Act 2 was a round of calls with letters of introduction to all the

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Lord Loveland Discovers America

_By_ C. N. and A. M. WILLIAMSON

Authors of "Set in Silver," "The Princess Passes," "My Friend the

Chauffeur," "The Car of Destiny," "The Princess Virginia," etc.

WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR

BY GEORGE BREHM

A. L. BURT COMPANY

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION

INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

_Copyright, 1910, by Doubleday, Page & Company_

_Published January, 1910_

_Copyright, 1908, by The McClure Company_

* * * * *

TO MINDA

* * * * *

[Illustration: "_... seeing his namesake's niece struggling with a

wind-blown rug, he had tucked it round her feet_"]

CONTENTS

PAGE

The Discovery of America by Lord Loveland 3

Between Betty and Jim 17

The Inestimable Foxham 21

Lord Loveland Makes a Start 27

The Girl in the Chair 36

Catspawing 43

Guide, Philosopher and Friend 53

Hail to the Land: Goodbye to the Girl 63

Foxham Redivivus 71

The Valley of Disappointment 79

The Discovery of Lord Loveland by America 92

Exit Lord Loveland 109

Shadows 117

A Proposition 127

Introducing Shakespeare 138

Shakespeare's Master 143

The Lights of New York 152

Izzie of the Almond Eyes 163

The Morning Paper 181

A Back Number 189

The Man Who Waits 199

News from the Great World 211

The Marquis of Twelfth Street 219

Through the Telephone 224

Alexander's Busy Day 230

Fire 235

"You're a Man" 248

A Proposal of Marriage 255

"Wanted: Juvenile Leading Man" 266

Show Folks 272

The Dignity and Delight of Being a Juvenile Lead 278

Bill's Star 291

A Mysterious Disappearance 305

Marooned 317

Pirates! 327

The Whole Truth 332

A Protégé of Miss Dearmer 349

Sidney Cremer's Chauffeur 360

In the Car Together 373

The Other Side of the Moon 383

LORD LOVELAND DISCOVERS AMERICA

CHAPTER ONE

The Discovery of America by Lord Loveland

"Even the Last Resort has refused me." Loveland broke the news to his

mother when he had kissed her.

"Miss Mecklenburg?"

"Yes. I begin to realise that I'm a sinking ship. The early rats are

deserting me--or declining to come on board. Clever little animals!"

"You _shan't_ sink," protested Lady Loveland, clasping the pretty hands

whence all save the wedding ring and its guard had gone to pay a visit

of indefinite length to Messrs. Battenborough. "The idiot, to refuse

you--with her _nose_, too."

"She didn't do it with her nose, Mater."

"Val, you know what I mean. And after you'd overlooked her being a

Jewess!"

"Yes, it was kind of me, wasn't it? An Italian Prince has just

overlooked it, too. Her engagement to Doriana was announced the morning

after she'd offered to be a sister to me. It was the size of her purse,

not her nose, which caught his eye. But sooner or later he'll beat her."

"I hope so. She deserves it for taking him instead of you. Oh, Val, what

a world!"

"Don't grouse, Mater. _I_ might have beaten her if I'd got her, and

then there'd have been a scandal. I can't stand women with important

looking teeth, and noses which throw their other features into

perspective. Besides, Lillah Mecklenburg isn't as young as she's

painted."

"So few women are nowadays, dearest," sighed Lady Loveland, who, in

living for her handsome son, did not trouble to live up to the past of

her complexion, and whose way of doing her hair was alone enough to show

that though lenient to Val's weaknesses, she would not condone those of

her sister women. "Oh, Val, it's hard you should have to think of such

creatures. But what are we to do?"

"That's just where I want your advice," said Loveland, who had come a

long way to get it. For the distance from London to the north of

Scotland is formidable when birds are out of season.

Lady Loveland was flattered that Val should ask for her advice which,

when offered gratuitously, he had never been known to take.

"My advice!" she echoed sadly. "That's all I can give you now! Although

I did hope, dear Boy, I must confess. I--I have been trying for

Limericks. It was for your sake, and I hoped to win large sums. I

thought of lines all night long, and I did send in some splendid ones, a

thousand times better than those for which other people (dreadful

people, my dear, with names like Hogson, and Dobbs) have won hundreds of

pounds. I gave the editors permission to _use my name_, too; one would

have thought, a valuable advertisement for their papers. But all I've

won after the greatest efforts has been fifteen and six--an

insult--while these Dobbs and Hogsons--I believe the editors must be

_Socialists_. And--the shillings for the postal orders have counted up

into pounds. I am crushed with remorse."

"Never mind, dear, you meant it for the best," said Val, who cared more

for his mother than for anyone else in the world--except himself. And

that he made this exception was largely Lady Loveland's fault, for she

had brought him up to believe in but one person of paramount importance,

adorning the universe: Perceval George Victor Edward Gordon, thirteenth

Marquis of Loveland. "What would a few pounds matter--or a few hundreds

even, if you'd won them? The ship's too far under water to be raised

with Limericks."

"Dearest--is it as bad as that?"

"It's as bad as anything can be. Look out of your window at the snow

falling. Well, that's nothing to the way it's snowing bills outside my

window. If you and I can't think of something to clear the weather, I

shall have to chuck the army. And even if I do, the bills will still

keep on snowing."

"What horrible creatures tradesmen must be," said Lady Loveland, whose

opinions had come down to her crusted and spider-webbed from the cellars

of the Stone Age. "To think that we'd have had power of life and death

over them if we'd lived a few hundred years ago. I wish those times

could come back."

"The world at large doesn't agree with you."

"It oughtn't to be at large," replied Lady Loveland, without the

smallest idea of a joke. "It's reached a pretty pass when Worms who make

boots and uniforms and----"

"And sell wine----"

"Oh, if you like----"

"And jewellery----"

"Very well. Admit the jewellery----"

"And motors. I've wasted a good deal of substance in riotous motor-cars,

Mater."

"Oh, I suppose men of your position have some right to enjoy their

lives? As I was saying, it's come to a pretty pass when Worms who make

or sell what every gentleman _must_ have--things that ought simply to

come, like the air you breathe--can turn and rend an officer of the

Guards, a peer of the realm, without fear of being crushed."

"If I'd chosen to be a kind of secret advertising agent for

tradespeople, I might have been dressed and wined for nothing,

motor-carred too, perhaps," said Loveland. "I know some fellows who do

go in for that sort of thing. But I'm hanged if I could. I'd rather blow

out my brains decently."

"Oh, my darling, don't speak so wildly," implored his mother. "There

must be resources we can call upon--if we could only think of them."

"I have called on several people's resources, without any good coming of

it." Loveland grinned faintly, though he was in the depths of

depression, and had suffered from insomnia for at least a week, between

eight and ten in the morning, when so popular a young man should (in his

own opinion) have been dreaming of last night's pleasures, instead of

worrying how to pay for them.

"There is surely a last resort," went on Lady Loveland.

"Miss Mecklenburg was mine--and she's failed me--thank Heaven!"

"There must be something else."

"Something still worse?"

"Don't be flippant, dearest. I can't concentrate my thoughts when you

are. Ah, if we could have let Loveland Castle as well as we did twelve

years ago!"

"It's crumbled a lot since. And we're too poor to repair ourselves, let

alone our castles."

"You at least don't need repairing," said his mother, gazing at her son

with admiration. "You're the handsomest young man in the Kingdom."

Loveland laughed, though he believed her. As a child he had been kissed

by all his mother's prettiest friends, because he was so absurdly

beautiful, and so precocious. If he had been a plain or stupid boy he

might have grown up to be an estimable young man, as Marquises go. "Why

don't you say, 'in the world'?" he asked.

"I'm not a woman to _exaggerate_, dearest. All the Lovelands have been

good-looking. One has only to go into the picture gallery at the Castle

to see that----"

"Yes. As we can't sell their portraits."

"If we could, your father would have done it when he sold the Town

house. But you will be so confusing, Val. My argument is, that as you're

the best looking and the cleverest----"

"I don't know a blessed thing, my dear ladyship. Never had any

education. You ought to have sent me to Eton, instead of coddling me up

with tutors and----"

"You didn't think so then. I remember well when it was proposed, you

flung yourself on the floor and howled."

"So of course that settled it."

"Why, yes. You generally settled things like that. You had such a

determined way, dear. But you were _born_ knowing more than many

studious, uninteresting young men have forgotten. Then, your South

African career! It was like a romance. You, who had been crammed, oh,

ever so little, for Sandhurst, and then left there to go to the war when

you were a mere child, hardly nineteen--so brave! And then, the Thing

you did on the battlefield! Of course you ought to have had the Victoria

Cross, but as it was, the newspapers rang with your praises, and I was

besieged for your photographs to publish. That deed alone would have

made you a personage of consideration, even without your rank."

"I've told you lots of times, Mater, the whole thing was a sort of

accident. I couldn't bear the chap. If I'd stopped to think, I don't

believe I'd have run back a step to drag him out from under fire. But I

was there, hauling him away, before I knew what I was doing."

"Yes, you have told me--and other people. But no one believes you. How

could they? They see it's your modesty." (Lord Loveland's mother was

perhaps the one person on earth who would have attributed to him this

quality.) "And as for disliking the young man whose life you saved at

the risk of your own, of course that proves you all the more noble.

Everybody must see that."

"Oh, well, it's a jolly good thing for me if they do," said Val,

mechanically passing his hand over the scar on his forehead, which

became him like a hall mark or a halo. It, together with the South

African brown that never quite faded, had made him still more ornamental

in the eyes of the pretty young married women with whom he was popular.

Also in the eyes of girls, who liked to dance and flirt with Lord

Loveland, even though they preferred to marry Dukes and Princes. "But

what are you working up to so elaborately, Mater?"

"To your Prospects. There's no young man so liked and wanted

everywhere."

"Oh, I'm fair at polo: I can ride straight, and shoot a bit," said

Loveland with a pretence at self-depreciation he was far from feeling.

"I get asked to all the amusing house parties. But you know as well as I

do, that stopping at such places is a lot more expensive than swaggering

about at the most expensive hotels in Europe."

"I know, dearest," sighed the devoted lady who by industrious spoiling

had made him what he was. "I was only going on to say that you _are_ a

personage of importance; never think you're not. As for the two or three

wretched girls who have hurled themselves at the heads of princes, when

they might have had you--why, our English heiresses are growing

disgustingly conceited and ambitious, quite unmaidenly, and let _them_

regret their mistakes--you needn't. Val, you want my advice. Well, I've

had an inspiration, I do believe, a real inspiration. _Why don't you go

to America?_"

"To try ranching?"

"Good Heavens, no, my son! To try marrying. In America you'll succeed

brilliantly. Why not run over and see what there is?"

She spoke as if to see meant to have, notwithstanding certain failures

nearer home. But Loveland's sense of humour, which had a real existence,

did not always bestir itself when his own affairs were in question. When

things come too close to the eye, one is apt to lose the point of view.

And Loveland did not laugh at his mother's suggestion.

"Oh, girls!" he said, distastefully. "Why go there for them? Plenty come

over here to collect us."

"Ye--es. But think of the competition. There are still unmarried Dukes.

It's so annoying, there always seem to be Dukes, and foreign

semi-Royalties who might better stop in their own countries than prowl

about ours, seeking what they may devour."

"That's what you propose my doing in the States."

"Oh, that's different. The Americans would be the foreigners, not you."

"They don't look on themselves in that light."

"Let them look at you--the girls I mean--in _any_ light, there, on their

native heath, where practically no competition can exist. For who ever

heard of an American heiress marrying an American man?"

"I suppose it must happen sometimes," said Val.

"It's never in the newspapers. No, dearest, I believe that is why,

according to statistics, there are so many more men than women in the

States. The girls marry our men. And really some of them are quite

presentable."

If any one of three or four beautiful and charming Duchesses had heard

the tone in which old Lady Loveland said this, she would have laughed or

sneered, according to her mood.

"Do you know many Americans, Val?" his mother went on, thoughtfully.

"Hardly any except Jim Harborough, and--er--his cousin who has married

Stanforth."

(This was another instance of a misguided young woman who preferred a

Duke to the Marquis. Therefore she remained nameless between mother and

son.)

"Mr. Harborough would, I suppose, give you letters of introduction to

the Right People over there?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose he would. He doesn't approve of me; but he couldn't

refuse letters to his wife's cousin."

"Doesn't approve of you, indeed! What impertinence! But perhaps he's

jealous, and thinks you were once in love with Betty. I feared it myself

before she paid that visit to the States which turned out such a

success. Just as I'm sure yours would, if you went."

"I never was in love with Betty. First cousins are a bit too near to be

interesting. One's generally known them since the stage when they were

silly over dolls. Besides, Betty looks too much like me. I don't care

for yellow-haired, blue-eyed girls."

"It's just as well you didn't care for Betty. Such a marriage would have

been disastrous. But she's a sweet girl, and must have made a good many

friends in the States. There was the young woman Mohunsleigh married,

for instance. I believe he met her through Betty. Oh, Val, you really

_ought_ to go over. I'm sure you'd be the greatest success."

"Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea," Loveland patronized his mother's

inspiration. "Of course Harborough and Betty would both give me letters.

If I had to marry--horrid bore, at my age!--and could afford to choose,

I'd take an English girl of the right sort. But Americans are a lot

better than English ones of the wrong sort; middle class mushrooms

who've shot up in a night--on the strength of Pale Pills for Pink

People, or Corsets, or Disinfectants. If a man's a beggar he must be

content with the wine and wives of the country where he begs. American

girls, no matter what they've sprung from, seem adaptable; and anyhow,

people are tolerant of any queer ways they may have."

"That's true," agreed Lady Loveland, who had never in her life spoken to

an American girl, but was now eager to become Dowager for the sake of a

desirable one. "If you went to New York--or somewhere--you'd see enough

girls to feel you were picking out the best. Oh, you would virtually

have a clear coast! And judging from novels I've read, everybody in

American society would be fighting for the honour of entertaining you,

racking their brains to get up the most wonderful spectacles for your

amusement."

"They wouldn't amuse me," said Loveland, in the _blasé_ way he had

cultivated since he came back a wounded hero of nineteen, in the last

year of the South African war. "I should be there purely on business."

But though he spoke like a tired man of forty rather than a happy and

healthy one of twenty-six or seven, he was beginning to lean towards his

mother's advice. He could easily get long leave. He had a couple of

months due to him. During a tour of inspection in the States he would be

free from all the bills that flesh is heir to, as he would have no

settled address, until the "business" that took him over was settled.

After that, when his engagement was published in the papers, tradesmen

would hold their hands.

"It oughtn't to take you many weeks," Lady Loveland was reflecting

aloud, "if you went at the right season, and to the right place."

"The Season is different for different places over there, Betty says,"

remarked Loveland, who now, having discovered America as a spot worthy

of note on the world's map, was ready to explain it to his mother.

"How odd!" exclaimed Lady Loveland, to whom all things were odd, and

scarcely proper, if they were not as in Great Britain. "But oh, of

course, you only mean that they go to one place to shoot at a certain

time, to another to hunt at a different time, as We do----"

"Not exactly that, I think," said Val, getting out of his element. "I

believe it's something to do with the thermometer. Betty went in summer,

and was obliged to stop at Newport. One reads things about Newport."

"Yes. Though I forget what," replied his mother, dismissing Newport.

"But in the States there must be heiresses abounding in great quantities

everywhere, as all American girls appear to be rich in more or less

degrees. They flock to Europe from towns with the most extraordinary

names. I don't know why it's happened to stick in my memory, but I know

there was one--Oshkosh, or something truly awful of that sort. A young

person from there, with millions, actually millions, married the

Marquise de Merpoule's third son, if you remember, a most

unprepossessing youth, whose face looked like an _accident_."

"I hardly think I should have to go as far afield as Oshkosh, wherever

it may be," said Loveland, glancing at his double in the mirror--where

was reflected also the worn furnishing of his mother's drawing-room.

With a pang he saw the sorry background and forgot himself for a moment

in thinking of Loveland Castle--a very noble, dull palace, all marble,

gold plate, portraits and precedence when in its prime; echoing sadness

now, until such time as the heir might redeem it with some fair lady's

dollars. The murmur of those echoes depressed him, as did the white

whirl of snow veiling the windows of the shooting lodge whither Lady

Loveland had retired to live upon nothing, that he might have something.

But his mother was happy in prophetic thoughts of a future, when Val

should have saved his own and the family's fortunes. "Of course you

won't need to go to Oshkosh," she said. "Very likely they'd have

small-pox or Red Indians there. I only meant that if there could be

millions in a town with such a name, what must there be in others more

important and easier to get at?"

"I'll stick to the important ones that are easy to get at."

"That means you are making up your mind to go?"

"It's practically made up--thanks to you, Mater. I believe in quick

decisions."

"How like your father! After selling the house in Grosvenor Square, he

made up his mind in ten minutes to go to Monte Carlo, and----"

"Don't compare that decision with this, for Heaven's sake. It wouldn't

be lucky."

"No, dearest," said Lady Loveland meekly, her delicate nose reddening

with reminiscences. "Well then, it's quite settled. I feel it's for the

best. And I can trust you to bring me a daughter-in-law to be--well, not

to be _ashamed_ of."

"I'll promise you anyhow she shan't disgrace you by her manners, or me

by her looks, after I've gone so far to get her."

"Why, you might find something that would do, on the ship, which would

save so much time and trouble!" exclaimed Lady Loveland, brightening.

"You could marry immediately on landing. And yet--perhaps it would be

foolish to do anything irrevocable until you'd looked to see what there

was in New York. You mustn't be reckless when so much depends upon

prudence. Still it would be wise to sail on a good ship, where you might

meet millionairesses. That would be only an ordinary precaution."

"It wouldn't be an ordinary price," said Loveland.

"We must manage it somehow--and a good cabin. You owe that to your

position."

"I owe so much already, I may as well owe a little more."

"Val, dear, I asked you not to joke. It confuses me. And I need to

concentrate all my ideas upon one point. Let me see. Yes! _The pink

pearls!_"

"The pink what?" asked Loveland, startled.

"I still have them. The double rope, you know."

"I know. Another beastly heirloom."

"Still, one can pawn heirlooms. Your bride can redeem it--and the other

things. I've always saved the pink pearls for a great emergency. This

_is_ a great emergency. Battenborough ought to give seven or eight

hundred. And though seven or eight hundred, as you say, wouldn't go far

among the debts, they might send you to America and back."

"I'll have to throw a few sops to Cerberus, if I want new clothes to

impress the American girls," laughed Val. "That brute Deedes won't give

me so much as a waistcoat unless he gets something on account."

"Pay him something," said Lady Loveland. "Pay what you must. Keep what

you can--for yourself. As for me, I want nothing."

"Except a rich daughter-in-law," finished her son, his spirits rising

though the snow still fell. After all, it was only October, and there

was sunshine elsewhere. In America perhaps it was now shining on his

bride to be! "I'll write to Betty about the letters," he said, "after

you've given me some tea."

CHAPTER TWO

Between Betty and Jim

One of Loveland's most easily detected virtues was his careless habit of

telling the truth. He had never lied, or even fibbed whitely, as a small

boy, an idiosyncrasy which had often seriously inconvenienced his mother

and other relations whose pet failings or economies he had ruthlessly

exposed. But Lady Betty Bulkeley had always maintained that this bold

truthfulness of her cousin's was the result of inconsiderateness rather

than nobility of soul.

She said (and she ought to have known, as she had been acquainted with

him since she was two, and he eight, years old) that he did not bother

to think of polite fibs, simply because the feelings of others were not

for him of enough importance to seem worth saving at the cost of mental

effort. Besides, according to Betty, Val took an impish delight in

shocking people. As for blurting out the truth about his own affairs,

the habit sprang from that impishness, in idle moods, and a sublime

indifference to public opinion in serious states of mind. Now, in his

letter to Betty asking for introductions, he made no attempt to cover

his real intentions with the roses of pretty fiction.

He let it appear plainly that he thought his cousin, having visited

America and snatched a millionaire from the matrimonial grab-bag, ought

gladly to help him succeed in the same game.

"The wretch!" said Betty, in the midst of reading Loveland's brutally

frank letter to Jim, her American trophy, "I believe he has the

impudence to think I married you for money! I'd like to shake him, and

box his silly, conceited ears."

"They may be silly and conceited, but they're exactly the shape of

yours, darling, so I couldn't find it in my heart to box them, no matter

how much good it might do their owner," said Jim Harborough, who had

been Betty's husband for nearly a year, and was joyously watching her

triumphs as a young married woman.

Naturally Betty kissed him for this speech, as they were at breakfast

alone together, the servants banished.

"Well, anyway, we won't give him the letters," she said when she had

gone back to her own place--not far away.

"Won't we?" asked Jim, with a thoughtful air.

"No, certainly not," returned Betty. "I like your country-women, and I

won't deliberately let Loveland loose to prey upon them."

"I 'guess' they can take care of themselves," said Jim, putting on his

Yankiest accent.

"I don't know. Some of them might fall in love with him," suggested

Betty doubtfully. "He's awfully good-looking, with a kind of winning,

boyish way, and--a voice that's far too nice to express him, really. One

often feels too lenient with Val, as if he were one of one's own pet

weaknesses come alive and walking about."

"As for his looks, he's more like you than your own brother is," said

Jim, "eyes, dimples, curly hair and all; so you wouldn't want me to

hate him, would you? And as for his voice, it's occurred to me that

maybe it expresses something in his _real_ self--the hidden self that he

and nobody else knows anything about--the self he's never had a chance

to develop or find out, because his mother and other people have spoiled

him from his babyhood."

"That's very subtle of you, Jim, as well as very kind--and like you,"

said Betty. "I wish I could think it's true, as he's my cousin. But

thank goodness, I for one never spoiled him. I scratched his face once

when I was a small girl, and I'm glad. I wish it had left a mark."

"It would have been even a more honourable scar than the one South

Africa gave him. But I admit, he is rather an unlicked cub,--at present.

