. 'Not bad!' Then he stood looking at it.
"Mr. Bundercombe, I see his face change. His mouth came wide open; his
eyes looked as though they would drop out. He bend over that note. He
looked at it and looked at it; and then he looked at me.
"'I don't believe that note ever was bad!' I say. 'I told you when you
charged me I didn't believe it. That is why I have made up my mind to give
you notice, to go away from here. And if that note is bad then you can put
me in prison.'
"Monsieur Giatron--he went back to the safe. He rummaged round among a
pile of papers and soon he came out again. He was looking pasty-colored.
'Louis,' he said, 'some one has been very clever! You can go to hell!' And
so, Mr. Bundercombe," Louis wound up, beaming, "here I am!"