I pity the girl who falls in love with him--as he now is."

"Always was and probably ever will be, Loveland without end," finished

Betty, flippantly. "The _cheek_ of him, expecting me to ask you for

letters, so that he can go over to your country and do his best to make

some nice American girl miserable for life--and spend all her money. I

shall punish him--since I can't do anything worse--by telling him

exactly what I think of him."

"There are other ways of punishing him--more fitting to the crime,

perhaps," remarked Jim, thoughtfully.

"What ways?"

"Giving him the letters."

"Jim!"

"And then--and then--well, a lot depends upon whether he's a _born_

egoist, or merely a made one. I haven't quite worked out the idea yet.

It's simmering--it'll soon begin to boil."

Whether Jim Harborough's idea had already boiled or not, at all events

that same afternoon a fat envelope went out by post, registered, and

addressed to The Marquis of Loveland, Cragside Lodge, Dorloch, N. B. In

it there were at least ten letters of introduction, all to names the

bare mention of which had power to raise the circulation of Society

papers in America, or create a flutter in Wall Street. Each envelope

enclosed in the big one was left open, so that Loveland might acquaint

himself with the terms in which his cousins described him to their

millionaire friends.

Perhaps he was slightly aggrieved that they did not paint him in more

glowing terms, or dwell upon the honour conferred on the recipients of

the letters. But there was no real fault to find, and--as Jim would

perhaps have said--it was "up" to Loveland to make his own impression.

On the whole, Val was satisfied with what he had got, and

condescendingly wrote two lines of thanks to Betty.

CHAPTER THREE

The Inestimable Foxham

Times were bad, said Battenborough, the polite and popular pawnbroker;

therefore Lady Loveland got only six hundred pounds on the pink pearls.

Two hundred were sprinkled about among Val's creditors, like pepper out

of a pot, where such seasoning was necessary. A hundred more were spent

outright, with heartburnings, upon obstinate tailors, hatters and

hosiers, who would not tail, hat nor hose, except upon instalments of

ready money. Fifty pounds were apologetically retained by Lady Loveland,

who grudged every penny to herself and especially to her servants.

Another fifty a little more than paid for a cabin almost worthy of his

lordship on the big ship _Baltic_. Fifty and some vague dust of gold and

silver went into Val's pocket for current expenses; and the remaining

hundred and fifty condensed into the form of a letter of credit.

Of course there ought to have been more, much more. But there would have

been less had not Loveland's man, Foxham, given notice at the last

moment. This inestimable person assured his master that nothing but the

most urgent necessity could have induced him to take such a course. He

suffered poignantly, Foxham intimated with proper respect, in the idea

that another must perform for his lordship those services which had been

his pleasure and duty; but Foxham's grandfather had died (even valets

have grandfathers) leaving a tidy sum; and as there were peculiarities

in the will, Foxham would lose his chance of inheriting if he left

England.

Loveland privately thought it almost equivalent to _lèse majesté_ that

his man should desert him for such a selfish trifle as private interest.

But he would have scorned to retain a servant who wished to leave him;

besides, there were advantages in losing even such a treasure as Foxham

before the two passages were taken.

Val had learned from a friend that, if you sent your valet second class,

you were not able to command his services on shipboard. This seemed a

disgusting waste of money, and ought to be protested against in _The

Times_, or somewhere. On the other hand, he could not afford a

first-class fare for Foxham.

"I dare say I can get some fellow over there, if everything goes well,"

said he. "Meanwhile I shall save money on old Fox. He hasn't opened his

mouth about wages. Jolly impudent if he had, because of course he knows

I'll pay up when its convenient. And anyhow, a hundred and fifty in the

letter of credit is the least I can rub along with, on the other side. I

must 'look sharp' as Harborough says, and pick up the right girl, so as

to get everything in shape as soon as possible, or I may find myself in

a mess."

"Don't imagine anything so horrid, darling," said Lady Loveland, anxious

to prop up her son's spirits as well as his credit. "Think only of the

best. But I'm sorry about Foxham. He turns you out so perfectly."

"Oh, I learned to shift for myself like a regular navvy in South

Africa," Loveland consoled her. "A chap has to keep clean and have the

right folds in his trousers, whatever happens; and I worried along

somehow without disgracing the family. I can do the same now, though

it'll be a bore, especially till I get used to it again."

Thus the pink pearl money was apportioned, a little here and a little

there, and made to go as far as possible.

Foxham stopped with his lordship till after the return to London, doing

the final packing, and all his ordinary work as usual, without a greedy

word as to arrears of wages. Perhaps this was due to an angelic

disposition; or perhaps he guessed the motive of his master's errand,

and was willing to speculate on the result. But Loveland took the man's

devotion for granted, without going too deeply into causes.

On getting back to his quarters near Wellington Barracks, Val was

somewhat surprised to receive a visit from Harborough, who had never

come to call on him before.

"So you've got your leave, I hear, and are sailing for my blessed

country in a few days," Jim remarked.

Loveland replied that this was the case, and happened to think of

thanking Jim for his letters of introduction.

Harborough answered casually that that was all right; and went on to say

that he had read in a paper, or heard from a man, that Loveland had

taken his passage on the _Baltic_.

"Yes," said Val. "I wanted to go over on a good ship."

"Well, the _Baltic's_ a ripping one--couldn't be a better," Jim

admitted. "But I should have thought you'd have the curiosity to try the

newest thing."

"The _Mauretania_?" said Loveland. "Don't suppose I could have got a

passage on her for the next three or four trips across."

"Perhaps _you_ couldn't," said Jim. "But I can get you one."

"Why, she sails tomorrow, doesn't she?" asked Val.

"Yes," said Jim, "but you can go on her if you like, with a good cabin

too, all to yourself."

"My passage is paid for on the _Baltic_, and my name's on her passenger

list," said Loveland.

"Well, it's too late to have your name printed on the _Mauretania's_

passenger list, or perhaps to get back your money for the _Baltic_,"

said Jim, "but that needn't stand in your way. You won't have to pay for

your cabin on the _Mauretania_. It's going begging. A friend of mine who

can't sail has given his ticket to me, to do with as I like; but as he's

a man whose movements make things in Wall Street jump up and down like a

see-saw, he doesn't want it known that he's got to stay behind because

he's seedy. That's all. If you want to go in his place, go, and say

nothing till you get on the other side. By that time he'll be on his

way, on a following ship. At least, that's what he hopes."

"Do you mean, that if I want to cross in the _Mauretania_, I must pass

under your friend's name?" asked Loveland, beginning to look haughty;

for though he was tempted by the offer, he did not think that another

man's name was worthy of his wearing even for five days. He would as

willingly have appeared in Bond Street in a second-hand, ready-made

coat.

"Oh no, nothing of the sort," answered Jim Harborough, smiling his

pleasant smile. "What I meant was, don't go advertising the fact that

you've got Henry VanderPot's cabin because he's not well enough to sail.

All you'll have to do is to swagger about as if you'd meant to be a

passenger on the _Mauretania_ from the beginning of things."

Loveland was prepared to do any amount of swaggering, though he did not

say so to Jim, or indeed acknowledge it to himself. He replied that, if

this were the only condition, he would accept the ticket, and instruct

Foxham (as he would not have time himself) to try and sell the passage

which he had paid for on the _Baltic_.

"Fox'll have several days to do it in, and I'll tell him if he brings it

off, there's ten per cent for himself," said Val. "Meanwhile I'll be

enjoying myself on the _Mauretania_."

"Meanwhile you'll be enjoying yourself on the _Mauretania_," echoed Jim.

"I suppose there are sure to be a lot of millionaires on board?"

suggested Val.

"Sure to be, even at this time of year."

"With pretty daughters?" Loveland's tone and air in making this addition

were so conceited that Jim would have wanted to kick him if he had not

looked so ridiculously like Jim's own adored and beautiful Betty.

Besides, the scar showed white on the brown. This had been a brave boy.

Jim was inclined to believe that he was worth reforming.

"With pretty daughters," Harborough repeated, his tone quiet though his

eyes showed a danger signal. "However, be prudent. Don't make up your

mind too soon. The best fish aren't always caught in the deep sea. One

waits to have a look round the markets."

Loveland grinned. "Thank you for the tip. I won't forget."

"Not likely that you'll hold yourself too cheap, eh?" Jim could not

resist that one dig, in spite of the scar, and Betty's laugh in the blue

eyes between their black fringes.

But Val did not see the joke, as he assuredly would if it had been aimed

at anybody else. Jim having married into the family, ought to uphold the

family pride, and Loveland doubted not that he did.

"Rather not," he returned patronizingly. "You needn't be afraid, my dear

chap. Very kind of you to think of me for this cabin. And though it's a

bit short notice, that can't be helped. Foxham will get me off somehow."

"You'll hardly have time to let people know your change of plan," said

Jim. "But of course if you don't mind a little expense you can Marconi

to Lady Loveland from the ship."

"Of course," assented Lady Loveland's son, who would not have thought of

the attention had it not been suggested to him. "But it will hardly be

necessary."

"Perhaps not," said Jim.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lord Loveland Makes a Start

Loveland's only experience of sea life, except for a little yachting,

had been in going out to, and returning from, South Africa; but he had

learned to take care of himself on shipboard, and though his name was

not on the passenger list of the _Mauretania_, his deck chair was soon

placed by an attentive steward in a sheltered corner nearly amidship.

This advantage was secured by a tempting tip, a tip out of all

proportion to the giver's resources: but then, there were many people on

the _Mauretania_ who came on board more like clients returning to a

hotel where they had been known by the management for years, than

passengers travelling on a new ship; and Loveland did not intend to be

defeated in an unequal competition. He wanted the best of everything on

this trip, and felt that money would be well spent in obtaining it. He

always did feel this when he had any money--or credit--to spend.

Possibly he might have economized coin by parading his title, but though

spoiled and conceited he was also a gentleman, and while he might trade

upon his position for the matrimonial market, would not flaunt it

gratuitously. He considered he would be giving value for value: taking a

girl's dollars and making her a Marchioness: but he thought too much of

himself to "put on side."

When the deck-steward politely asked if he wished to use a visiting card

as a chair-marker, Val told him to write the name of Loveland on a slip

of paper or a luggage label; anything would do. So the steward did as he

was bidden, ignorant that he served a "lord."

Loveland did not feel that he needed cheap advertisement. It would soon

leak out that he was a personage, and, sure enough, it did. When he had

discreetly explained to the purser his possession of Mr. VanderPot's

cabin, the news of the change went round from steward to steward, and

was promptly "spotted" as a tit-bit by the greatest gossip on the ship,

who happened to inhabit the stateroom opposite.

Major Cadwallader Hunter (a retired major, of course; he would not have

had time to develop his qualities while on the active list) was told

that he had Loveland for a neighbour, and looked at the cabin door with

kindling interest. Being himself, he had studied the passenger list, as

a collector of antiques is wont to study the announcements of sales. He

could have rattled off by heart all the names worth rattling, and he was

certain that Lord Loveland's had not been among them.

Major Cadwallader Hunter was an American of a type laughed at by the

best of his own countrymen. He knew his Burke and Debrett better than

many an Englishman even of that middle class which can afford to be

ignorant of no detail concerning the aristocracy. He was aware that

there existed a Marquis of Loveland who was young and unmarried; he knew

all about his family connections, and he wondered how such an important

gentleman had strayed on board the _Mauretania_ unheralded. "I suppose

this fellow must be _the_ Loveland, of course," he said to himself.

"But why not be published frankly on the passenger list? Can there be a

secret?"

At this moment Loveland walked out from his stateroom, having come below

for pipe and tobacco-pouch. He caught Major Cadwallader Hunter staring

at his door, and gave him a brief yet supercilious glance. To some men

it would have seemed an offensive glance, but Major Cadwallader Hunter

was not to be easily offended by a man he wished to know. He disappeared

into his own cabin, by way of proving that he was a neighbour, not a

Paul Pry; but a few minutes later he was on deck, ambling amiably from

one group of acquaintances to another, and dexterously avoiding

detrimentals.

Cadwallader Hunter aspired to be a leader of society. He was one of

those strange beings--heraldic, rampant, disregardant--who are born

snobs, in spite of good birth and good breeding. Therefore he was not a

genuine article (since no snob can be genuine) but had moulded himself

into a thing of airs and affectations. Nevertheless he managed to

impress most second-rate people, and some who were first-rate. Those who

did not live in New York believed him to be of consequence in that city,

and the Paris _Herald_ always reported his comings and goings. He was a

thin, well-groomed man, of middle age, with a heart-hiding smile, a high

nose and a high voice; gold-rimmed eyeglasses giving glitter to pale,

cold eyes; a waxed moustache; a carefully cultivated "English accent,"

and a marvellous fund of scandalous anecdotes concerning everyone about

whom it was worth while to be scandalous. He had at least a bowing

acquaintance with all the richest Americans on board, and he mixed with

his greetings here and there a careless "Do you know we have Lord

Loveland on the ship--the Marquis of Loveland? Such a good-looking young

man. One of the oldest and most distinguished peerages in England;

family of soldiers since the dark ages, though the less said about some

of them since the days of the Georges the better. This boy not so bad as

some of the old boys before him. Not to be despised by _débutantes_, eh?

Do I know him?----"

(As a matter of fact, Cadwallader Hunter could count his acquaintances

in the British peerage on the fingers of one hand, and have a thumb to

spare; for it is the genuine, unaffected, typical Americans, or else the

heavily gilded and diamond-incrusted ones whom English people like to

know. But this question was bound to come. He had led up to it, and was

prepared.)

"Do I know him? Why, in a way we're connections by marriage. You must

remember pretty Lady Betty Bulkeley who took us all by storm a year or

two ago--sister of the Duke of Stanforth? Jimmy Harborough, whom she

married, is I believe a forty-second cousin of mine: and Lady Betty and

Lord Loveland are related. So you see----"

And for fear that they should see--something that he did not wish them

to see--he pottered away to "get at" Loveland before anyone could

possibly have the chance to find out that they two were strangers.

Meanwhile Loveland had not been wasting time.

He thought that Jim Harborough's hint about "deep sea fish" was a wise

one, wiser than he would have expected from Harborough. Still, there was

no harm in keeping his eyes open; and having kept them open from the

first moment after coming on board, he had discovered several very

pretty girls. With a certain amount of eagerness, rather as one looks at

one's cards when beginning a new rubber of bridge, he glanced over the

passenger-list, hoping that some of the names might be identical with

those on his letters of introduction. But there were no such

coincidences, and he, unluckily, was too ignorant of American society to

know which of his fellow passengers were most important. However, he

made up his mind that one of the first things to do, was to find out.

Sure of his chair, on which the name of "Loveland" already appeared in

the steward's handwriting, he paced up and down and all round the deck,

pipe in mouth and hands in pockets. It was a November day, of Indian

summer warmth. The huge ship felt no impulse from the waves which fawned

upon her sides, and Loveland, who had been bored by the necessity to

leave his native land, began suddenly to feel happy, quite boyishly

happy.

A great many other people were parading up and down also; pretty girls,

walking alone, or with parents, or accompanied by youths with whom they

intended to flirt during the voyage. Shrewd-faced men, with eyes

good-natured yet keen, and an air of solid importance which might mean

millions; handsome, prosperous-looking women whom Loveland guessed to be

Newport and New York hostesses pleased to welcome prowling Marquesses;

and besides these, numbers of vague persons whom to meet once was to

forget twice.

After half an hour's walk, Val had selected two girls from the "rosebud

garden" which, he felt, bloomed for his benefit in this mammoth,

floating flower-bed. There were so many attractive ones, that it was

difficult to choose, yet Val did not doubt that he had weeded out the

best; and he hoped that, of the pair, one might be the principal

unmarried millionairess of the _Mauretania_.

There could hardly have been a greater contrast between girls than

between these two whom Lord Loveland had mentally set apart for himself,

as a man picks out the most becoming neckties from a box on a shop

counter.

One, who walked the deck with an elderly man whose likeness of feature

proclaimed him her father, was very tall, almost as tall as Loveland,

who could be a six-footer when he took the trouble not to slouch. She

was slender in all the right places, and rounded in all the right

places, her waist being so slim that she seemed held together only by a

spine and a lady-like ligament or two; which means faultlessness of

figure according to fashion-plate standards. She had burnished auburn

hair, and magnificent yellow-grey eyes rimmed with dark lashes. Her nose

was aquiline, her mouth red and drooping at the corners, a combination

which made her profile closely resemble a famous photograph of the

Empress Eugenie in the prime of loveliness.

A number of the nicest looking people who came and went on deck seemed

glad to claim acquaintance with this girl and her handsome father; but

though they were warmly greeted again and again, the girl maintained a

cool dignity not unworthy of Betty Bulkeley's mother, the Duchess of

Stanforth.

Val said to himself that the Mater would be pleased with a

daughter-in-law of this type, and that such a girl would never make her

husband ashamed. He could not imagine falling in love with her hard

brilliance; but then he wasn't going to America to fall in love. His

intentions were strictly businesslike. And this girl was bound to be

admired everywhere. She would look an ideal hostess, entertaining house

parties at Loveland Castle, when her money had restored it to all and

more than its ancient splendour.

Loveland's second choice might have been his first, for some reasons,

and in fact she was his first by impulse; only she did not look as

obviously an heiress as the other. Neither was she so obviously a

beauty; yet her charm leaped at the beholder with the briefest glance,

especially if that beholder were a man; leaped at him through his eyes,

and thrillingly through his nerves, in a mysterious, indescribable,

curiously interesting way.

She was not very tall, and she was a slim slip of a creature, not in the

least like a fashion plate, but suggestive of soft natural curves, even

in her navy-blue tailor-made frock.

If she had been stage-struck, and had asked for a chance in the chorus,

a theatrical manager would have found himself giving it to her, he

hardly knew why, more because she said she wanted it than on the

strength of her voice, or form, or features. Then, having yielded so far

to her magnetism, he would have said to himself, "She isn't striking

enough for the front row, or even the second. She must go into the

third." And there she would have gone docilely. Yet the critics and all

other men with eyes would have picked her out; and presently she would

have been more noticed than the beauties in the front row. By and by,

when there arose a little part with a few lines to speak, she would

have got it; and at last, in some way or other, it would have been she

who was making the "hit of the piece."

Lord Loveland did not say anything of this sort to himself, but he felt

a faint electric shock of interest every time they passed and repassed

each other; though after the first she did not look at him, with the big

brown eyes that surely had the prettiest, most bewitching lashes ever

seen.

Really, they were charming eyes. If nothing else were actually beautiful

about the girl, her eyes undoubtedly were exquisite. They were very

soft, and no man could look into them even for half a second in passing

without realizing deliciously that they were a woman's eyes; yet they

were not coquettish, except for that piquant effect of the curled

lashes. They were full of sympathy and intelligence, and gazed frankly,

sweetly out at the world, as if they could understand, and laugh or cry

at things which other, commonplace eyes would never even see.

For the rest, she had the clear, colourless skin which shows every

change of emotion, a sensitive mouth, not too small for generosity; in

the firm little chin, a cleft which meant a keen sense of humour; and a

slightly impertinent nose which might mean anything or nothing.

Loveland felt that it would be interesting to know this girl, even if

she were not an heiress, but he hoped that she might prove to be one,

because it would be hard to learn the wisdom of ceasing to know her if

she turned out as poor as himself.

The difficulty in judging these American girls, Val began to think as he

watched the charming review, was that they all looked like

millionairesses. They walked as if they were so used to being young

persons of importance, that they graciously waived the fact of their own

greatness: which means, that they had the air of goddesses, or

princesses at the least. They were all dressed perfectly, and groomed

perfectly. Their frocks fitted perfectly, and every detail of their

toilets was perfect, from the buttons of their English gloves to the

toes of their American boots. So how was a man to judge which were _the_

ones, and which the other ones?

Val made up his mind at last that he would walk no more, but would sit

down and think this question over. Besides, for some moments the

enchanting girl in the navy-blue frock had ceased to flit to and fro.

Therefore he went towards the sheltered corner where he knew his deck

chair was waiting for him, and to his extreme surprise found her

comfortably installed in it.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Girl in the Chair

For a moment Loveland was more conceited than he had ever been in his

life,--which is saying not a little. He told himself that the girl must

have found out who he was, and that this was her artful way of scraping

acquaintance. She had taken possession of his chair, with his name upon

it, waiting for him to come and claim his property, and expecting the

conversation which would be sure to follow.

He was conscious of a shock of disappointment. In spite of the witching,

curled eyelashes, he had not fancied her that sort of obvious, flirting

girl; and like other spoiled young men a conquest which fell to him

easily was less worth making. Nevertheless, he still wanted to know her.

No man, even a spoiled one, could help wanting to know a girl with eyes

like those: and he intended to go through the whole programme which he

believed that she had deliberately planned out for him; yet he wished

that she had not made herself so cheap.

The chair next to his was unoccupied, though usurpers were warned off by

the name of "Mr. James R. Smythe," boldly painted in black letters

across the back. Stretching away to the left was a row of Smythe chairs,

which Val did not trouble to count. He merely received the impression of

a large family of impending Smythes, and was glad that they were not

assembled. Their absence gave him a splendid chance to make the girl

with the eyes a present of the flirtation she encouraged.

Val, risking the avalanche of Smythehood which might overwhelm him at

any instant, sat down in the empty chair next to his own, expecting the

girl to glance up and down, and flutter the coquettish lashes. To his

bewilderment her tactics were more subtle. She did not look up at all,

but calmly went on reading her book, a volume of disagreeably

intellectual suggestion.

This development of the game was interesting, because surprising, but

Val still regarded it as a game. He looked at the girl, while she,

apparently unconscious of or indifferent to his nearness, slowly turned

leaf after leaf. She turned so many that Loveland grew impatient.

Besides, a man had begun to walk up and down in front of the line of

Smythe chairs, fastening upon him so baleful an eye that he feared at

any instant to be dispossessed of his borrowed resting-place.

At last he decided to be bold and wait no longer.

"What am I to do if Mr. James R. Smythe comes along and orders me out?"

he asked pleasantly, in a low yet conversational tone.

The girl glanced up for the first time, suddenly and as if startled. She

had the air of having been deeply absorbed in her book, and of not being

sure that her neighbour had spoken to her. Also she looked extremely

young and innocent.

"I said, what am I to do if Mr. James R. Smythe comes along and orders

me out?" Val repeated.

"That's what I thought you said," replied the girl, meeting his

admiring, quizzical eyes with a somewhat bewildered yet defensive gaze.

"But--why should you say it to me?"

"Isn't that rather hard-hearted of you?" asked Loveland.

"I don't understand you at all," said the girl. "You look like a

gentleman, so I suppose you can't mean to be rude or impertinent. But if

not, you seem to be talking nonsense."

This was straightforward, to say the least, yet her voice was so sweet

and girlish, with such a dainty little drawl in it, that the rebuke did

not sound as severe as if spoken with sharper accents.

"Of course I don't mean to be rude or impertinent," Loveland defended

himself, at a loss for the next move in the game. "But I thought--that

is, I mean--you know, that _is_ my chair. I'm delighted you should have

it----"

"Your chair?" echoed the girl. "Oh, you are mistaken. No wonder, if you

thought that I--but even then, you couldn't have dreamed I'd take it on

purpose?"

"No--o, I----" began Loveland, looking guilty.

Her eyes were on him. "You did think so!" she exclaimed. "I see you did.

That was why you--and yet I don't see how you could have fancied I

should know who you were, unless--Are you a very famous person in the

life to which it's pleased London to call you?"

Lord Loveland laughed rather foolishly. But he reddened a little, which

made him look boyish, so that the foolishness was rather engaging.

"I think you've punished me enough," he said.

"Then you admit that you deserve to be punished?"

"Perhaps."

"Which means that you did believe I took your chair on purpose."

"I didn't stop to think," said Loveland, telling the truth as usual, but

less truculently than usual.

"You _are_ English, aren't you?" the girl asked, looking at him with her

brown, bewildering eyes.

"Oh yes," replied Loveland, in a tone which added "Of course." But he

would have realised now, if he had not been sure before, that the girl

was genuinely ignorant of his important identity.

"I was sure you were. I suppose you don't understand American girls very

well, or perhaps any girls yet. But then few men do, really. Except

poets or novelists. And you're not a poet or a novelist?"

"Rather not!"

"You speak as though I'd asked if you were a pick-pocket. Do you despise

writers?"

"I'd be sorry to be one. Wouldn't you?" He ventured this question,

which, if answered, might after all send them on the way towards a more

friendly understanding. But he seemed destined to put himself in the

wrong--although the girl laughed.

"I _am_ one," she said, "I write stories."

"You're chaffing."

"No, I'm not. Why should you think so?"

"Oh, well, because you don't look as if you wrote."

"Thank you. I suppose you mean that for a compliment. But women who

write aren't scare-crows nowadays, if they ever were."

"Well, anyhow, you're too young."

"I've been writing stories--and getting them published, too, ever since

I was sixteen. That's some years ago now. Please don't say you wouldn't

have thought it! That would be too obvious even for an average

American's idea of an average Englishman."

"Are you an average American?"

"Are you an average Englishman?"

"Is it fair to answer one question with another?"

"It's said to be American. Didn't you know that?"

"No," said Loveland. "As you thought, I don't know much about Americans

yet. I'm going over to the States to learn."

"The States! How English that sounds! We think we're all of America--all

that's worth talking about in ordinary conversation. But, by the way,

this isn't ordinary conversation, is it? It began with--something to be

punished for, on your part; and a wish to punish on mine. It's gone

on--because, being a writing person, I suppose, I'm always trying for

new points of view, at any cost. You thought I'd taken your chair--as if

it were a point of view. I believe you really did think that."

"I did," admitted Val.

"I wonder why? My aunt's name is on it."

"Oh," said Loveland.

"See," went on the girl, leaning forward, and displaying the label in

the deck-steward's handwriting.

"I do see," said Val. "But that happens to be my name."

"Loveland?"

"Yes."

The girl blushed brightly. And she was more attractive than ever when

she blushed. "Oh, how very odd! Then perhaps this _is_ your chair! How

perfectly horrid." She began to unwind herself from the rug which was

wrapped round her as a chrysalis round an incipient butterfly.

"Please don't get up." Loveland's tone was almost imploring. "Do keep

the chair. I want you to keep it."

"Thank you very much. But I don't want to keep it, if it's yours, and I

think now it probably is. If it weren't, you wouldn't have expected to

find it waiting for you in this particular place?"

"But you expected to find yours here."

"No, it wasn't that. But as I was passing, I saw my aunt's name on the

back of a chair, and because the deck-steward had been told to put one

in a nice sheltered place, I took it for granted that this was hers. I

didn't know there was another Loveland on the passenger list."

"I noticed there was a Mrs. Loveland," said Val, "but didn't think much

about it, as she wasn't likely to turn out a relation of mine. And my

name isn't on the list, I came in the place of--another man."

As he made this explanation, with a slight pause which meant the

recollection of his promise to Jim Harborough, Major Cadwallader Hunter

went by, walking slowly; and, having long-distance ears, heard as he

passed. He was waiting for his chance to "nobble" Lord Loveland; and

afterwards he remembered those few last words which he had caught. He

seldom forgot anything which could possibly matter, even though it might

be of seeming insignificance at the time.

"I'll go and look for the _other_ Loveland chair," said the girl.

"You must do nothing of the sort," exclaimed Val.

"Oh, it's easy to see you're an Englishman. American men don't order us

about like that."

Loveland laughed. "I didn't order you about. I ordered you to sit

still."

"That's just as bad. You have the air of being used to give orders."

"I am. You see, I'm a soldier."

"Oh, what a relief. I began to be afraid you were a duke."

Loveland had the unusual sensation of feeling comparatively unimportant.

When the girl came to find out who he was, she would know that he was

less than a duke. And if he had the air of being a duke, she had the air

of thinking no duke could possibly be superior to any self-respecting

American.

As he reflected upon this extreme point of view, a deck-steward

appeared, and was summoned by the girl. She wished to know the situation

of the second Loveland chair, and which of the two was her aunt's, which

this gentleman's--Mr. Loveland's.

"Or ought I to speak of you as Captain Loveland?" she broke off to ask.

"I'm not a captain yet," answered Val. He did not explain that neither

was he "Mr." He left her to discover that fact for herself by and by, as

he hoped she would discover a good many other things connected with him.

Because by this time he had quite decided that, be she rich or be she

poor, he would see a good deal of Mrs. Loveland's niece during the

voyage to New York. Afterwards--but then, why begin now to think of an

afterwards?

CHAPTER SIX

Catspawing

When the chair of Mrs. Loveland had been indicated, as it soon was by a

tactless deck-steward, the girl was obstinate in her determination to

seek it. Val went with her, carrying the rug and the book; but as there

was no vacant place on either side of the new chair, he was obliged

presently to go back to his own. And it was on the way back that Major

Cadwallader Hunter's chance came.

"Lord Loveland, I see you don't remember me," he began, attaching

himself to the younger man, with an air of "should auld acquaintance be

forgot" in the bend of his back, and speaking in a low tone, that his

words might not be heard by any curious ears. Then he hurried on, lest

Loveland should deny him with undesirable frankness: "Quite natural you

shouldn't remember" (which indeed it was, as they had never come within

miles of each other) "but I feel I've some right to remind you of my

existence, because we're connected in a way. I am Major Cadwallader

Hunter----"

"Never heard the name in my life," said Loveland rudely. He thought that

his uninvited companion looked like a bore, and he had never yet

suffered a bore gladly. A flash of reflection told him that he possessed

no envelope in Jim's or Betty's handwriting addressed to Major

Cadwallader Hunter. The fellow would hardly be so mildly ingratiating if

he were a millionaire with daughters to guard, and Val resented a

trumped-up claim of connection.

Cadwallader Hunter could swallow a snub with a smile, but never would he

forgive the snubber.

He smiled now; but if Lord Loveland had not been Lord Loveland----

"I'm a distant relative of Jimmy Harborough's," he explained, "and I

generally run over to London for a few weeks in the season. Jim seems to

be as popular on your side the water as on his own."

Loveland did not trouble himself to reply. If Jim had thought this

alleged relative an interesting or profitable person for him to know,

the name of Major Cadwallader Hunter would probably have been on one of

the introduction envelopes.

Undismayed by the chilling silence, Cadwallader Hunter still walked by

Lord Loveland's side and prattled. His next sentence hinted that he

possessed in some degree the quality of clairvoyance.

"I suppose Jim's given you lots of letters," he continued, "but it's not

likely there's one to me. I'm a mere bachelor, and therefore must take a

back place. Jim would naturally send you to married people with big

houses of their own, where they can entertain you. Still, in my own

small way, I can be useful to strangers, and should be glad to be useful

to you, because in my eyes you don't seem quite a stranger. I am, by the

by, a great admirer of your cousin, charming Lady Betty, and if you'll

allow me to say so, there's a strong family resemblance between you."

(Major Cadwallader Hunter had been out of America during Betty's visit,

but had seen her photograph.) "If this is your first time on our side,

you don't know the ropes yet, and you must let me tell you anything you

care to hear; about people, about places, about hotels; about the

sights, should you want to see them. I can begin, for instance, by

telling you who is Who on this ship. There are several of our

millionaires."

Loveland's handsome young face lost its frozen stare. He had taken a

dislike to Cadwallader Hunter, but it was not so serious a dislike that

he could not bury it. He wanted to know several things which this man

might be able to tell, but most of all he wanted to know about the niece

of Mrs. Loveland. As he confessed to her, he had passed over the

coincidence of names with indifference, when idly noting it on the

passenger-list, thinking that the existence of a Mrs. B. Loveland could

not concern the Marquis of that ilk. Now, however, if this know-all,

officious sort of person could prove that the lady sprang from the same

stock, be she no matter how remote a cutting, it would be pleasant news.

Cadwallader Hunter, who was a student of faces, saw the change on Lord

Loveland's features and was relieved, though relief brought no liking.

He had begun to be anxious as to the result of the conversation, because

a failure to thaw on Loveland's part would have been awkward after

certain boasts lately made. Now he saw that he had, as usual, taken the

right tack, and that his efforts were destined to succeed.

"I know almost everybody on board," went on the American. "That is,

everybody who counts."

"Who is that man walking with the tall girl in grey?" Val deigned to

enquire, as his first choice among the beauties of the ship came in

sight. "Is he someone of importance?"

Cadwallader Hunter naturally understood that it was the girl, not the

man, in whom Loveland was interested. "That is Judson R. Coolidge," he

replied, "and it is Miss Elinor Coolidge, his only child, who is with

him. He is a rich man, though not one of our richest. Made his money in

the wholesale dry goods business in Chicago. But Miss Elinor, whom he

adores, 'runs' him (the mother's dead); and as the girl knows her market

value, she's induced her father to take a big house in New York and a

cottage at Newport. Would you care to meet them?"

"Thanks, yes. A little later," answered Val, very civilly for him.

"There are several other pretty young women on board," said Cadwallader

Hunter.

"So I've noticed," said Loveland.

"Ah, men of your country appreciate the charming women of ours! You've

carried away many of our fairest flowers. And some of the best worth

plucking."

"Is that a pun?" asked Loveland, staring at his companion to see if he

had the impudence to mean anything.

Major Cadwallader Hunter tittered. He had an irritating little habit of

tittering when he was ingratiating himself with new acquaintances. But

it was a most refined titter.

"Oh, dear, I see what you mean. But, no indeed, I was quite innocent of

any _double entendre_. I was merely trying my best to be poetical, I

assure you. There was no question of 'plucking' in the international

alliances of British titles and American dollars I had in mind. A

familiar, and, to my idea, suitable combination. But perhaps you

disapprove of international marriages?"

"Not I," said Val.

The tone told Cadwallader Hunter all that he wanted to learn. He now

knew, if he had not been practically sure before, that Lord Loveland was

in search of a rich wife. He saw his way to earning considerable kudos

in playing bear-leader to a young and unusually good-looking British

peer, and he determined to become that bear-leader, whether the bear

yearned for his leadership or not.

"Miss Coolidge is not the only handsome heiress on board. There are

others--there are others," he went on airily. "You have only to point

out any young lady whose acquaintance you would like to make, and the

thing is a _fait accompli_."

"Do you know a Mrs. Loveland on the ship?" Val enquired, after a slight

hesitation which he could hardly have explained to himself.

Major Cadwallader Hunter shook his head. "Now that you speak of it, I

think I do recall there being a Mrs. Loveland on the passenger-list,

but----"

"She has a niece," said Val.

"Ah?" The elder man pulled a folded passenger-list out of his pocket,

and ran his eye down the "L's." "Then the niece has not the same name.

But I'll engage to find out all about the ladies for you, if you're

interested in them."

Loveland paused for an instant, on the point of refusing the service.

But he reflected that making enquiries about unknown ladies was not a

dignified proceeding, and that he would prefer to have Major Cadwallader

Hunter undertake it, rather than compromise himself.

"It will be easy for me, as I know so many people," volunteered the

American.

"Oh, very well. Thank you," said Loveland, stiffly, with that upward

inflection of the voice, which can make a "thank you" as irritating as a

mosquito-bite.

He was ready now to use Major Cadwallader Hunter for catspawing in all

its branches, but did not intend to be over civil in return. He divined

that Cadwallader-Hunter by name was a Tuft-Hunter by nature; that vast

wealth, or even a really good title was to him balm in Gilead; and that

he was not one of those sensitive souls who find it difficult to be kind

to the rich, for fear of being misunderstood by the world.

And the would-be leader was delighted to become Lord Loveland's catspaw,

because he hoped that his way of handling the chestnuts would do him

honour. He believed that, if through Lord Loveland he did not become

King of all the lions in New York that season, he might at least be

King's jester.

Presently, still smiling, he left Val stretched luxuriously in the

labelled deck-chair, and trotted away to tell more people what a

charming fellow Lord Loveland was. All the while it would have done his

soul good--what there was of it--to box Val's ears. But it would have

done him still more good to be re-souled or even half-souled, for all

that he had ever possessed was long ago worn to rags.

Major Cadwallader Hunter prided himself on being able to find out

everything about everybody, even when starting from the point of

complete ignorance, and handicapped by a time limit. Indeed, he had a

nice detective instinct, and putting it to use was one of the games he

played best. But he found himself confronted with difficulties in the

case of Mrs. Loveland and her niece.

It was simple to find out the girl's name, and that Mrs. Loveland, the

aunt, was a delicate little person, at that time of life when sensible

women cling no longer to the ragged edge of youth, as a bat clings to a

shutter. It was easy to learn (stewards and stewardesses reveal such

things, if handled by experts) that Mrs. Loveland had slipped into her

berth on starting, with the intention of remaining there during the

whole voyage, weather or no weather. But as to Wealth and as to

Ancestors (Cadwallader Hunter was as devout a worshipper of Ancestors as

any Chinaman) the matter was more difficult. However, he was eventually

fortunate enough to stumble upon an acquaintance, a Mrs. Milton, who had

met Mrs. Loveland and her niece while travelling in England. Mrs. Milton

was a charming woman, but she had some weaknesses. In a sojourn of six

weeks, she had become so much more English than the English that she had

taken to calling her daughter Fanny "Fawny." She pitied Mrs. Loveland

and Mrs. Loveland's niece because they were so--"so _unnecessarily_

American, don't you know?" Also she was perfectly certain from their way

of doing things, from remarks they had let drop, and answers they had

given to her questions, that they were nobodies. They lived in a town in

the middle west, knew no New York people, poor things, and were

altogether provincial. They had been abroad for the first time, had

enjoyed themselves with the most countrified enthusiasm everywhere, and

were so much interested in history and dull subjects of that sort that

Fawny's mother fawncied they were perhaps schoolteachers on their

holidays, especially as they were so reserved about their own affairs,

that there must be something they were ashamed of.

Major Cadwallader Hunter was glad to hear these damaging details,

because it was evident that the Englishman was taken with Mrs.

Loveland's niece. The self-appointed bear-leader wanted his bear for

more important girls.

It was not till nearly dinner-time that he was able to make his report

to Loveland. Meanwhile, during his leader's absence, the bear had found

out some things for himself, and had forgotten Major Cadwallader Hunter.

Val had felt the need of another constitutional, and seeing his

namesake's niece struggling with a wind-blown rug, had tucked it round

her feet. They were pretty feet, and Val was very fastidious about a

woman's feet. These were even prettier, and many sizes smaller than Miss

Coolidge's, therefore he was glad that a next-door chair stood empty for

the moment. He begged so meekly to sit down and talk for a little while,

that his mother, could she have heard him, would have trembled lest he

might be sickening for something. But he had talked for more than a

"little while," and then had been forced to go because the owner of the

next-door chair came back and hovered suggestively.

Loveland had only just got up, and was taking his leave when Major

Cadwallader Hunter arrived from the Music-room, where he had been

gleaning facts. "She is a Miss Dearmer," he announced.

"Oh, I know that already," Val returned, ungratefully. "She told me

herself."

"Lesley Dearmer."

"I hadn't got as far as the Lesley yet." Val laughed lightly, for he had

had a delightful conversation with Miss Dearmer. That cleft in her chin

had not proved a trap to catch the unwary, whom it tempted to expect a

merry wit. And while Loveland sat beside her, she had flung bright

thought after bright thought, carelessly as a cashier in a bank shovels

out gold for other people's purses. He had never met a girl like Miss

Dearmer. No wonder she could write stories. But he felt it was far more

suitable that she should entertain the Marquis of Loveland.

"Of course you must do exactly as you please," said Cadwallader Hunter,

"but from what I've learned, I fancy you can pass your valuable time

better on this trip than in the society of Miss Dearmer."

"What do you mean?" Val flashed out at him.

"Oh, only that it's just as I thought. She and her aunt are ordinary,

provincial little people, with no money or connections. They live in the

southwest, near a city called Louisville. These ladies, aunt and niece,

have been 'doing' as much of Europe as they could afford, and are now

returning to their native wilds, where they'll probably stay for the

remainder of their respectable, colourless lives."

The picture was not alluring, and Loveland's face fell.

"Mr. and Miss Coolidge are at your table," said Cadwallader Hunter, "and

I've just been arranging to sit there, too, so I can introduce you this

evening at dinner. You'll be next Miss Coolidge, and opposite, you'll

have a very nice girl, a Miss Fanny Milton, who admires Englishmen. Her

mother is a youngish woman with a temper. She doesn't get on well with

her husband, but he is a very rich man who must give a dot of at least

five hundred thousand to his daughter. These people are friends of mine,

and will be very pleased to know you."

Loveland did not doubt the last statement, nor did he feel grateful to

his benefactor, this general provider of charming, rich young ladies. He

was sulkily regretting that Miss Dearmer was poor and provincial, and

altogether impossible as the future Lady Loveland.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Guide, Philosopher and Friend

"Well," said the girl, "what do you think of things?"

"I think," answered Loveland, "it's a beastly shame we're not put at the

same table."

"I mean of things in general."

"I prefer to think of you in particular."

"It wouldn't pay," said the girl, with one of her whimsical smiles.

Loveland looked at her sharply. "What makes you say that?" he wanted to

know.

"Because it's true."

"Why do you insinuate that I only want to do things that pay?"

"I told you I wrote stories, didn't I? Well, to write stories, one must

make a study of Man. I do. And I never found it dull yet."

"I'm glad you don't find it dull where I'm concerned," said Val. "But

I'm not glad you consider me a swine."

"Lucky I've just been in England, and heard other Englishmen talk," said

the girl. "If not, I should hardly understand that pretty expression."

"So you've been making a study of other Englishmen? What did you think

of us?"

"That you, as a race, are very tall and tweedy. And that you aren't

precisely dissatisfied with yourselves."

It was the next morning, and they were pacing up and down the long white

deck. Loveland had joined Miss Dearmer as she walked, and she had not

been repellent in her manner. Yet somehow her friendliness did not

encourage him to increasing conceit. Even before she had made that

little remark about studying Man, he had vaguely felt that she read him

as if he were a cypher of which she had found the key.

"I hope you met the right kind of men," he said.

"You mean, men like you? You see, I know who you are, now."

"Who told you anything about me?"

"Miss Milton."

"Oh, you know her--daughter of the white-faced woman, pretty, blushy

little thing who sits at my table?"

"Yes. We were travelling in England at the same time, and met often at

hotels."

"What did Miss Milton say about me?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes. I'm not a coward."

"She said she wondered if you were going over to our country to try and

marry an American girl."

"By Jove! Well, supposing I do try, what's your opinion? Do you think I

stand a good chance of bringing it off?"

"It's rather soon for me to judge."

"You seem to have made up your mind quickly about some of my other

qualities. About my wanting to do things which pay, for instance."

"You haven't forgiven me that? It might pay to 'try' and marry an

American girl."

"Well," admitted Loveland on an impulse, "no matter how much I might

want to, I couldn't marry one if it didn't pay."

"Now you are being frank," replied Miss Lesley. "I like people to be

frank."

"So do I," said Loveland, "when that doesn't mean being disagreeable, as

it generally does from one's relations, especially one's maiden aunts."

"England expects that every aunt will do her duty."

"Luckily _you're_ not my aunt, so please don't do yours if it's

unpleasant. But couldn't we be frank--and friends? I should like most

awfully to have you for my friend. You could be no end valuable to me,

you know, about giving me good advice, if you would."

She laughed. "I dare say. But could you be valuable to me?"

Loveland wished that he might dare to be dangerous; but the idea of

having her for a friend, into whose pink shell of an ear he could pour

confidences, really attracted him--since her value, not being cash

value, could be realised by him in no other way. And, of course, if she

would promise to be his friend, it would be caddish to make love to her.

He felt very virtuous as he laid down this rule for himself.

"I'll let you study me as much as you like, and put me into your next

story."

"As the villain?"

He looked rather blank. His conception for himself was always the part

of hero.

"But after all, it's usually baronets who're villains--in stories and

plays," she went on. "A Marquis--you are a Marquis, aren't you--may

perhaps be a fellow being."

"Please treat me as such, then," said Loveland.

"I will, anyway till further notice. Now you may begin to tell me frank

things, and I'll give you frank advice about them, as a friend."

"How I wish you were rich!" exclaimed Loveland, thinking aloud, as he

did sometimes.

"How do you know I'm not? Oh, of course Major Cadwallader Hunter found

out for you. He would! He's the sort of man who takes a worm's eye view

of the world, and of women and wealth. But never mind if I'm not rich."

"I do mind. I shouldn't want you for a friend if you were."

"You wouldn't--oh! Well, now you are being still franker, aren't you?"

"You said you liked people to be frank."

"Ye--es."

"I haven't offended you, have I?"

"No. I'm just getting used to you. It's quite interesting. What do you

want my advice about? Other girls, I suppose?"

"It may come to that," Loveland admitted.

"Anyone in particular, at the moment?"

"Well, supposing I were forced to marry money, for the sake of--of--my

estates and all that, is there anyone on board you'd recommend?"

"You've two very eligible girls at your table."

"Yes. But hang it all, it's too much of a good thing having them at

one's elbow like that, you know. If only it were you, instead----"

"On the principle of having the poor always with one. But for that you'd

have to change and sit at mine. We're all poor there, I think. It's the

Ineligible's Table, for both sexes. Would you care to come?"

"I'd care to, but I couldn't afford it," said Val. "I must stop where I

am and take the goods the gods provide."

"You mean the dining-room steward who arranged the seats."

"What else did Miss Milton say about me?"

"That you were very good-looking--as we're being frank."

"I hope you agreed with her?"

"Oh, yes, I had to. Your looks are so obvious--so much a part of your

stock-in-trade, if you don't mind my saying so, it would be silly to

deny that the shop windows are well decorated. It was apropos of your

marrying that she spoke. I said a handsome man oughtn't to be driven

into the obscurity of marriage, by necessity. He ought simply to be

supported by the nation, become a sort of public institution, and be the

pride of his country; be sent, beautifully got up, to walk in Parks, and

dance at balls, and make life pleasant for girls."

"Thank you. Anything else?"

"From Miss Milton or me?"

"From you."

"Nothing more from me. The rest was silence."

"From Miss Milton, then?"

"Let me see. She said it seemed as if you'd bought your eyelashes by

the yard, and been frightfully extravagant."

"Wish I could pawn them!"

"If you marry as you intend, you won't need to."

"I say, I'm afraid you're frightfully sarcastic," said Loveland, who had

never had an American girl for a friend before, and found that having

one kept his hands full. "You think I'm a beast to marry a girl for her

money."

"First catch your hare."

"You mean I mayn't get one to take me."

"One never can tell. There have been slips between cup and lip."

"Although I'm poor, I can give my wife a lot of things a woman likes to

have."

"Second best things."

"Oh, come! You haven't stopped to think what they are."

"I've stopped to think that love's the best thing--the thing a girl

cares most for a man to give her."

"It seems to me that all the girls I know would be pretty well satisfied

with the right to walk into a dining-room behind a Duchess, and----"

"Do you? What a lot you've got to learn about girls."

"I don't think I have," said Val. "I think I know most of it."

"About life, then, and about yourself."

"Oh, I know nearly all there is to be known about them."

"You really do need a friend," laughed the girl.

"To keep me from being bored?"

"To keep you from heaps of things."

"Well, go on being my friend, and giving me good advice, please," said

Loveland. "There's Miss Coolidge, too. She's a beautiful creature. Are

there many other girls in the States as beautiful as she?"

"As beautiful, but few more beautiful."

"Any beautiful ones richer?"

"I'm not up in that kind of statistics. Major Cadwallader Hunter is."

"Yes. But I don't care for the fellow. I'd rather take counsel with you.

Do you know Miss Coolidge?"

"No."

"I wish you did."

"Would you like me to use my influence with her?"

"I should like you to use your influence with me to keep me up to the

mark. She's rather hard to talk to. So different from you."

"She knows her value. She's 'worth' several millions, as we say in

America. (I wish we didn't!) Why should she worry to make herself

agreeable? She can get all the attention she wants without bothering.

Whereas, we poor girls have to work hard, if we want to be popular in

spite of our poverty."

"I suppose there's something in that," said Loveland, too deeply

absorbed in his own affairs not to take her in earnest. And the girl

would have liked to turn a scornful shoulder upon him, if his voice had

not been so nice, and if he had not been so handsome. As it was, she

wanted to turn upon herself, because she knew that she was influenced by

the nice voice, the clear features, and the black-lashed blue eyes. "He

is a perfectly worthless young man," she reflected savagely, yet she did

not tell him, as he deserved, that she had reconsidered and would not

after all undertake the extra hard work of being his guide, philosopher

and friend.

"It will be an experience for me," she thought. And she remembered that

she had summed up his character from the first. The revelations he had

just made of his inner self ought not now to surprise her.

So the days went on. And the pair remained friends; a state of affairs

which took more of Val's time than he should have spared from his real

ambitions.

Loveland had tried at intervals to be nice to Miss Coolidge and Miss

Milton, and he met other pretty girls to whom he felt obliged to be

agreeable, because Major Cadwallader Hunter said that they were

heiresses. But it is difficult to be equally nice to five or six

charming young women at once and within a comparatively limited area,

when you have not made up your mind which of them you want to marry, or

whether you will not in the end throw them all over to marry someone

else whom you have not yet seen. And it is a particularly difficult task

when you would prefer to be nice to someone else whom you have already

seen.

Besides, Lord Loveland thought too much of himself to pretend

love-making successfully when, so far from being in love, he was

considerably bored. Each girl he knew on the ship bored him in her own

separate way, except his friend Miss Dearmer, to whom he went frequently

for good advice about the others. Perhaps if he had not known her, the

other girls, or some of them, would not have bored him. But as it was,

they were occasionally tiresome in his eyes when he would have liked to

be with Lesley instead; and though Lord Loveland was clever, he was not

clever enough to hide his feelings. Sometimes, so sure was he of their

forgiveness if he wanted it, he was downright rude; and there is nothing

a nice American girl forgives less easily than rudeness which springs

from a man's self-conceit.

At first, all the girls had admired Loveland, not only because he had a

title, but because he was himself; and some of the younger ones, like

Fanny Milton and Madge Beverly, had been inclined to regard him as a

starry Paladin. Fanny said he was "so handsome, it almost hurt," and

that she "could hardly talk to him for gazing at his Gibson chin." But

when the more sophisticated Eva Turner, Elinor Coolidge, Kate Wood and a

few others realised that their starry Paladin was impudently inspecting

them all with a view to the possible purchase of the most satisfactory,

each began to hate him secretly with forty-woman power. Secretly,

because there was a kind of glory in him as an asset, and a rivalry for

the asset, just as there might be among smaller girls with only one

doll--an unlovable but expensive doll--to play with. Not one of the

number would sacrifice all right in the doll, and give it up to her

companions.

They were worldly, though good-hearted, girls to whom Major Cadwallader

Hunter had introduced his prize, and they foresaw that handsome Lord

Loveland would be petted, perhaps fought for, in Society, when he had

left the little world of the _Mauretania_ for the bigger world of New

York. There would be an advantage in having known him first in case he

should become the "rage," as he was sure to do, if not too insufferably

rude and offensive. Thinking of this, each girl clung to her share of

him, and refrained from trampling on the expensive doll, as, for her

pride's sake, she ached to do. Nor did Elinor Coolidge and Fanny Milton

and the rest speak their true feelings frankly out to one another. Each

wished her friends to believe that he was nice to her alone, that his

insolence was charmed into lamb-like docility in a duet with her; for in

that way self-respect could be maintained and jealousy aroused.

Val was unaware of the hatred, but conscious of the rivalry, and was

altogether kept very busy. He forgot to Marconi to his mother that he

had sailed on the _Mauretania_, as Jim Harborough had thought he might

forget. As for writing, he had not a moment for any such sedentary

employment. Once or twice he did make up his mind to begin a letter to

Lady Loveland; but, when he could get a few minutes off duty, it seemed

such a waste of time not to go and ask for good advice from Lesley

Dearmer, that somehow pen was never put to paper.

And so at last came the day for landing.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hail to the Land: Goodbye to the Girl

The _Mauretania_ passed the noble statue of Liberty enlightening the

world, and Loveland admired her impersonally, but felt that had she been

a live millionairess he would not have dared propose to her.

Then, presently, the hugeness of the great city loomed monstrous,

mountainous in purple shadow against such a blue sky as Italy and New

York know.

A crowd was massed on the dock to welcome the _Mauretania_ and her

passengers; and for the first time since he had left England, Val felt a

vague homesickness stirring in his breast. Almost everyone else on board

seemed to have at least one handkerchief-waving friend, and some had

half a dozen, but all the smiling eager faces looking up were strange to

his eyes. There was no one for him; and he had a sudden, queer sensation

of not being at home in the world. This, in spite of invitations from

everybody he had met on the ship--except one: the One who mattered.

Mr. Coolidge and several other fathers and uncles of pretty girls had

asked him to make their house his home; but he had taken Jim

Harborough's advice to heart, and excused himself warily. His idea was

to let New York society pass before his eyes in review, before risking a

premature entanglement. To this course he committed himself in cold

blood. Since he could not have Lesley Dearmer, all that mattered to him

in a girl was decent manners, decent looks, and--many millions.

He should have rejoiced that it was time to land, and have felt keen to

set to work upon the business which had brought him across the sea, but

he was in no mood to rejoice at anything; and it was Lesley Dearmer's

fault.

He had planned a moonlight farewell for the night before, but Lesley

thwarted him by talking the whole evening long with a sporting youth,

whom Val wrathfully stigmatised in his mind as suffering from motor

bicycle face, bridge eye, clutch knee and tennis elbow. Then when she

had tired of her flirtation she went to bed.

Next morning it was only as the _Mauretania_ neared her slip that the

girl appeared again. Without seeming to notice Loveland she stood

leaning her elbows on the rail, not far from him. It occurred to Val

that after all it was a matter of no importance to her that their lives

were to be lived apart. And the separation was at hand. He had thought

of this hour, but now it was here. He was going to lose her. Tomorrow,

and all the tomorrows, he would have no sweet, merry, mysterious-eyed

friend to advise him and listen half-amused, half in earnest, to his

confidences.

Suddenly his heart felt like a large, cold boiled beetroot in his

breast. He went and stood behind the girl, dumb with a strange new

misery he could not understand, and, as though she had heard the

"unerring speech" of his silence, she turned.

At first her beautiful brown eyes flashed a laughing challenge at him,

as if they said, "Wouldn't you like to make me think you really care?

But I don't think it, and won't. And neither do you care. We've both

been playing."

Then, something in his look softened hers. She smiled kindly, though not

wholly without guile.

"Aren't you excited?" she asked.

"Why should I be excited?" he grumbled.

"Because--well, you're a soldier, and know what war is like. I've heard

that the most exciting thing which can happen is a call to make a

_sortie_ in the middle of the night, in the midst of a dream--and on an

empty stomach. But I should think the call to a matrimonial sortie----"

"On an empty purse?"

"Yes; when it's a question of selling yourself to fill it."

"I don't mean to sell myself. I shall still belong to myself and to one

other. I won't say who that other is, for I've pretty well told you

already."

"It's no use pretending not to understand. I know what you want me to

_think_ you mean."

"If I never knew before how much I do mean it, I know now, when I've got

to say 'goodbye.'"

"You needn't say it."

"You've tried hard to keep me from saying it, haven't you? But look

here, Lesley--do look at me. I'm awfully cut up at leaving you."

"You're not to call me Lesley."

"You can't prevent my calling you Lesley to myself."

"You'll soon forget the name."

"Never. I can never forget you--worse luck. The thought of you is going

to come between me and--other things."

"The thought must learn better manners. Not to 'butt in,' as we say over

here. Oh, it will soon be tamed. You'll have so much to do."

"I hope I shall," said Loveland. "I say, are you going to forget me as

soon as we're parted?"

The girl was silent for a moment. Then she laughed. Yet her laugh had

not quite the frank lightheartedness which was usually one of its

charms. "I shall make a note of you for my next story but one," she

answered.

"You're not very kind."

"Are you sure you deserve kindness?"

"I'm sure I want it--from you."

"How you have always got what you wanted in your life, haven't you--one

way or another?"

"Life wouldn't be worth living if one didn't."

"Oh, it's not much good saying to you that that's a selfish way of

looking at life. But you've never had any lessons, and I suppose you

never will have. You'll go on getting what you want, and taking it for

granted that you ought to get it, till the end."

"I hope so, sincerely," said Val, without shame. "But I shan't get one

of the things I want most, unless you promise to write to me."

She shook her head. "I can't promise that. I wouldn't if I could. As for

getting your news, I shall read it in the papers, which are sure to

chronicle all Lord Loveland does and says, and a lot he doesn't do or

say. The Louisville papers will have things about you, copied from New

York, in the Sunday editions. Yes, I shall be able to read about you

every Sunday--lots of things you wouldn't tell in letters if I let you

write. I shall see rumours of your engagement, then an announcement. I

wonder if it will be the survival of the prettiest; Miss Coolidge--or if

you'll be knocked down--on your knees--to a higher bid?"

"You're not letting me get much pleasure out of my last moments with

you," he complained, his blue eyes really pathetic. "Do you despise me,

after all?"

She looked up at him. "Only one side of you," she answered, a little

sadly. "But--you're rather like the moon. We see only one of her sides.

The other we have to take on faith. Perhaps it's silly of me, yet

sometimes--in some moods--I do take your other side on faith."

"What is there,--on that side?" he asked, eagerly.

"I don't know. And I'm sure you don't. You probably never will. For the

light shines so brightly on the one turned towards the world. Now it

_must_ be 'goodbye.' There's my dear little aunt--who's been on deck

ever since we passed Governor's Island--looking for me."

"Are these to be our last words together, then?" Val had a sickening

pang. He had not known it was going to be as bad as this. And it

wouldn't have been so bad, if she had seemed to care more.

"Yes, they must be the last, unless just a snippy 'goodbye, very pleased

to have met you,' as we leave the ship. I wish you the best luck. Shall

I say 'Thine own wish, wish I thee'?" She spoke in a hard, bright tone,

just poising like a bird on the wing, before flitting to her aunt.

"Don't forget me. Think of me sometimes," Loveland implored, as he wrung

the little hand she held out. And perhaps never in his life had there

been so much true feeling in his voice.

"I will think of you sometimes," she said, as if mechanically repeating

the words.

"Try and think the best of me."

"Yes. I'll try to do that, too. Goodbye."

But he would not let her hand go. It seemed to him that he could

not--although he knew he must. It was all he could do to keep back a

plea that she would love him, that she would marry him, even though the

crumbling walls of Loveland Castle fell. But instead he stammered, "Am I

never to see you again? Can't you stop in New York for a few days, and

let me call on--on you and your aunt--just to break the blow of

parting?"

"No, we can't stop," she said. "We've been away from home too long

already. We have lots to do. You know I work for my living."

"Those stories! Yes. But couldn't you write them in New York?"

"No, I couldn't, indeed. Aunt Barbara and I start for Louisville this

afternoon. We live not far away."

"Mayn't I go with you to the train?"

"What! desert valuable friends whom it's your duty to cultivate--if

you're to have flowers in the garden of your future?"

"I'd desert anyone or anything for you."

"Thank you. I believe you really mean that--this minute."

"I----"

"No. Don't protest. Sufficient for the minute is the meaning thereof. I

must go--I _want_ to go--while you still mean it all. And I'd rather not

see you again, because I'd like to keep the memory of you as you look

and are in this minute--nothing less. It will seem afterwards to justify

our temporary partnership, in case I ever ask myself--Why?"

And before he could answer she was gone.

He dared not follow, and instantly lost sight of her in the crowd that

poured to the rail to greet the waiting crowd below. Afterwards, on the

dock, he saw her again, but only at a distance, for her aunt's luggage

had been marked "D," that it might chaperon Miss Dearmer's, and enable

the two ladies to keep each other company during the tedious time of

waiting.

From the far off stall under the big letter "L," Loveland gazed sadly at

the back of his lost friend's head, her face, either by accident or

design, being turned from him. His boxes were long in coming, and as it

happened that none of his ship-acquaintances were "L's," he had no one

to talk to, nothing pleasanter to do than look at Miss Dearmer's back

and gradually lose hope of her relenting.

She had brought a little camp-stool for her aunt, and that lady sat

facing Loveland, her eyes so destitute of interest when now and then

they strayed in his direction, that he began to believe her niece had

never mentioned his existence. More than once he had pictured Lesley

describing her aunt's distinguished namesake; had fancied Mrs. Loveland

asking questions; and wished that he might hear the answers. The lady's

indifference was not flattering to his self-esteem; but Mrs. Loveland

did not look a woman to claim a relation because he was a peer.

Lesley's aunt was a little woman with dove-grey hair, folded like dove's

wings that slanted softly down her forehead, covering her ears. Hers was

a gentle face, with eyes that gazed kindly, and somehow impersonally,

out upon the world. She had the air which many American mothers wear, of

having contentedly stepped aside from the fore-front of life in favour

of a younger generation, and of having lost interest in herself as a

separate entity.

Lesley and Mrs. Loveland all got their luggage dumped down under letter

"D," before a single "L" box had appeared. Then, when Val's did come,

and the property of other impatient "L's" at the same time, the outside

world was lost to view. Loveland got hold of a good-natured Custom House

man, who, considering the indubitable fact that he was dealing with a

British subject, and believing the "Britisher's" statement that he was

merely on a visit to America, made no unnecessary trouble. He was in a

hurry, like everybody else, and did little more than casually open the

leather portmanteaux, the cabin trunk, the hat box, and the fitted

suit-case glittering with coronets, which constituted Lord Loveland's

luggage.

Very few minutes were wasted in the examination, though Americans all

around were suffering severely. Nevertheless, when his keys were in his

hand again, and Val was ready to separate himself and his belongings

from the seething mass of anxious "L's," Miss Dearmer and her aunt had

vanished off the face of the dock.

CHAPTER NINE

Foxham Redivivus

Loveland tried to put thoughts of the girl out of his head as he drove

through the exciting streets of New York, which seemed to him colourful

and strange as a vast flower-garden, sown regardlessly. But, despite the

rush and roar of "elevated trains" above his head, the swift whirr of

electric trams to left, to right, of him on a level, and the bizarre

effect of the "sky-scrapers," which turned long thoroughfares into

shadowed valleys, he could not throw open his mind to the rush of new

impressions. This brilliant New York made him feel after all a person of

comparatively small importance. He began to repent having refused

invitations, for instead of bumping dolefully to a hotel, in a cab which

was the least modern thing New York had shown him, he might

now be spinning uptown in any one of half a dozen hospitable

ten-thousand-dollar motor cars. In his isolation he regretted the

Coolidges, and even Cadwallader Hunter who had pressed him to spend a

day or two at his flat; however, he was consoled by the reflection that

he had decided wisely, and that wisdom would be its own reward. It was

better not to lend himself to anyone until he had seen everyone, and

decided to whom he would permanently belong.

When the bear had refused the hospitality of its leader's cage,

Cadwallader Hunter had suggested a quiet new hotel, uptown and near his

apartment. But the bear did not know that it was a bear, and had tired

of dictation. Loveland had heard of the Waldorf-Astoria, and he had not

heard of the quiet new hotel. Men he knew, who ran over to New York on

such errands as his own, stopped at the Waldorf-Astoria, or Holland

House, or the Plaza, and Val, who believed that the best was only just

good enough, would not risk hiding his light under a bushel. True, he

had very little money, but he had plenty of invitations and was certain

to have more. A couple of days at the most expensive hotel could not

break him; and Jim and Betty Harborough's millionaire friends would

probably expect him to be conspicuous. Now was the tide in his affairs

which must be taken at the flood, and he could not afford to let his

future relations-in-law (whoever they might be) learn to despise him.

Loveland's intention had been to ask for a small room, high in situation

and low in price; but once inside the immense, red-brown building, which

looked vast enough to hold half New York, pride tied his tongue. Pretty

girls, beautifully dressed, and prosperous-looking men, with facial

expressions as supercilious as his own, were standing within earshot;

and Loveland could not resist satisfying an impulse of boyish vanity. He

announced to a superior gentleman at a desk that he wanted a good room

with a bath. His charming voice and "English accent" attracted the

Americans near him, and under his mask of indifference Loveland was

aware of the attention he excited.

The superior gentleman thought for a moment and consulted a book. Then

he said that he had no single rooms with baths disengaged at present,

but that there was a suite consisting of bedroom, bath and parlour; just

one suite, and that probably would be gone in another minute.

The hint of rivalry decided Loveland. "Very well. I will take it," he

said. "Here's my card, if you wish to know to whom you are letting your

rooms," he went on haughtily, in response to a sharp glance from shrewd,

experienced eyes. And the hotel clerk read aloud, "Marquis of Loveland."

At this, everyone who had not been staring at the handsome, arrogant

young Englishman, began to stare, and Loveland was not displeased.

"My luggage will be here soon, I hope," he said, showing several metal

discs about which his ideas were rather vague. The clerk answered

civilly that the trunks ought to arrive in half an hour or so, and a

smart youth in livery was told off to show Lord Loveland his rooms.

They were very luxurious rooms, almost too luxurious, and Loveland

experienced a faint qualm as it occurred to him that he had neglected to

ask the price. "But they can't come to more than five or six pounds a

day at the worst," he thought, hopefully.

He had brought his suit-case in the cab, and as the letters of

introduction were in a little portable writing-desk contained among the

fittings, he got out the packet to read over the addresses. All the

friends to whom Jim and Betty were commending him lived in New York, and

Cadwallader Hunter had said that most New Yorkers were at home in

November. Loveland was just deciding that the letters had better reach

their destination before night, when his baggage appeared, looking not

much the worse for wear.

Now was the moment when the inestimable Foxham would be really missed.

On shipboard there had been little to unpack; but the contents of the

portmanteaux must have been rudely stirred on the dock, and ought

immediately to be rescued by an expert. Loveland touched an electric

bell in his bedroom, demanded of an unexpectedly responsive telephone

that the hotel should produce a valet; and criticised the product

adversely when it came.

Luncheon time was near, and Val was hungry, but he would not leave

wardrobe and jewellery to the discretion of a strange servant. In a mood

swinging towards impatience, he sat down on a cushioned sofa to watch

the valet's proceedings.

The larger of the two noble portmanteaux was opened; the neat square of

gold-braided and coronetted brown velvet, with which Foxham always

covered the contents of each box, was removed; and a pile of clothing

was deftly excavated.

Loveland's face changed from attention to surprise, then to

bewilderment. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "those don't look like my

things." Then springing up alertly he began to toss over the pile as the

hotel valet deposited it upon the bed, to toss it over as a haymaker

tosses hay. But, in the midst, he drew back his hand as if he had

inadvertently touched pitch. "Jove!" he stammered again.

"Wrong luggage, sir?" ventured the servant.

Loveland did not reply. He did not even hear, for his thoughts had taken

a trip of record quickness across the sea, and were already in London,

chasing a mystery. But, if the valet had stopped to think, an answer

would have been unnecessary. The keys fitted the portmanteaux; and there

were the big initials and the small coronets which distinguished Lord

Loveland's property from the vulgar trunks of the common herd.

Had Foxham gone mad? For the moment Loveland could think of no other

explanation. The portmanteau was filled with discarded garments, many of

which Loveland had given to Foxham at parting. Other things were there,

too, which Val dimly remembered having actually seen on the person of

Foxham, and it was from the touch of these contaminated remnants that he

recoiled in disgust.

"Open the other portmanteau," he directed, flushed now, and

anxious-eyed.

The hotel servant obeyed. Another neat square of brown velvet was

whisked away, and piles of shirts were revealed; but, save for a

deceitful top layer, they were not Loveland's shirts. They might have

been bought ready-made in the Edgware Road; probably had been--by

Foxham. There was underclothing also; but not the pale pink, blue and

heliotrope silk variety affected by Foxham's master.

"Now the hat box," Loveland went on, almost sure that he was talking in

his sleep. For it was unbelievable that he would not soon wake up to

find that this was a bad dream.

There were hats in the hat box; Foxham's hats, perhaps; certainly not

Lord Loveland's. And in the boot box which came next were boots, but

boots which had lost all claim to self-respect; boots which even Foxham

would have found it difficult to give away.

Only the Custom House official's good nature and haste, and Loveland's

complete absence of mind on the dock had delayed discovery until this

moment, but now that the secret was out, there seemed nothing to do, if

not to rage helplessly.

Loveland spluttered a few colourful words, but was still too bewildered

by the catastrophe to become volcanic. The eruption would follow later.

"What shall I do with the things, sir?" the valet wanted to know.

"Do with them?" repeated Loveland, exasperated by the creature's

calmness. "Pitch 'em into the fire--get rid of them anyhow, out of my

sight, and be quick about it. I've been robbed, by my own man."

Loveland seemed to hear these words spoken by an unknown voice, as if

they had been uttered by a stranger, and instantly he accepted them as

the solution of the mystery.

That was it! Foxham had robbed him. Foxham had not gone mad. Foxham was

simply a scoundrel.

There was too much method in the planning of this trick, even for

madness.

The careful arrangement of the cabin luggage, with all the right things

in the right places, except for the jewel-case containing tie pins,

sleeve links and shirt studs, which for five days Loveland had believed

to have been stowed away somewhere else by mistake. The packing of the

portmanteaux and boxes with a nice judgment as to their proper weight

and the neatness of top layers; all this was too well thought out to be

the work of a lunatic.

No wonder Foxham had not asked for wages in arrear. No wonder he

suddenly developed a defunct grandfather with an eccentric will. From

the moment he heard of the proposed trip to America, he must have been

quietly planning this _coup_, a _coup_ worth making for the sake of the

bran new wardrobe, to say nothing of the jewellery. And hot with rage,

Loveland ran over in his mind the contents of that missing jewel-box.

The pearl studs which Lady Kitty Manning had given him on his last

birthday--each one of the three worth fifty pounds, if it was worth a

shilling. How he wished he had sold the things, as he had been tempted

to do, and would have done, if they had not been the gift of a pretty

woman! The diamond and enamel sleeve-links, too, and the sapphire

buttons; a hundred pounds more in Foxham's pocket. Then the cravat pins,

in two long rows on a white velvet background: Loveland could see them,

as he had seen them last--a cherished collection representing not only

so many golden sovereigns, but so many queens of beauty, the charming

givers.

What a rogue to send his master off to a strange country, stripped

practically naked; and how the master longed to have the rogue within

kicking distance, instead of safe across the sea.

Forgotten faults of Foxham's flashed back into his memory; small

slynesses winked at, or condoned; rumoured "airs" assumed in the

servants' hall at country houses; fibs found out and overlooked, because

no other valet had Foxham's skill and resourcefulness. Still--who would

have expected such depravity?

If this blow had fallen on some other man, Loveland would have laughed,

and chaffed him; but he was far from seeing his own predicament as a

laughing matter. He was like a knight of old who, having journeyed to a

far land to joust for a great prize, finds himself robbed of his

armour. How was he to fight on the tilting ground of society, and bear

away a millionairess, when his sole possessions consisted of what he

stood up in, and the contents of a suit-case and a cabin trunk?

Luckily Foxham had not been able to annex his master's letter of credit;

but Val had uses for the hundred and fifty pounds other than buying a

new outfit. How he wished now that he had not played Bridge quite so

often on board ship, emptying his pockets of spare cash. The scrape he

was in was as hard to win out of as a black London fog; and while

groping for light, a mild question from the hotel valet did not sweeten

his temper.

"Am I really to carry all these things away, sir?"

"Oh, go to the devil and take them with you!"

The servant--lest he remember that he had been born a man, and

retaliate--bolted towards safety, with a leaning tower of Foxham's

garments on his arm. It was nobody's business how he meant to dispose of

them; and a second later he would have passed the danger line, had not a

page boy selected that identical instant to knock at Lord Loveland's

door.

Man and youth collided. The top-heavy pile of clothing crumbled into

ruin, Foxham's loathed shirts and waistcoats blotting out the threshold.

What the valet said, long habits of servitude rendered inaudible, but

what Loveland said might have been heard at the end of the corridor. And

there were listeners nearer: Major Cadwallader Hunter and a companion

who "represented" one of New York's leading newspapers.

CHAPTER TEN

The Valley of Disappointment

Major Cadwallader Hunter had been somewhat doubtful of his wisdom in

paying this uninvited call. He had hinted that he might drop in at the

Waldorf to see how Lord Loveland got on, and had not been encouraged to

do so. But Tony Kidd of "New York Light" was a pretty good excuse for

persevering, and he certainly had been badly in want of an excuse.

Having cast himself for the part of bear-leader it was imperative that

Society should know who led the bear, whether the bear recognised his

position or not.

Had he, like Loveland, been merely a guest in America, he would have

left the ship's dock when Lord Loveland left, and have been able to show

all whom it concerned at the Waldorf-Astoria that Loveland was his

property. But he was subjected by the dreaded Custom House officials to

treatment very different from that meted out to the Englishman, being

baited and bullied as if he were a bear instead of a bear-leader.

The detention, however, proved a blessing in disguise, for it gave him

Mr. Anthony Kidd of "Light." The journalist, sent down by his paper to

meet the _Mauretania_, had just exhausted the available supply of

home-coming millionaires when he spied Major Cadwallader Hunter, and

carelessly culled him by the way, as worth a short paragraph at the

bottom of a column.

Cadwallader Hunter was glad of a paragraph anywhere, but thought he saw

his way to one higher up, perhaps even with a headline. So he happened

to mention "a connection of his," the Marquis of Loveland who had been

on board, though, for reasons, the noble name did not appear on the

passenger list, and Mr. Kidd took the bait. Loveland was described by

his alleged cousin as a "dear boy," so handsome, so clever; one of the

oldest peerages in England, et cetera, et cetera; in the Grenadier

Guards, don't you know, and all that sort of thing. Had gone on ahead to

secure rooms at the Waldorf-Astoria, though invitations had been

showered upon him by the best people on board ship. As soon as he could

escape with life and luggage Cadwallader Hunter intended to pay a

friendly call and inspect Lord Loveland's new quarters.

Of course Mr. Kidd wanted to call, too, and get a "story" for his paper.

But at this suggestion the bear-leader shook his head. Charming fellow

as Loveland was when you knew him, he was rather a difficult man to

approach, and had some ridiculous prejudice against American pressmen.

Certainly, unless influence were brought to bear, he would refuse to see

Mr. Kidd; but Cadwallader Hunter would like to do "Light" a good turn,

and give the paper a chance for a "scoop." He would take Mr. Kidd under

his wing, and use his persuasive powers to obtain some sort of an

interview.

Perhaps there was more confidence in his manner than in his mind as he

made this offer, for the bear's leader had already seen the bear's

claws; but the risk was worth running. And when, arrived at the

Waldorf, he had talked for a few minutes with pleasant condescension to

a hotel clerk, his self-esteem had so risen that he no longer dreaded a

cold reception.

Nor did he receive one. His welcome was, on the contrary, far warmer

than he had expected, and the hot blast of Loveland's wrath swept him

back a step or two, so that he trod hard upon Tony Kidd's most pampered

toe.

A difficult young man to approach, indeed!

The representative of "New York Light" was a brilliant journalist with a

keen sense of humour, and a headline jumped into his head as Cadwallader

Hunter stamped upon his toe. "A Difficult Young Man to Approach." He

thought he saw his way to something rather choice for tomorrow morning's

"Light."

Somehow, between valet and page, the wild litter of shirts, trousers,

boots, and other horrors reminiscent of Foxham, was re-built into a

tower more leaning than before. Then, while the valet scuttled away with

his trailing, sliding load, the page remained behind and courageously

announced the visitors.

Perhaps if Foxham had spared him a few of his favourite tie pins, or if

the blow of his loss had not caught him on an empty stomach, Loveland

might have seen the humour of the situation as Tony Kidd saw it. But

everything was against him in a black world; and his late shipmate's

intrusion with a stranger was the one last drop in a bitter cup which he

refused to swallow.

Never had Cadwallader Hunter's handsome bear looked less handsome or

more dangerous than he looked as he stood blocking the way to his den,

at bay against fate and against his leader.

"My dear fellow, what has happened to upset you?" exclaimed Cadwallader

Hunter, warned by Loveland's expression that the only hope lay in

getting the first word.

"Upset me?" echoed Val, glaring blue fire so vindictively that Kidd

expected his introducer to be the next one "upset." "My d----d valet has

stolen all my clothes, and made me a present of his own, that's all."

"How shocking!" sympathised Cadwallader Hunter.

"Well, yes, it is rather a shock," returned Loveland drily, "and if you

don't mind, I think I'd better ask you to let me get over it alone."

"Oh! certainly, I quite understand," purred the banished courtier. But

Kidd was making mental notes, and Cadwallader Hunter strove to retain

his reputation as a valued cousin. "Just a minute or two, dear boy, and

we'll take ourselves off. This is Mr. Kidd, from one of our most

important papers----"

"Happy to see him another time," snapped Loveland. "Just now I'm in no

temper to entertain strangers."

"But at least," Cadwallader Hunter protested, "you mustn't look on me as

a stranger, my dear fellow--and if there's anything I can do----"

"My dear fellow," Loveland flung back at him, in angry mimicry, "if you

keep on, I'm more likely to look on you as a bore. The one thing you can

do for me is to go, and take your newspaper friend with you. Good

morning."

And the bear shot back into his den, banging the door.

[Illustration: "'_The one thing you can do for me is to go, and take

your newspaper friend with you_'"]

"The British Lion before his midday meal," remarked the representative

of "New York Light." "Another minute, and he'd have snatched a free

lunch--Kidd with Hunter Sauce! But serve me up on toast if he hasn't got

sauce enough of his own."

"He comes of a hot-tempered family." Cadwallader Hunter explained his

English relative.

"I should say they'd been hot ever since William the Conqueror,"

commented Mr. Kidd. "Good family to keep away from when you haven't got

your gun. I forgot mine this morning."

But he had not forgotten his stylographic pen.

The moment that the door had slammed, Loveland's ears tingled with the

consciousness that not only had he been guilty of a very rude act, but a

particularly stupid one.

He had never liked Cadwallader Hunter, had lately grown tired and sick

of him, and detested him cordially now, for a peppery second or two; yet

all this did not do away with _noblesse oblige_. Nothing could excuse

forgetfulness of one's obligation, the obligation to be a gentleman; and

Loveland was irritably aware that he had forgotten it.

He reminded himself that a great liberty had been taken with him at an

inopportune moment, that he was not used to having liberties taken with

him at the best of times, and that Cadwallader Hunter deserved all he

had got for coming up to him uninvited, with a stranger--a newspaper

man--in tow. Still, Val was not happy, and if he had not been too

stubbornly proud to yield to his first impulse, he would have flung open

the door and run after his visitors with apologies. But no; he would not

do it. A bad precedent to make with a person like Cadwallader Hunter, he

said, excusing himself. The Major would take advantage of it; and as

for the journalist, he--Lord Loveland--stood on purple heights so lofty

that he need fear no spiteful yapping of dogs on lower levels. Nothing

could drag him down to their depths; and as his idea was that American

newspaper men were no slaves to truth, he told himself that this one

would probably have lied in any case.

With such thoughts vaguely stirring in his mind, and assured that

Cadwallader Hunter's past civility had been entirely for what he could

get, Loveland tried to re-establish friendly relations with his own

conscience; but the uneasy pricking would not stop. It drove him up and

down, in and out of one beautifully furnished room to another, in

irrepressible restlessness, and a presentiment of worse things to come

than he had yet suffered.

He had meant, when his unpacking was done, to dress and lunch in the

restaurant, whose fame had reached even the dining-room of the Guard's

Club. But that was before the Nightmare. Now he did not want to look at

his fellow-beings or be looked at; and he pressed his electric bell

viciously to order luncheon sent up.

It came presently, and would have been delicious to a man without a

grievance, but Loveland's grievance was so gigantic that it had crowded

out his appetite; and scarcely knowing what he ate, he went through

course after course, brooding on his wrongs, and pondering the chances

of revenge.

Useless to waste money in cabling instructions for Foxham's arrest, he

reflected. The wretch, who had planned everything so well, would long

ago have taken himself out of harm's way, and it would be like setting

Scotland Yard to look for a very small, rusty needle in a haystack as

big as England and the Continent, to expect the thievish valet to be

found. Months ago, in an expansive moment, when Loveland had nothing

better to do than listen while his boots were being laced, Foxham had

confessed that at one time he had been an actor, "in a humble way." His

speciality had been quick disguises, "lightning changes"; and he had

been successful in a "turn" done at provincial music halls. Loveland

could imagine Foxham disguising himself very well, and being almost as

good an actor as he had been a valet. He was perhaps masquerading now as

a Salvation Army Preacher, or a Beauty Specialist; or setting up as a

grocer on the money got by the betrayal of his master.

No, Loveland decided, he need not hope to punish Foxham. His time might

be better employed in planning the reconstruction of his own wardrobe.

A man, even a Marquis, can live without tie pins or a change of shirt

studs, but he cannot live without such clothes as Society expects of

him. Loveland thought with almost passionate regret of his tailor's

achievements, lost to him for ever, and with anxiety of the difficult

matter it would be to replace them.

The hundred and fifty pounds represented by his letter of credit could

not be spared for American tailors and bootmakers; that went without

saying. These persons would have to trust him. But--were American

tailors and bootmakers of a trusting nature? Loveland had somehow got

the impression that they were not, and that even if you were a

Duke--much less a Marquis--and flaunted a copy of Burke under their

noses, they would still want some native millionaire to guarantee them

against loss.

Cadwallader Hunter was not a millionaire (this was the one damaging

statement he had voluntarily made against himself) but he knew

millionaires and was known by them; and with a pang of selfish regret,

even sharper than his first remorse, Loveland repented his wastefulness

in throwing away such a friend. If he had not slammed the door almost

upon Cadwallader Hunter's high, thin nose, he might now have summoned

him by telephone, and have got him to trot about introducing the Marquis

of Loveland to the best tailors in New York. Of course, the Major would

not accept the snub as final: he was not that sort of person; but it was

beneath the Loveland dignity to insult a man and then ask a favour of

him. The only thing for Val to do was to wait until he had collected

other friends more solid, more valuable, than Cadwallader Hunter, and as

soon as possible tell the tale of his misfortunes. Of course, everybody

would be delighted to help Lord Loveland; and, by the way, there was Mr.

Coolidge who could be approached, if worst came to worst.

But worst had not yet come to worst, and as Val's spirits rose with a

mingling of good food and bright hopes, he decided against Coolidge as a

refuge for the present. In spite of all, he would stick to his guns and

not forgather further with the _Mauretania_ people until he had seen

what Harborough's letters produced. He could get on for a day or two,

and meanwhile there were things to do.

When he had been cheered by luncheon, and soothed by cigarettes, he sent

for a motor taxi-cab. The afternoon was still young, and so full of

sparkle and gayety that life seemed worth living after all; therefore

Lord Loveland had begun to value himself almost as highly as ever, by

the time his smart little automobile pulled up in front of the bank.

It was a stately bank, well worthy of its London connection; and he

handed in his visiting card and letter of credit, with the air of one

entitled to receive unlimited sums. The cashier, however, having looked

at him, the card, and the letter, did not appear to be impressed.

Instead of replying in words to Loveland's demand for twenty pounds, he

walked away with the letter of credit in his hand, and vanished behind a

swing door. Loveland thought that he had probably gone to fetch the

manager, who would perhaps desire to see in person a titled client of

some importance. But after a short delay the cashier returned alone, and

having strolled back to his place behind the grating, there stood silent

for a moment.

"I'm rather in a hurry," said Loveland. "I suppose there'll be no red

tape about my getting twenty pounds? I want it this afternoon."

The cashier smiled a dry smile, and his voice sounded dry as he

answered. "I don't know about the red tape, but I'm sorry to tell you we

have no instructions from London to pay."

"What?" cried Val, reddening with annoyance. Several people writing

cheques or waiting for money at the counter, looked up and continued to

look. "You have no instructions?"

"No instructions to pay," repeated the cashier, putting on the last word

an emphasis which sounded offensive to Loveland's ears, though he

hastily assured himself that it could not possibly have any such

meaning.

"This is very inconvenient," said Val, to whom Bridge and tips on

shipboard had left exactly seventeen shillings, three pence halfpenny.

"I'm sorry for that," remarked the cashier, still more formally, more

unsympathetically, and--one might almost have said--more

disrespectfully, than before.

Loveland, though inclined to storm, reflected a moment. He had intended

to sail on the _Baltic_, which was due to leave English shores only

yesterday, and might not arrive at New York for seven or eight days. He

had not given anyone notice--not even his mother--that he had changed

his intention, and very likely the London papers had paragraphed him as

a passenger on the _Baltic's_ next trip. Nevertheless, he could not

quite understand how that fact excused his London bank's delay in

instructing their New York correspondents. They had had plenty of time

to arrange his affairs before his sudden departure in the _Mauretania_,

and by not doing so they were likely to make him a great deal of

unnecessary trouble.

Again he thought of Cadwallader Hunter. In this instance, too, the man

might have been useful.

"Well, I don't see why I should be made to suffer because the London and

Southern Bank puts off till tomorrow what it ought to have done a week

ago," said Loveland, beginning to be arrogant, though looking boyish,

with his flushed face, and his white scar glimmering on its background

of clear, ruddy-brown. "I must have some money, you know."

The cashier did not reply to this challenge, and his eyes expressed no

interested consideration of the matter.

"You had better see your manager and explain the circumstances," pursued

Val.

"It would be useless. We could not pay without instructions."

"I daresay I might manage with ten pounds till you could get an answer,

if you choose to be so ridiculously over-cautious," Loveland insisted,

loftily. "But in that case you must cable at once."

"You will no doubt be willing to pay for the message in advance?"

suggested the cashier.

"Certainly not," said Val, no longer trying to keep his temper under

control. "You've seen my card. Isn't that enough for you?"

"Business is business," quoted the bank employé, still unruffled, still

blind to Lord Loveland's importance, cold to his necessities.

"And decency's decency," stormed Val, careless now who looked or

listened, and in a mood to wreck all American institutions.

"Yes, it's as well never to forget that," the cashier hinted,

significantly. "Sorry we cannot accommodate you at present."

"I'm hanged if you ever get the chance again," retorted Val, snatching

his letter of credit from the counter. "I shall myself send a cable to

the London and Southern which will make you repent your pig-headedness."

And with this ultimatum he strode to the door, as if on the way to sign

a death-warrant.

"By his looks, that will be an expensive cable, and make the wire mighty

hot," Val heard a man chuckle as he passed, and there was a spatter of

laughter, which (for his eyes) painted the opposite sky-scrapers bright

scarlet.

"Beastly America! Beastly Americans!" he muttered. "I suppose this is

their way of resenting the existence of aristocracy."

Lord Loveland had a good deal to learn yet about America--and also about

that important member of the aristocracy, himself.

As he returned to his motor cab, which had been "taxing" away violently

since he left it, he wondered if he would have enough money to pay for

it. But, what if he hadn't? He could tip the chauffeur, and the hotel

would do the rest. Also the hotel would put down the cash for a dozen

cablegrams. Oh, the sting of these pin-pricks would last no longer than

the poison of mosquito-bites! Once Jim Harborough's friends began to

rally round him, and vie among each other for his society, as the

Mauretanians had done, New York would be his to play with. Patience,

then, and shuffle the cards. As he had heard someone say on shipboard,

"Faint heart never won a game of poker."

It was thus he smoothed away the sulky frown which suited neither his

face, nor the gentle Indian-summer sunshine. Then, trying to forget the

first snub man had ever dared to deal him, he flashed here and there in

his motor cab, making a house to house distribution of Jim's envelopes

and his own visiting cards, according to home custom when armed with

letters of introduction.

The sky flamed with sunset banners--Spanish colours--long before he had

finished his round and was ready to return to the Waldorf. There, his

idea of a suitable present to the chauffeur left him with the American

equivalent of eight or nine shillings in his pocket. But, as he had

expected, the hotel paid for his afternoon's motoring. So cheerfully did

it pay that he sent off an unnecessarily long and extremely frank

cablegram to his London bankers which they ought to receive on opening

their doors next morning. He thought that it would rather wake them up,

and that in consequence of their response to New York--certain to flash

immediately along the wires--he would receive an apology from the rude

wretch who had insulted him that afternoon. But nothing would induce him

to forget or forgive. He had informed the London bankers that his

business must be diverted into another channel, which they were invited

to suggest.

When Loveland found himself alone again in his luxurious suite of rooms,

with the November night coming on, and no amusement on hand (unless he

chose to stare down from his high windows at the blaze of astonishing

jewels which festooned the immense blue dusk with light and colour) he

half wished once more that he had not been so cautious in the matter of

accepting invitations. After all, it wouldn't have compromised his

future, if he had gone to dine with the Coolidges, or Spanish-eyed,

flirtatious Mrs. Milton and her gentle little daughter Fanny. A dinner

with them--or even with the dullest people who had invited him--would

have been preferable to an undiluted dose of his own society on this

first night in a strange land. However, it was too late to reconsider

now with dignity (though he was childishly confident that any of his

American acquaintances would have been entranced, had he suddenly

changed his mind) and the next best thing to dining with friends would

be to watch the coming and going of gay New York in the Waldorf-Astoria

restaurant.

He dressed and went down about eight, therefore, looking forward to the

novelty of the unknown.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Discovery of Lord Loveland by America

It was a brilliant scene into the midst of which Loveland plunged.

Society begins to dine earlier in New York than in London; therefore at

eight o'clock dinner was in full swing. There was scarcely an empty

table; and many of the women being in hats and semi-evening dress, the

red and gold restaurant suggested to the newcomer a living picture of

Paris.

He had had the forethought to telephone down and order a table to be

kept for him, and informing an interrogative waiter that he was Lord

Loveland he learned that his place would be found at the far end of the

room.

It looked a very far end indeed, gazing across an intervening sea of

flowerlike hats, charming faces, and jewelled necks that glimmered white

under film of lace and tulle; but Loveland was not shy. Among all the

men who protected the charming faces, his sweeping, faintly supercilious

glance did not show him one whose physical advantages he need envy. He

rather enjoyed his progress, winding on and on along narrow paths

between rose-burdened tables, with lovely eyes lifting to his as he

passed by. He wondered if any pair of those eyes was destined to look

down his own table at Loveland Castle some day. Well, they should be

beautiful eyes to deserve the honour! the thought slipped vaguely

through his head, and then his own eyes brightened with the light of

recognition.

There, at a large table decorated with white and purple violets, sat

Elinor Coolidge, her father, Mrs. Milton and Fanny, and two men whom

Loveland had never seen before. Standing, and bending slightly down to

talk in a confidential tone with one of these men, was Major Cadwallader

Hunter.

His back was turned towards Loveland, who recognised him instantly,

however, by the set of his high, military shoulders, and the bald spot

on his head which Lesley Dearmer had likened to the shape of Italy on

the map. He seemed to listen with deep interest to what one of the

seated men was saying, and then to chime in eagerly with some addition

of his own. Everyone at the table was absorbed in the conversation

between these two, and as Loveland came nearer, he saw that the

expression of all the faces, including those of the three ladies, was so

grave as to appear out of keeping with the liveliness of the scene.

Suddenly, however, Loveland caught Fanny Milton's eye. She started, and

blushed scarlet. The slight, involuntary movement she made drew Miss

Coolidge's attention: and Elinor, seeing the direction in which Fanny's

eyes were turned, sent a glance that way.

Loveland, within bowing distance now, met the glance, and returned it,

smiling. He was annoyed that Cadwallader Hunter should be with the

party, even though evidently not of it. Yet, after all, he said to

himself, perhaps it was as well. He did not mean to apologise to

Cadwallader Hunter, for he thought his own rudeness more or less

justified by the liberty the other had taken; but he had already made

up his mind that, the next time he met the man, he would act as if

nothing disagreeable had happened. As to Cadwallader Hunter's readiness

to snatch at the olive branch, Loveland had not the slightest doubt of

it. He thought he had only to hold out a hand for the Major to kiss it,

grovelling.

Elinor Coolidge did not blush at the sight of Lord Loveland as Fanny

Milton did, but her beautiful face changed curiously. Its cameo-clear

lines hardened, her lips were pressed together, and her large eyes

narrowed, gleaming like topazes between their dark lashes, as the lights

from the shaded candles on the table lighted sparks in their

yellow-brown depths.

The thought flashed into Loveland's head that the quick change in her

face meant jealousy of Fanny Milton. He had noticed more than once on

shipboard that she had seemed jealous of Fanny, and now that deep blush

of the younger girl's at sight of him, had probably vexed her. He could

not attribute the hardening of the beautiful features to any other

cause, and as of the two it was wise to prefer Elinor and her millions

to Fanny and her thousands, he let his first look, his first words, be

for the Coolidges, father and daughter.

"How d'you do?" he asked, pausing at the table.

Instead of answering, or putting out her hand to him as he expected,

Elinor almost convulsively grasped the sticks of a delicate little fan

which lay beside her plate. She shot a topaz glance at one of the two

new men, then let her eyes under raised brows seek and hold her

father's.

Lord Loveland was at once surprised and puzzled by this extraordinary

reception. "Can Cadwallader Hunter have told them all some lie to set

them against me?" he asked himself. But it was no more than a passing

thought. It was incredible that Miss Coolidge should believe anything

against him.

At the sound of Loveland's voice, Cadwallader Hunter straightened up in

haste and turned round, looking suddenly stiff and wicked as a frozen

snake.

He stared into Loveland's eyes, his own like grey glass; and an

unpromising smile depressed the corners of his thin lips.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" thought Val, with the carelessness of a man used

to dominating situations. "He's afraid I'm not going to speak to him,

and he daren't speak first for fear of being snubbed again. Well"--and

Val felt pleasantly magnanimous--"I'll give him a lead. How are you?" he

asked, with the patronising tone his voice unconsciously took when he

spoke to this man.

Then he could hardly believe his eyes which told him that Cadwallader

Hunter had turned a contemptuous shoulder upon him, darting disgust in a

venomous glance.

"This is the--person we were speaking of," he said to the dark,

clean-shaven man towards whom he had been bending (he seemed always to

be bending towards someone) when Loveland came up. "Shall we have him

turned out?"

Mr. Coolidge half rose in his seat, losing his characteristic stolidity.

"No, no," he returned, in a low, decided voice, "there must be no scene

here, for the ladies' sake. Keep quiet, everybody."

"You're right, Coolidge," returned the dark, smooth-faced man.

Then the latter fixed his eyes on Loveland with a stare under a frown;

and the other new man stared also; but the three women looked away,

trying in vain to think of something easy and natural to say to each

other. A slight, nervous twitching which occasionally disturbed the

tranquillity of Mrs. Milton's camellia-white face became visible; Elinor

Coolidge was pale and motionless; and Fanny's eyes swam in a lake of

tears which she struggled to keep from over-flowing.

Again it struck Loveland that he was living in a dream; the gorgeous

room; the crowd of well-dressed men and beautiful women; the hurrying

waiters; the lights; the fragrance of flowers and food, and scented

laces; the chatter of laughing voices subdued by distance; and more

unreal than all, the table surrounded by the faces that he knew, faces

he had expected to find smiling in friendship, now frozen into something

like horror--horror at him, Lord Loveland, whom everybody had always

wanted and admired.

It could not be true. It was not happening really. Things like this did

not happen.

He stood for a moment, stupidly, like a boy in the school-room who has

been bidden to stand up and be stared at as a punishment for some

misdemeanour. He was almost inclined to laugh at the insolence of

Cadwallader Hunter, as a lion might laugh at a fox terrier worrying his

foot. It was on his lips to say, "What a tempest in a tea-pot! Surely

you're not going to believe any idiotic tale that tuft-hunting ass may

have trumped up about me?"

But he bit back the words. If they chose to champion Cadwallader Hunter

in his silly grievance against a Marquis of Loveland, why, let them.

They would be sorry afterwards--when it was too late. To sneer

Cadwallader Hunter down as he deserved would be to make a disagreeable

scene, and the business was squalid enough already. He would have

thought better of the Coolidges, if not of the Miltons, mother and

daughter; but he said to himself that none of them were worth even the

shrug of the shoulders he gave, as with his head held gallantly high, he

passed on towards his own table.

The little dramatic episode, if observed by any audience, had been

played too subtly to be understood by those not concerned. Those seated

nearest might have seen that, when a handsome young man stopped to speak

to some members of a party at a table, another man who did not belong to

that party, had looked at him scornfully and whispered venomously; that

then one or two others had spoken hurriedly, and that the handsome young

man had stalked away apparently in disgust.

But several of the neighbours knew the party at the table by sight, and

Cadwallader Hunter also. These consulted together, and wondered who was

the tall young man who looked like an Englishman. The women commented

flatteringly upon his face or his figure, but the men were of the

opinion that, judging by the way Cadwallader Hunter ("Pepys Junior" they

called him) had eyed the chap he must be the rankest kind of an

outsider.

There were two chairs at Loveland's table-placed in case he might choose

to bring a guest--and he deliberately selected the one which put him

with his back to the Coolidge party. But he had forgotten that Major

Cadwallader Hunter was not one of that party, and might wander at will

to any part of the dining-room. Presently he did begin to wander,

stopping to talk with another group of people, then with another, and so

on, always on his way somewhere else.

Loveland, utterly sick now of his late friend, did not bestow a glance

upon the thin, high-shouldered figure as it paused and flitted, flitted

and paused, like a fastidious bee in a flower-garden. A polite waiter

had slipped a menu into the hand of Loveland, who regarded the decorated

square of cardboard as if it were a fetish to preserve him from evil.

But if he had deigned to let his eye follow Cadwallader Hunter, he would

have seen that each group of people glanced with furtive curiosity at

him; stared, whispered, stared again, and afterwards signalled each

other from table to table, across flowery spaces, lifting eyebrows and

exchanging signs of a secret intelligence.

Cadwallader Hunter prided himself on knowing all the people who were

worth knowing, wherever he went, and those he did not know at the start,

he generally contrived to know at the finish. He had at least twenty or

thirty acquaintances in the restaurant of the Waldorf-Astoria tonight;

and having heard from one of these a startling piece of news (which

would have been less welcome yesterday) he dropped bits of the rich

honey-pollen here and there, as he made his way towards the door. He had

dined early, because he had been minded to show himself, rather late, at

the first performance of a new comedy by the brilliant young playwright,

Sidney Cremer; but now he found himself appearing on the stage and

acting almost a leading part in a drama a hundred times more exciting

than he could see at any theatre. He went straight from the restaurant

to the long row of desks in the hotel office for a heart to heart talk

with the clerk he had interviewed in the morning. Then, having made the

impression and obtained the assurance he desired, he searched for other

acquaintances in that vast, decorative corridor of marble, facetiously

known as "Peacock Alley." He knew several of the best Peacocks there

(for there were all kinds, from North, South, West and East, to many of

whom Cadwallader Hunter would not have deigned to bow, even if they were

smeared with gold and dipped in diamonds), and he talked to those of his

choice more loudly than he had talked in the dining-room. Acquaintances

whom he button-holed, and strangers who could catch the drift of what he

was saying--listened with interest, and then sat or stood about with the

air of expecting that some exciting event might happen.

Meanwhile Loveland ordered his dinner, though not quite as carefully as

he would had it not been for the disagreeable little incident which he

tried to forget as if it were but one more in the series of pin-pricks.

As he had no money--at present--to pay for it, he thought he might as

well drown his vexations in champagne, and asked for a bottle of the

brand he liked best, without even enquiring the New York conception of

its price.

As the waiter would have gone off with the order, Val called him back,

on a sudden thought. "Do you know the names of the people at the table

where I stopped?"

"Yes, sir," replied the man. "They are very well known here. We often

have them dining and lunching. Mr. Coolidge is a millionaire. He and his

daughter are just back from Europe, and Mrs. and Miss Milton, too."

"Yes, yes," said Loveland, impatiently. "I know all that. But the

others?"

"Oh, the smooth shaved gentleman with the black hair and prominent eyes,

he's Mr. Milton, Mrs. Milton's husband, rather a gay sort of gentleman,

sir. The story is, he and Mrs. Milton don't get along very pleasantly.

There'll be plenty here tonight will be interested, seeing them together

just after her coming home with the young lady. And the other gentleman,

sir, the good-looking, young one with the dark moustache, that's one of

our greatest New York swells, Mr. Henry van Cotter. He----"

"Thank you. That will do," broke in Loveland, suddenly annoyed by the

servant's knowing loquacity. The name of Henry van Cotter had, in such a

connection, stirred a dim sense of discomfort within him. This van

Cotter was one of Harborough's friends. Val had left Jim's letter, and a

visiting card this afternoon at a huge palace of an "apartment house,"

where Mr. van Cotter had a flat.

The waiter, thus checked, trotted away with the order for dinner, and

was so long in returning that Val (who did not see him stopped and

harangued by a grave-faced superior) wondered and grew impatient. Other

people were served, while he still sat idle. He was not hungry, for an

angry tingling in his veins had burnt up his appetite for dinner, as his

keenness for luncheon had been destroyed, but he resented being kept

waiting, as if he were a person of no importance.

At last he saw his waiter coming back, and was about to ask irritably

whether the man thought it was tomorrow's breakfast he'd ordered, when a

sealed envelope of the hotel paper was laid on the table in place of the

expected oysters.

The servant discreetly retired out of sight behind his lordship's chair,

like a little boy who has lit a squib and awaits the explosion; and

Loveland tore open the envelope which, very oddly, he thought, was not

addressed.

He had a vague expectation that the contents would prove to be a note

from Cadwallader Hunter, and the reality came upon him as a complete

surprise.

"Sir," he read, in neat typing, "the management of the hotel presents

its compliments, and informs you that the suite you are occupying will

be required from this evening, also that they regret they have no other

room to place at your disposal. They therefore enclose your account up

to date, and request the favour of immediate payment. Should you wish

for dinner and wine, they would be obliged if you would kindly pay in

advance. The bill for same (as ordered by you) is enclosed separately

from the other account."

Now, surely, he would at last wake up from this wild nightmare, and find

himself at home in England, or still on the ship. Nothing had seemed

real since he landed, and could not be real. Foxham could not have

stolen his clothes; the New York bank could not have refused to give him

money; Cadwallader Hunter could not have induced Henry van Cotter, the

Coolidges and Miltons to cut him; and, above all, the hotel he honoured

with his patronage could not have flung in his face this monstrous

insult.

Nevertheless, there was the bill staring up at him, as he stared down at

it.

Private Parlour, bedroom and bath........... $ 75.

Luncheon served à la carte in parlour....... $ 6.50

Wine........................................ $ 5.

Cablegram sent to London & Southern bank.... $ 10.50

Hire of Automobile three hours.............. $ 15.

--------

Total............................... $122.

Dinner, as ordered, and to be paid in advance $ 8.50

Champagne.................................... $ 10.

Lord Loveland, hardly knowing what he said or did in the persistent

nightmare from which he could not wake, called the waiter to him, from

ambush behind his chair.

The man came, with eyes cast patiently down, not to meet the angry blaze

turned dangerously upon him. He knew that something was wrong, very

wrong, indeed, but it was not his affair, except that he was consumed

with honest curiosity, and he did not wish grievances to be visited on

him.

"There must be some mistake here," said Loveland, folding up the paper,

and replacing the three sheets in the envelope, with fingers that were

not quite steady. "This can't be for me. You see, there's no name on the

thing. You've brought it to the wrong person."

"No--o, sir," returned the servant. "I was told to bring it to you. If

there's a mistake, sir, it isn't me who's made it."

"Very well, then, somebody else has," insisted Loveland. "I tell you

this can't possibly be meant for me. Give the envelope back to whoever

gave it to you, and ask him to hand it to the manager, saying that in

error it was delivered to Lord Loveland."

"Yes, sir." The waiter obediently took charge of the offensive envelope,

and ambled away with it, to confer at a distance with the person from

whom it had been received five minutes ago. There were a few gestures, a

few shrugs, and then the two approached Lord Loveland's table together.

"It's quite right, sir," murmured the newcomer. "The letter _is_ for

you, sir. There's no mistake." As if by way of reminder he gently laid

the envelope down on the table, in the place where those iced Blue

Points never would be now.

Deadly white under his brown tan, Val rose without a word, crumpling the

envelope in a hand that itched to clutch someone by the throat, and

flinging down a silver dollar for the waiter. The Coolidges and their

party were still at the violet-decked table as Loveland passed by, but

he did not see them. He had forgotten their existence.

"Papa, the Major _has_ done it!" exclaimed Elinor Coolidge, looking

across at her father, who sat between Mrs. Milton and Fanny.

"Yes, he has done it," replied Mr. Coolidge, smiling the wooden smile

which was of fair, carved ivory when reproduced on the beautiful face of

his daughter. "I don't know what's come over the Major since this

morning. He seemed to love that Englishman like a son, on board the

_Mauretania_; but tonight he fairly jumped out of himself with joy when

he heard Van Cotter's piece of news."

"I'm sure we were all as nice as we could be to Lord--to _him_,"

faltered Fanny Milton, who had drained the lake from her eyes when no

one was looking, but only to make way, it seemed, for a new supply of

salt water.

"Oh, speak for yourself, Fanny," said Mrs. Milton, with her exaggerated

English accent. "As for me, I----"

"Why, Mamma, you were just _lovely_ to him, every minute!" cried the

girl, defending herself briskly. "If you weren't married, with a

grown-up daughter, people might have thought you were in love with him

yourself, sometimes."

"Nonsense!" retorted Fanny's mother, darting a furious look at her

child. "The way you talk shows you're _not_ grown up."

"I always thought he was the most conceited young man I ever saw," broke

in Elinor Coolidge. "I could have boxed his ears often, and it would

have served him right. I just enjoy this. It's like a play."

"Well, I think that's real mean of you, Elinor," said Fanny. "And I

don't see how you can feel that way. He looks so pale--it makes me sick

to think what he's got to go through, poor fellow, and he's so handsome!

Did you ever see anything as beautiful as he looked just now when he

went stalking by us with his head high, and his face pale, and his eyes

like blue fire?"

"I certainly never saw a British 'Lord' as handsome. They don't make 'em

like that," said good-looking Henry van Cotter; and then they all

laughed--all except Fanny Milton. She was wondering what Lesley Dearmer

would do, if she were here tonight, instead of tearing away towards

Louisville as fast as an express train could carry her. Lesley had been

Loveland's friend, in quite an unpretending, humble little way, knowing

that she was no match for him, and never could be. But Lesley was a

strange girl. She thought of such odd, original things to do. Would she

do anything odd and original if she were here now? And if she did, would

it be for or against the man who was down?

* * * * *

As it happened, Lesley was thinking of Lord Loveland at that very

moment. Perhaps it was a kind of telepathy which brought her image so

clearly before Fanny Milton's eyes; for Lesley's thoughts included

Fanny.

It was not yet time for the coloured porters to begin "making down" the

beds in the sleeping cars, and Lesley and her aunt sat opposite one

another, each with a book in her hand. Mrs. Loveland had a story of the

South, as she could dimly remember it, before the Civil War, and she was

reading with interest half sad, half pleased. Lesley had a novel, too,

one which had been making quite a sensation while she was in Europe, and

her aunt had bought it for her in the Grand Central Station, before

taking the train. She had often said that she would like to read the

book, but now, though her eyes travelled from one line to another, and

she mechanically turned a page here and there, she did not even know the

names of the characters, or what they were saying or doing.

The panting of the great engine and the rushing roar of the wheels had

come to have a refrain for her. "Never again--never again," she heard

them say, as if the words were shouted spitefully into her ears. "Never

see him again--never again. He'll forget you--forget you. Soon he'll

marry--marry some rich girl."

Then she wondered who the rich girl would be. Elinor Coolidge, perhaps?

Elinor was very rich, and very beautiful, and already very proud.

Everything about her was superlative. A great many glowing descriptive

adjectives were called for, when one only thought about Elinor, and

Lesley's experience as a story-writer had made her expert with

adjectives--painfully expert, it seemed now, as her imagination ran

ahead--even ahead of the rushing train--to picture Elinor as a bride.

"Oh, I'm sure she wouldn't make him happy!" Lesley thought, and then

asked herself whether Lord Loveland deserved to be happy.

No, of course he didn't deserve happiness with a girl he married for

money. Yet Lesley couldn't bear to think of him as miserable or

disappointed in life. The brilliant sparks which showered past the train

windows seemed to her like the moments she had spent with Loveland,

moments left behind for ever now, and she could not help wishing that

she might live them over again.

"Perhaps I might have helped him to be different, if I'd tried," she

said to herself, as she watched the specks of fire which flashed and

died. "But I _didn't_ try. I was too proud to try, I suppose. It was a

silly kind of pride, for he could be--he could be such a _man_, if he

knew himself, and would live up to himself."

Elinor could not help him to do that. She was not the kind of girl to

dream of the existence of that real self, of which Lesley had fancied

she caught glimpses sometimes, as if behind a veil that never had been

torn aside. Miss Coolidge would be well enough satisfied with Lord

Loveland as he was, for she would only want from him material things,

such things as she could afford to buy with her money. And if they

married, the bright loveableness in Val's nature would be clouded and

obscured. He would grow hard, and wholly selfish.

But with Fanny Milton, if he should marry her?

It was just as Lesley asked herself this question, that Fanny's thoughts

flew to Lesley, wondering what Lesley would do if she saw Lord Loveland

held up to public scorn.

"Fanny would love him," Lesley reflected. "But----" Her mind paused at

that "But," and she took herself to task for mean jealousy because it

was in her head, or her heart, that Fanny would not love him in the way

best for his highest development. "She'd spoil and pet him, and make him

worse than he is now, because it's a strong tonic, not a diet of sugar

that he needs. And if he said a cross word, or looked at another woman,

Fanny would cry."

Although Lesley knew that all this was true, still she was afraid that

jealousy of a girl looked upon by Lord Loveland as eligible, was really

the foundation of her argument.

"I _am_ jealous," she admitted, "although I have no right to be. I could

have made him care enough about me to lose his head and say that if I'd

promise to marry him, he'd count the world well lost. Oh, yes, I could

have done that! I know it. But how would he have felt, the minute the

words were out of his mouth? He'd have regretted them bitterly, and

thought himself mad. Then, even if I'd said 'no'--which I would have

said, of course,--he'd have thought forever with a kind of wild horror

of the narrow escape he'd had, and all his memory of me would have been

spoiled. Oh, I'm glad, glad, I kept it to friendship from first to last,

and laughed at him always! I told him that he'd forget, and that I

wanted him to forget; but I don't, and he won't. Just because we were

friends, and because I laughed, and was different from the others, he'll

remember--even years from now, when he's married, and the world has

given him all it can."

Of course Lesley ought not to have been glad that Loveland would

remember her as the one dear blessing he had been denied, and think of

her when it would be more suitable that he should be thinking of his

Marchioness; but she was glad, with a kind of fierce gladness that hurt,

and made her young face look strained in the crude white light of the

sleeping-car.

"Dear me, Lesley, that must be an exciting book!" complained Aunt

Barbara. "I've spoken to you twice without your hearing."

"I'm so sorry, dear," said Lesley.

"What's it about?" asked the elder woman, who had dutifully put away her

novel, because it had occurred to her that it was time to go to bed.

"About?" echoed Lesley. "Oh--about love. And marrying the wrong people."

"What a pity!" sighed Aunt Barbara. "I do think stories ought all to end

well, don't you?"

"Some can't," said the girl. "It wouldn't be for the best, I suppose, if

they did."

"You look tired, dear," said Mrs. Loveland. "How happy and peaceful we

shall feel when we're at home again."

"I wonder?" answered Lesley. But she whispered the words too softly for

Aunt Barbara to hear.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Exit Lord Loveland

Loveland walked out of the dining-room of the Waldorf-Astoria hardly

knowing what he meant to do.

His wish was to punish those who had insulted him; but how?--was the

question ringing in his brain. A gentleman could not knock down a

management, or punch its head. "A Management" seemed intangible, out of

reach.

Val's first thought was to march up to the desk, and "have a row" with

somebody, but an instant's reflection showed him that it would be more

in accordance with dignity to go to his own quarters and command a

representative of the "Management" to come to him.

This resolve he carried out. Having reached his room, and called down

through the telephone for the manager, he was not kept waiting long

before a gentlemanly, middle-aged person appeared at his sitting-room

door.

"Are you the manager of this hotel?" Loveland enquired brusquely.

"I represent the manager," the newcomer returned.

"Very well, then," said Loveland. "I want you to tell me the meaning of

this." And he indicated the typewritten letter and the two bills, which

he had laid conspicuously on the table.

The man scarcely glanced at the papers, about which he was evidently

well informed already. "The meaning is, that unfortunately we're obliged

to request that you vacate this suite immediately," he replied.

"Then, this notice is actually intended for me?"

"It certainly is."

"Why were the rooms let to me this morning if they were wanted tonight?"

"That I can't say. I only know they are wanted."

"Suppose I refuse to go?"

"Oh, I guess you won't do that."

"You're right," said Val. "I wouldn't stop here now if you paid _me_

twelve times as much as you want me to pay _you_. And, by the way--I

can't pay tonight. You'll have to wait till tomorrow, when I can get to

the--er--bank."

"I'm afraid we can't wait," the other answered quickly. "If you aren't

able to pay we shall have to keep your baggage till you do."

Loveland stared. "That's a little too steep, isn't it?" he sneered. "You

turn me out of your hotel in the most insulting and unprovoked manner,

and then expect me to go somewhere else without my luggage. Are these

American manners with foreigners?"

"They have to be, with some foreigners," returned the other, smiling

mysteriously.

"I intend to go now, whether you like or not," said Val, "and take my

luggage with me."

"You can't take it unless you pay your bill. That's the law, and our

police know how to enforce it. If I were you I wouldn't do anything to

make it necessary to call the police. Once in their hands, you might be

quite a while getting out, you know."

Loveland clenched his hands, to keep from striking this mouth-piece of

the "Management." He would not be drawn into a vulgar brawl, as a

preface to his New York campaign in search of an heiress. Things had

begun badly enough, as they were, but nothing had happened yet at which

he might not be able to laugh--rather bitterly perhaps--tomorrow. He had

heard of horrors in connection with the New York police; innocent

British visitors arrested and kept for days in gaol, for some offence

never committed; the newspapers printing lies about them, to be copied

in London, and read by their shocked acquaintances. Such things he had

been told, and though they mightn't be true, Loveland could not afford

to risk any such incident for himself. He was far too important.

It seemed to him that there was a peculiar significance, almost a

menace, in the hint he had just been given. If he were a criminal

escaping from justice, instead of a British peer with a proud name which

he would willingly bestow on a daughter of America, just such an

emphasis might have been used to warn him that he had better bear the

ills he knew, if he did not want to incur worse evils.

Val believed that Cadwallader Hunter had somehow contrived to bring

about this hideous state of affairs; though he could not imagine how,

unless all Americans were ready to band together and avenge one

another's fancied wrongs against a stranger. On the face of it, nothing

could be more ridiculous than to suppose that an Englishman of title was

being asked to leave a New York hotel in the evening, because he had

been a little rude to a retired Major and a newspaper man, in the

morning. Yet, for his life, Loveland could think of no other reason; and

his polite but cold companion did not seem inclined to explain, unless

in answer to undignified entreaties.

"My luggage is worth a lot more than what I owe you here," he said.

"We have heard all about that luggage," was the meaning reply.

Val bit his lip. For the moment he had forgotten Foxham's treachery, but

he remembered it now with recurring rage. Evidently the valet had poured

forth the history of the great unpacking episode.

Lord Loveland made no retort to the innuendo, for he was busy with a

mental calculation. His sole worldly possessions in America consisted of

the things he had had in use on board ship. The luggage itself was old,

though good of its kind; and the silver fittings in his suit-case would

not fetch much if sold. As for his watch, it was a mere cheap, stop-gap

affair of gun-metal, bought to tide over the interval until he could

redeem the gold repeater he had rashly pawned in London. The studs and

sleeve-links that he was wearing were the poorest in his collection.

They had been Foxham's choice for the voyage, not his; and now he

understood Foxham's underlying motive.

"In my opinion we shall be lucky if the sale of your effects covers the

bill," calmly went on the representative of the "Management."

"I wouldn't advise your people to try and sell my things!" exclaimed

Loveland.

"They will wait the customary length of time."

"They'd better be jolly careful what they do," Loveland broke out.

"Anyhow, I'm much mistaken if I haven't a case in law against the hotel

already. If I have--and in justice I ought to have--I shall proceed."

The other smiled for the first time. "I don't expect that any of us will

lie awake nights worrying," said he.

Loveland tried to crush the man with a look, but he was not to be so

easily abashed. "I've said all I want to say now," Val informed him

icily. "You can go, and I will give up the rooms when I'm ready."

"That's all right, as long as it's inside half an hour," returned the

other, still with unruffled politeness. "But I have to stay till you do

give them up."

"Why this fondness for my society?" enquired Loveland, with raised

eyebrows.

The man smiled with a certain good-natured perception of the humour in

the situation. "It's duty keeps me as much as pleasure," said he.

"Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest, eh? This hotel seems to

follow that rule with a vengeance. But I'll take the will for the deed.

Strange as it may seem" (Loveland was enjoying his own sarcasm) "I

_want_ you to go."

"Very sorry I can't oblige you."

"Confound you, do you think I'll set the place on fire the minute your

back is turned?"

"Not so much that as--there are other things you might do."

"What other things? Really I should like to know, for the sake of

curiosity."

"Well, if you're bound to get it out of me, I've got to stay and see you

don't remove any articles of value."

"By Jove! So that's it? My own, or yours?"

"What's yours is ours at present, and what's ours is our own--as the

bride said to the bridegroom."

Val could almost have laughed, though not at the joke. He--the Marquis

of Loveland, an officer in the Grenadier Guards--was to be watched lest

he should steal the hotel soap, or sneak off with his own toothbrush!

He went white and red, and white again. If by a word he could have

tumbled the whole hotel down in an earthquake, he would have been

willing to be caught under the ruins. He had a wild, boyish conviction

that by subjecting himself now to the extremest inconvenience, he could

by and by cause the hotel management poignant remorse. Yes, he would

take them at their word. He would walk out of the house just as he was,

leaving everything he had behind him. This would make their guilt the

blacker when it came to be brought up against them, as it would be very

soon, probably as soon as tomorrow. Then they would seek him out, and

crawl in apology, begging him to come back at any price, or at no price.

But nothing would induce him to cross the threshold of the

Waldorf-Astoria again, no, not even if every member of the staff

grovelled at his feet. He would not even take his overcoat, and if he

were struck down with pneumonia, so much the worse for these insolent

people. As for himself, he did not care what happened. He felt as he had

when a little boy, and some tutor of unusual firmness had dared to

reproach him or attempt punishment. At such times he had wished that he

might instantly die, or at the least, fall in a fit, for the sake of

frightening his cruel persecutor.

His cap (his only head-covering, as he had forgotten a bowler on board

ship) lay on a table, and he held it out for the enemy's inspection.

"You say all that is mine is yours," he sneered. "This may have cost six

or seven shillings when it was new. Now it would fetch two at most. I

will pay you for it. Half a crown is the least I have. Pray, keep the

change."

He laid a coin--his last large coin--down on the table where the cap had

been, and without another word walked nonchalantly out of the room.

The gentlemanly man did not follow to protest, or to offer the overcoat,

as Val half fancied he would do. And without stopping to think

coherently, Loveland passed by the lift, scorning to take advantage of

its convenience, and ran down flight after flight of stairs, his blood

drumming in his ears.

A red cloud before his eyes seemed to screen him from the world. Below,

in the great hall through which he had to pass on his way out of the

hotel, lights glared and dazzled, and the talk and laughter of many

persons sounded in his ears like the evil voices of the Black Stones

that beset Arabian Nights' travellers on their way to the Singing Tree

and the Golden Water.

Loveland pushed on, blindly, conscious of himself as the one real entity

in a crowd of Will o' the Wisps, and wicked lure-lights. His sole

concern with the people in the hateful, glaring picture, was that they

should suspect nothing of his feelings. He walked with his head up and

something that he meant for a smile on his lips; nor was it an

affectation that he appeared to recognize no one, though Cadwallader

Hunter--who had been waiting to see this exit--believed it to be.

The Major was standing almost in Loveland's path, speaking with a lady

whose name had been on one of Jim Harborough's envelopes, and as the

tall Englishman came towards him, he deliberately turned his back.

"Sic semper milordibus," he said half aloud. Which far-fetched witticism

made the lady laugh.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Shadows

The night was warm for November in New York; still, there was a decided

crispness in the air which Loveland felt as he went out.

The streets were brilliant with light, and half New York appeared to be

abroad, although the theatres had been in full swing for nearly an hour.

But all the women wore cloaks, and the men overcoats. Loveland, in his

dinner jacket and wide expanse of shirt front, his pumps and silk

stockings, his cloth travelling cap pulled over his eyes, would have

been noticeable even if his height and good looks had not made him a

marked figure. Everybody who passed stared, and more than a few glanced

back at him. Here and there some pretty woman laughed at a joking

comment whispered by her escort; and when his first hot rage began to

cool, it was uncomfortably borne in upon Loveland that he was the

observed of many observers.

Like most Englishmen, he loathed being conspicuous, and in his present

plight it was especially hateful, since being conspicuous meant also to

be ridiculous.

His ears, shut by anger, were opened by vanity, and he heard a woman say

to a man that he "looked as if he'd just been turned down by his best

girl." "And kicked out by Pa," added her companion; at which they both

giggled, and the tingling in Loveland's veins drove out the chill which

had begun to creep in.

He longed to call a cab, and hide himself from staring eyes, but he had

scarcely a shilling left. There was nothing to do but walk on, until he

found some hotel which would take him in on trust. As his brain cooled,

he began to realise that it might be difficult to find any such hotel.

Here he was, on a winter's night, a foreigner in a strange city, walking

the streets without an overcoat, and with only a coin or two in his

pocket. He remembered that, in the afternoon, when dealing out visiting

cards and letters of introduction, he had slipped his cardcase into a

pocket of his overcoat, where it still remained. That overcoat remained

in one of the rooms lately his at the Waldorf-Astoria. What a fool he

had been after all to leave it behind. The watcher could hardly have

torn it off his back. As it was, a whim of silly pride had deprived him

of a means of identification, as well as a decent protection for his

body.

Why should a hotel-keeper consent to take him in, without luggage, and

with nothing save his bare word--not even a bit of engraved

pasteboard--to prove that he was the Marquis of Loveland? He had never

put himself mentally in the place of anything so low down in the social

scale as the keeper of a hotel; yet instinctively he performed the feat

now, and judged the case against his own interests.

Nevertheless, as he did not wish to prowl about New York all night, he

could but try his luck. Meeting a policeman, he enquired for a

respectable, inexpensive hotel in a quiet street, not too far away; and

did his best to look unconscious of the big man's concentrated gaze

fixed on the large white oval of his shirt front.

"Yez might try the New House, on Toyty Thoyd Street," was the advice

that followed upon reflection; and Loveland was obliged to ask three

times before he was able to translate "Toyty Thoyd" into Thirty-third

Street. Then, he had to turn and retrace his steps, for he had been

wandering uptown, and must have covered some distance, as he guessed by

the length of time it took him to reach the Waldorf-Astoria again.

Coming near, so that the huge building loomed above him like a mountain

flaming on all its heights, he was tempted to cross to the other side of

the street; but, ashamed of the impulse as childish, he marched stolidly

ahead, and even forced himself to turn his face towards the brilliant

square of the door-way. As the light caught and photographed him in

passing, a man who had been standing in front of the hotel under the

iron canopy, with the air of waiting for someone, started after

Loveland, walking just fast enough to keep him well in sight.

Val turned into Thirty-third Street, and stopped before the New House,

which advertised itself in a blaze of starry electric letters. The man

on his trail smiled as he saw the tall figure in evening dress hesitate

for an instant, and then hurl himself at a revolving door. He himself

strolled on, but he did not go far. When he had taken a dozen steps he

wheeled, passed the hotel again, took a dozen more steps, and again came

back.

He was a short man, with square shoulders, a large, close-cropped black

head set on a short neck into which a double chin bulged, as if he had

swallowed a sponge, and it had stuck in his throat as it expanded. His

hair glittered like a thick coat of black varnish, and his black eyes

glittered also. They looked out from under heavy lids which pouched

underneath, and were set too close on either side of a well-cut nose. He

was clean shaven, thus making the most of his best feature, a mouth

which was handsome despite the hard lines that deep draughts from the

cup of life had traced round it. The man was well dressed, with a white

silk scarf protecting his evening shirt from the sealskin lining of his

overcoat, and he looked not only successful but confident of success.

Yet there was anxiety and nervous excitement in the flash of his eyes

towards the door of the hotel, each time he passed and repassed.

It was when he had just taken his sixth turn that Loveland shot out

through the revolving door even more suddenly than he had shot in. The

watcher was near enough to see the look on his face--the tenseness of

the lips and drawing together of the eyebrows--and his own expression

said "I thought so!" as plainly as words--if there had been anyone there

to read it. But Loveland was entirely absorbed in himself, and in bitter

thoughts of the hateful experience he had just gone through. He did not

notice the man who lingered not far away, and the few people passing had

no idea that a little drama was being enacted in pantomime under their

eyes. They all looked at the tall young Englishman without an overcoat,

but they did not connect the other man with him.

It was hardly to be hoped that there would be a room disengaged in a

hotel for a nervous young gentleman with an exposed white shirt-front,

no luggage, and a missing cardcase. When Val had explained that he was

Lord Loveland, just landed from England, the hotel clerk turned away to

hide either a yawn or a grin, and seemed no more inclined to remember

the existence of an unoccupied bedroom than if his client had been plain

Mr. Smith or Mr. Jones.

"We had a gentleman from England here last week," he said, pleasantly.

"His name was Walker, London. Sorry we can't accommodate your lordship."

Then Loveland had squared his shoulders and marched out into the night,

which seemed by now grimly cold and unfriendly. The very stars had a

sarcastic twinkle, as if they glimmered down from their safe,

comfortable heights and laughed.

Val was not inclined to try any more hotels. He felt very young in his

loneliness and humiliation, and his heart yearned wistfully for the

shabby Scotch shooting-box where his mother lived and thought long

thoughts of her. The snow that had fallen so coldly outside her windows

seemed warmer than these stars that with their sparkling embroidery

canopied a strange land; and the sparsely furnished rooms of the lodge

were more beautiful in his remembrance than the gorgeous suite at the

Waldorf-Astoria.

His mother grudged herself comforts for his sake, yet she had a fire.

Val generally pictured her in autumn and winter, bending towards the

glow of the rosy flames, holding out her beautifully shaped hands to

their kisses. He would be thankful to share the warmth of that fire now;

and the faint scent of burning peat--cheapest fuel!--as it stole

fragrantly into his memory, gave him a horrid twinge of homesickness

such as he had never felt, even in South Africa; for he had had friends

around him in the war days.

When he had been in Scotland last--on that flying visit which began with

good advice and ended with pink pearls--he had complained of the

cooking.

He thought of that, too, at this moment, and laughed a little to

himself. He would have been very glad of a chance to taste some of that

Scotch broth which he had discarded because it was too thick and too

salt. He was sharply hungry; and this hunger gnawed with a wicked

persistence it had lacked in South Africa, because in those stirring

times it had been shared by all alike, merrily, with jokes.

Yes, he was hungry, sickeningly hungry; and he did not see any prospect

of satisfying his appetite that night, unless he should tear the gold

sleeve-links out of his shirtcuffs to offer humbly in some cheap

restaurant in exchange for a meal. They were not worth much

intrinsically; but the thought of the cuffs denuded, ignominious, and

the picture of himself--metaphorically--swallowing the buttons like a

conjurer, so revolted his fastidious imagination, that he snatched at an

alternative, almost any alternative. So it was that, when something

which his mother would have called an inspiration floated nebulously

through his head, Loveland welcomed it as an astronomer welcomes a new

star.

He remembered hearing Betty or Jim Harborough say that in American towns

a man might call upon a family he knew well, up to the hour of ten in

the evening. It was not nearly ten yet, and though there was no family

in New York whom Val knew well, it was a case of any port in a storm.

The Coolidges were now out of the running, and the Miltons; but a Mr.

and Mrs. Beverly, with a daughter, had (half apologetically) invited

him to visit at their house in Park Avenue. They were rich or richish,

though with a trail of trade behind them, and the girl was pretty or

prettyish. She seemed positively beautiful to the hungry and homeless

Loveland, as the vision of her face lightened the cloud of his misery,

and he would have been almost ready to pledge his future to Miss Beverly

for a mess of pottage in the way of a kindly welcome, a dinner, a bed,

and money in hand for the letter of credit.

He had cannily refused the invitation, pleading many engagements

difficult to keep if visiting (the same formula had answered several

hospitable offers), but he could easily explain the late call, by

lightly recounting the story of his misfortune, making a jest of it, and

throwing himself on the family's mercy. He hoped and believed that they

would insist upon his staying all night in their house, also that a loan

sufficient to pay his hotel bill and redeem his luggage might be

suggested.

The prospect of release from all his woes was so soothing, and

apparently so easy to compass, that the mere thought was a warming

cordial. Val walked briskly back into Fifth Avenue, and asked the way of

the first man he met.

The man was amiable, and Loveland felt an impulse of gratitude towards

him for lucid and fluent explanations. After all, some of these

Americans had very agreeable manners!

Val found Park Avenue a dignified street, and with the pleasantest

anticipations ran up the steps of the Beverlys' house, the number of

which had fortunately stuck in his memory. There were lights in all the

windows of the two lower floors, and as he pressed the electric bell,

he saw a shadow flit across the half transparent silk curtains--a shadow

which was like a faint silhouette of plump little Madge Beverly.

"It's all right--they're at home, thank goodness!" he said to himself,

as he waited for the door to open; and a sense of calm well-being fell

upon him, with the assurance that his troubles were over at last. It was

like the joy of a bad sailor when the bell of the Channel boat clangs at

Calais after a hideous welter of seas in crossing.

A neat servant was soon framed against a yellow background of cheerful

light; and at some distance, screened in shadow, the man who had

followed Loveland waited once more with a certain anxiety in his eyes.

Val enquired for Mr. and Mrs. Beverly. They were at home, said the

servant, in the "living room," with a party of relations who had come to

welcome them back after their visit to Europe. If the gentleman would

step into the reception room and send up his card, Mr. and Mrs. Beverly

would no doubt be down in a minute.

"But when people are at home one doesn't send in one's card," said

Loveland, arguing according to English ways.

The servant, trained to American fashions and knowing no others, looked

surprised at this statement. He thought the tall gentleman without an

overcoat must be a peculiar person, and he had been taught to distrust

peculiar persons.

"Tell your master and mistress that Lord Loveland has called, but will

not keep them long from their friends," said Val, growing impatient

under the man's narrow look.

The servant resented the suggestion that, as a free man, in a free

country, he could have a master and mistress. And a Lord Anybody

sounded like a practical joke to him; for though he had begun by being a

Swede, he had been an American since he was short-coated. However, he

was well trained, according to his lights and the family traditions of

the Beverlys. He ushered the Practical Joker into a handsome

drawing-room, and vanished upstairs to explain the odd young gentleman

who never announced himself with cards.

The parlour was a very nice parlour, tastefully furnished. There were

portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Beverly, facing each other upon the walls; and

the lady's picture, evidently painted many years ago, so poignantly

suggested what Madge would be at her age, that Loveland was alarmed.

"I'll do anything else to show my gratitude except marry the daughter,"

he was making up his mind in advance, when the servant returned, with a

grave face. Indeed, it could not have been more solemn if he had come to

break the news that all Lord Loveland's surviving relatives had perished

together in a holocaust.

"Mr. and Mrs. Beverly are very sorry, sir," said the man, "but they are

too much engaged to see anybody tonight."

Val rose, haughtily. His pride and his hopes had both received another

severe rap, all the sharper because unexpected, but his face did not

show his mortification.

"I'll trouble you to open the door," he said, as the servant stood

petrified. And so once more Lord Loveland was thrown upon the

hospitality of the streets. The flitting shadows were gone from the

windows, which still gleamed cheerily; but they were dark to the

outcast's heart.

"I needn't have bothered about how to show my gratitude," he reminded

himself. "I don't think they're exactly going to make a point of my

marrying their girl, after all."

He was able to smile at this thought, but it was a very faint, chill

smile. And his amazement at the treatment he was receiving everywhere,

in place of the flattering attention he had been led to expect, was

blank and blind as a high stone wall without doors or windows.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A Proposition

Naturally it occurred to Val that the trail of Cadwallader Hunter must

have reached as far as the Beverly household; and almost he found it in

his heart to respect a man with executive ability to accomplish so

swift, so sweeping, so secret a revenge.

"The old fellow must have had a busy day," Loveland thought, half amused

on top of hunger and discouragement. He pictured the Major running

lithely about since the snub at lunchtime, up to the last moment before

dressing for dinner, prejudicing all the friends made on board the

_Mauretania_ against the Englishman to whom he had proudly introduced

them.

And besides, one must grant a certain cleverness to a brain able to

weave grounds of prejudice against a person--nay, a personage--important

and unimpeachable, as Loveland considered himself to be. How Cadwallader

Hunter had done it, Val could not imagine; but that the mysterious thing

which had been done was the Major's work, he did not doubt. As for the

bother with the bank, of course that was another matter, a coincidence

unconnected with the annoyances which had followed, for Cadwallader

Hunter could not have known anything about the letter of credit, or

where it was to be presented. And though the spiteful old thing was

apparently acquainted with Mr. van Cotter, who had been one of the

Coolidge party, he could scarcely have read clairvoyantly all the names

on the letters of introduction, even if he knew the people.

As Val asked himself forlornly what was left for him to do next, this

last argument brought consolation, and a welcome new idea at the same

time. As the Major had "got hold of" the Coolidges, the Miltons and

Beverlys, why not go and throw himself on the mercy of some of Jim

Harborough's friends?

Loveland had conscientiously distributed all the letters in the

afternoon, and had put the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel as a New York address

on his visiting cards. Now, owing to unforeseen circumstances (another

name for the Major's vindictiveness) that address was his no longer.

When people called, as no doubt they would do tomorrow, they were likely

to find that he had vanished into space. Yes, without doubt the best

thing he could do was to call tonight at one of the houses where he had

alighted in the afternoon. He would walk to the nearest one; but--now he

came to think of it, which was the nearest, and of which was he certain

that he could remember the street and number?

Val had not charged his mind with the addresses on the letters, so sure

had he been that the recipients would lose no time in calling. Now, he

went over the eight or nine names in his head, and thought that he had

kept them all straight; but to save his life he could not say which

number, which street, appertained to which person.

This was a dilemma, almost a calamity. But one address seemed to stand

out before his eyes--a number in Fifth Avenue; and he thought it was a

Mrs. Anson who lived there. The house was a handsome one, at a corner.

He had admired it; and as it was not far uptown he would not have more

than a mile to travel. He could still make his visit, and tell his

pitiful tale, before ten o'clock.

He walked fast, and it was by an effort that the man of the shadows kept

him in sight; for Val's legs were long, and his were not. But he did

contrive to cling close enough to see a tall figure slowly descend a

flight of stone steps climbed with alert hopefulness a few moments

earlier.

This time there was a discouraged droop of the head and shoulders and a

dragging hesitation in the gait which seemed to show that the wanderer

did not know what his next move ought to be.

At last the watcher decided that he had waited long enough. The

Englishman had come to the end of his tether. He was tired out and sick

at heart; in fact, precisely in the mood which the other had been

patiently expecting.

Loveland walked away from the house where Mrs. Anson was "giving a

dinner party and regretted that she was unable to receive visitors." Jim

Harborough's friend! Could it be that Cadwallader Hunter's tentacles had

wormed themselves round this lady's sympathies also, or was the

dismissal another coincidence, like that of the bank? Loveland did not

know, but he did know that the sole possessions left him were a great

hunger which he might not satisfy, and a great longing to have somewhere

to lay his head.

"Good evening," said the man who had caught up with him, speaking

somewhat breathlessly, but in a friendly voice.

Loveland turned with a slight start, and looked at the other's face,

which at that moment could be plainly seen by the light of a street

lamp.

There was a vague familiarity in the stranger's appearance, but Val had

come into contact with so many new people lately, that he could attach

no label to these features.

"I was dining near you at the Waldorf-Astoria," explained the unknown.

"Oh!" exclaimed Loveland, instantly adjusting the label. "You were with

the Coolidges, I remember." The tips of his ears began to tingle. This

fellow must have seen him walk out of the restaurant where he'd been

denied his dinner--probably knew that he had been practically turned

away from the hotel, because he hadn't the money to pay his bill.

"My name's Milton," the short, dark man introduced himself. "I've been

trying to catch you up for some time."

"Why?" abruptly asked Loveland, suspicious of everybody and everything

now.

"Why? Oh, well, I wanted the pleasure of a conversation with you."

"You know who I am?" Loveland enquired.

"Yes, I know who you are." Mr. Milton emphasised each word separately,

as if with a tap of a miniature hammer. There was an intentional

significance in his way of speaking, but the meaning was obscure to

Loveland.

Val could not guess what the other's object was in following him, and in

his smarting sensitiveness was on guard against some new indignity.

"I met Mrs. Milton and--your daughter, on the _Mauretania_," he

ventured, by way of keeping on neutral ground until he should learn

where to take his stand. And truth to tell, he had been so miserable in

his homesickness, his sense of desertion and humiliation, that any

friendly-seeming companionship was pitifully welcome. A few hours ago he

would have quickly decided that he did not like the man's face or

manner, and would have made no bones about snubbing him; but there was a

high barrier between "then" and "now," and Lord Loveland almost clung to

Mr. Milton.

"I know you met my wife and daughter on the _Mauretania_," said the

watcher. "That's why I was anxious to make your acquaintance."

Loveland laughed. "You're the first person since I left the ship, who

has wanted to make it," he retorted. "And it struck me this evening that

neither Mrs. nor Miss Milton was keen on keeping it."

"Miss Milton is a child," answered Miss Milton's father. "She daren't

say her soul's her own, if her mother says it isn't; and Mrs. Milton has

reasons over and above what anyone else may have, for not wanting to

know you, in front of me."

"Over and above what anyone else may have?" Val repeated, lost in

surprise at this turning. "Why should she or anyone have reasons for not

wanting to know me? That's the thing I should like to find out. Perhaps

you'll be good enough to explain the mystery--if you can? What has Major

Cadwallader Hunter been doing to put all New York against me?"

"So far as I can see, it wasn't the Major who set the ball rolling,

though of course he'd like people to think he was on to it from the

first. And it seems he heard you give yourself away a bit to a girl one

day, on shipboard--or says he did. But let's not discuss that now. What

you are, or what you did before you stepped on board the _Mauretania's_

nothing to me. The game you and I are in together (as it's up to me to

show you) is this. You're in a pretty bad scrape, and you want to get

out of it. Is that true or isn't it?"

"Yes, it's true enough," admitted Val. "But that's not the question.

I----"

"Excuse me, it is the question, where I'm concerned. I don't go back on

that. I don't want to know anything, or be in anything, else. I can help

you out of your fix. That's what I'm here to do."

"Thank you," said Val, drily. "But why?" He half expected that Mr.

Milton's _quid pro quo_ would be a promise in advance to make Fanny the

Marchioness of Loveland.

"Well, I'm coming to that, in one minute and a half. First and foremost

let's chat about what I can do for you. Then we'll get to what you can

do for me. I guess a thousand dollars would come handy to you, wouldn't

it, especially if you could see half in hard cash tonight?"

"If I saw any 'hard cash,' as you call it, lying in the street, and

nobody claimed it, I confess I might find a temporary use for the

money," said Loveland. "The trouble is, my letter of credit----"

"I know all about that letter of credit, just as well as if you'd told

me," broke in Mr. Milton, with a queer mingling of tolerant good-nature

and roughness which puzzled Loveland so much that he almost forgot to

be annoyed.

"Tomorrow it will be all right," Val went on.

"I wouldn't bet on its being all right tomorrow," said Milton. "But we

can wait to talk business till the day after, if you like. That'll suit

me just as well; for I stand to make better terms. It's for you to say

where. I can give you my card, and you can drop round at my club--I

don't ask you to write, for by that time it might happen you wouldn't

have a stamp, or a sheet of paper handy. You can call day after

tomorrow, and we'll have our talk then. So long as we've established

communication, there isn't much danger of your losing touch with me till

we've fixed something up."

"I don't like your manner or your innuendoes," said Loveland,

stiffening.

"Oh, I don't mean any innuendoes," protested Mr. Milton, apologetically.

"Let's keep friends. I want to help you. You had a little trouble with

them at the hotel, didn't you?"

"I was abominably insulted, and I'll make them regret it."

"The best way to do that is to pay the bill right off. There's five

hundred dollars in my pocket that's just crying to be in yours. And five

hundred more----"

"What do you want me to do?" sharply asked Loveland.

"You'd like to know whether the candle's worth the game, eh? Well, I'm

no Shylock. But see here, shall we come to terms over a drink? We're not

far off the best bar in New York, and----"

"No, thank you," Val cut in decidedly, though he was cold enough, and

hollow enough within to be tempted by the thought of warmth, and

refreshment of any sort. "Tell me now what possible motive you, a

stranger, can have in offering to lend me two hundred pounds."

"I said nothing about lending," insinuated Mr. Milton. "But if you like

to call it a loan, you can. You've got your 'family traditions' to keep

up, I suppose?" And he laughed in high good humour.

"I have," said Val, coldly.

"That's all right," returned the other. "Well, to get to business then.

You were on pretty friendly terms with Mrs. Milton on board ship?"

"She was very kind to me," replied Val, more sure than ever now that the

proposal to come would be matrimonial.

"Good! You've heard, I expect, from Cadwallader Hunter, or some other

general purveyor of gossip, that she and I aren't on the best of

terms--that we don't get along like a pair of turtle doves?"

"I believe I did hear some hint of that sort, which went in at one ear

and out at the other."

"You needn't consider my feelings. My wife and I hate each other like

poison. She'd have thrown me over long ago, if she didn't want my

money--all my money; not what she might get in alimony if we said

'Goodbye; the parting words are spoken.' Eh? Well, that's just what I

_do_ want to say to her. We've never had any open break, but the time's

come. That's why I sent her to Europe, and sent for her to come back. I

played my fish, and now I want to land it. A queer fish, Mrs. Milton is,

too, bye the bye. I'm going to bring a case against her, and I want to

use you for a trump card in it. You understand?"

A hot wave of rage swept over Loveland. He did understand, and never in

his life had he been so angry. He had not known it was in him to be so

angry at a thing which did not affect his own selfish interests; but he

was not thinking of himself at all. A new or, at least, unknown self

stirred faintly in the depths where all his life it had lain asleep,

because, perhaps, it had never been called upon to wake. He was not

angry because such a proposal had been made to him--Lord Loveland; he

had not thought of that part yet. Disgust with the man who could make

such a proposition was the one emotion which shook him.

"You beast!" he broke out, in his young, clear voice.

The other man looked up at the flushed, angry face in genuine surprise.

"Oh, I suppose I haven't offered 'your lordship' enough," he sneered,

with a sarcastic emphasis on the title. "Well, I'll raise you----"

But something unexpected happened before the offer could be completed.

Furious, Loveland slapped him across the mouth, and in dodging the

insult, Milton slipped on a morsel of thin ice which glazed the

pavement. He staggered, tried to regain his balance, lost it finally,

and fell flat upon his back.

Loveland felt suddenly as if he had been drenched with cold water. The

man's fall, the stillness of the limp form which lay grotesquely, like a

dummy made of rags, was a sight to chill even righteous anger. Loveland

hadn't yet begun to think of himself or the danger he might be in. He

thought of the man--who seemed to him hardly a man--and wondered if he

were dead. Then, after a dazed instant, he bent down over the motionless

form, and felt a great throb of relief when he saw no stain of oozing

blood on the pavement. The fur lined collar of Milton's coat had been

pulled up behind his ears and had broken the force of the fall for the

back of his head on which, otherwise, he must have struck with terrible

force. Already his thick eyelids were twitching. In another moment or

two he would open them. And realising this, Val at last turned to that

thought which generally came first: Lord Loveland and Lord Loveland's

welfare.

He glanced hastily round, and assured himself that no one was near: no

one could have seen the incident, which luckily for him had happened at

some distance from a street lamp. He thought carefully but quickly. If

anyone should come--if an alarm were given--if he should find himself in

the hands of the police--that would be the worst thing that had happened

yet.

This beast who lay there--this beast who had taken advantage of a

stranger's misfortunes to try and bribe him to the basest

dishonour--wasn't hurt half as badly as he deserved to be. Loveland was

glad he had struck the wretch, and would do it again, if it had to be

done again, pay for the satisfaction dearly as he might have to pay. But

he did not see that there was need to pay at all. If the fellow

complained to the police of his assault, Val couldn't defend himself by

telling the truth, because Mrs. Milton's name must not be brought in. He

did not admire her particularly, and he owed her no gratitude, but she

was a woman; and suddenly he knew of himself that he would bear the

worst that might befall him, rather than drag Mrs. Milton into a

scandal.

For as long as he might have taken to count twelve, perhaps, Lord

Loveland stood making up his mind and staring at the man on the ground:

then he walked away as quickly as he dared.

How interminable the length of this cross-street seemed! He did not even

know what street it was into which he had turned almost mechanically

with Milton, as they talked, nor did it matter, if only he could get

out, and far enough away before Milton came to himself, to gabble some

malicious lie about what had happened.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Introducing Shakespeare

The end of the street, and no pursuing steps, nor shouts of accusing

voices!

Once round the corner, Loveland breathed more freely; but with the white

glint of his uncovered evening shirt, he was a marked man among men

whose overcoats acknowledged winter, and his one anxiety for the moment

was to get on as far as possible in as short a time as possible.

He had two or three small pieces of American money in his pocket, rather

more than equal to the value of an English shilling, and he thought of

hurling himself into a tearing electric car, or rushing up the steps of

an "L" station to board the first train that should come in. But he did

not know what destination to name, and feared that, if he professed

indifference as to the end of the journey, he might arouse suspicion. It

was wiser, he decided, to go on foot, dodging from the brilliantly

lighted avenues into the darker cross-streets, and so on, indefinitely,

until it seemed safe to call a halt.

Before the unexpected climax of his interview with Mr. Milton Loveland

had still hoped for ultimate shelter and dinner, but now he ceased to

regard either as a likely goal of his adventure. The great thing was,

not to be caught by the New York police, and "run in" for assault,

clapped into prison, into print, and forever out of the matrimonial

court. The present was very bad, but there was hope for the future,

although Milton's hints and strange manner had brought closer the cloud

of dark presentiment until it pressed like a thick veil over Loveland's

eyes.

When he found himself in the Plaza, and saw the black forest of the park

billowing away into distance like the gulf of night, he looked towards

it as a refuge. If only it were still open at this hour! If only he

could get in!

His doubt died at birth; for a big motor car whizzed by him and into the

velvet gloom. Evidently Central Park was not shut to the public at

night.

Loveland followed the car; and though moving ghostlike along a

tree-walled road, he had not quite the wished-for sense of being blotted

out by darkness, it was good to escape from glaring lights and staring

people.

When Loveland became accustomed to the gloom, it took on colour to his

eyes, and turned from black to a deep, transparent blue which shimmered

round him like the shadows of spirit forms; and far away where flared

the lights of the "Great White Way" the dusk was beaten into sparks of

flame as if a dying torch had been shaken down the sky. The blazing eyes

of motor lamps, and yellow-winking carriage-lights moved along the dim

drives, and drew the night in after them like a folding curtain.

Val turned out of a broad thoroughfare of the park into a quieter road

to avoid the procession of vehicles and the faces that peered from their

windows. There were no faces in the world that he wanted to see now,

save his mother's--and Lesley Dearmer's, and he was ashamed of the

longing which ached in him for those two.

"Buck up, you blighter," he admonished himself. "Don't be an ass or a

baby."

It was easy to lash his soul with sage advice. But he felt very small

and pitiful in the vast, unfriendly city, where it seemed that there

were warm overcoats and good dinners for everybody except the Marquis of

Loveland.

He strayed aimlessly along a winding way haunted by a melancholy

fragrance of dying leaves, and a silence that rustled with scurrying

thoughts which could never embody themselves in words.

In the great illuminated cañons of the New York streets electricity

outshone the stars, and it was hard to tell whether the moon lived or

died. But above the Park hung a sky like a bell, purple in its dome, and

touched with metallic gleams at the rim where the earth-lights climbed.

And bye and bye that purple paled slowly with the moon-dawn that sifted

down in silver dust over the black trees, whitening the autumn mists

that clung close to the grass like a face-cloth on the dead.

Loveland was bitterly cold now--cold all the way through to his

heart--but he flung himself down on a bench under a low-branching tree,

and wondered desolately if he had found his quarters for the night.

For a moment he had sat there, trying to marshal the routed army of his

thoughts, before he realised that he was not alone on the seat.

Something stirred at the far end where the shadow was deepest. There was

a faint tinkle as of a fairy bell--a cracked fairy bell, and a tiny

shape leaped from the bench. Loveland watched it flitting here and

there, darting across the glimmering grey road, and then about to prick

daintily back again when a motor swung round the curving corner.

The fragile sound of the bell was drowned, and the little shape would

have gone under the fat-tyred wheels, to be swept into nothingness like

chaff by the wind, had not Val sprung forward, and dashed across the

road in front of the car, catching up the morsel in his rush.

He risked his life, but the lights of the car had shown him in one

blinding flash that the frisking thing was a miniature black dog, no

bigger than his hand; and Val loved dogs big and little with all that

was best and warmest in him. Nothing could have tempted him to hurt a

dog, or indeed any animal save those it was the legitimate sport of

Englishmen to kill; and he could imagine himself murdering a man guilty

of cruelty to any helpless creature.

The motor horn gave a shriek, and there was a grinding of brakes, jammed

on with savage suddenness, but the car could not have stopped in time.

It was only Loveland's quickness which saved him, and scarcely beyond

touch of the tyres he stumbled, drawing up his knees to keep from being

run over; but he had the tiny, beating body in his hand, held up out of

harm's way.

"You fool! You'd have had yourself to thank if you'd been smashed!"

growled the chauffeur, who was alone in the car. "And it's God's wonder

you didn't make me skid smack into that bench."

Loveland, picking himself up, did not think it worth while to answer,

and the chauffeur, who heard the arrival of a policeman unsympathetic to

motor men, decided not to stop for further argument. With a parting

grumble, he slipped away into the night; and Loveland, by this time on

his feet, walked quietly across the road again with the cause of the

disturbance quivering in his hand.

"That was a close shave for you, you little beggar," he said half aloud.

"Who are you, I wonder, and where did you spring from?"

"Answers to name o' Shakespeare, and dropped out o' my pocket while I

snoozed, I guess," said a voice from the shadow. "You bet I'm obliged to

you for what you done. 'Twas fine."

Under the big tree that roofed the seat, moon rays dripped between

branches like water that trickles slowly through holes in old netting. A

man who had been huddled asleep on one corner of the bench was on his

feet, holding out eager hands to take the dog from Loveland: a shabby

figure even in the dim light, with a hatchet face thin as a new moon,

that glimmered pale between the black blot of a frowsy hat and the inky

blur of a turned-up coat collar. Val could make out the features but

indistinctly, yet he caught the impression of a quaint, patient

humourousness, as if a character sketch penned on white paper in three

or four sharp black lines had been passed quickly before his eyes.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Shakespeare's Master

Lord Loveland's habit was to give a wide berth to common people, if

Chance, the democrat, threw him near them, with the exception of

"Tommies," who for him as a soldier were a class by themselves--a class

in which he recognised humanity that touched his own. He did not love

ugliness or shabbiness, which as like as not meant microbes; but he had

come down so near to the depths of reality tonight, that he had no sense

of his own superiority, or inclination to shrink away when the man's

hands touched his as they took the rescued animal.

"I came along in the nick of time," said Loveland, "and I like dogs. I

thought I could just do it, and I did."

"'Twas fine, all the same," repeated the dog's master. "I ain't much of

a public speaker, but I guess you know how I feel, all right. 'Twould 'a

pretty near put me out o' business if----" He did not finish his

sentence, but the tenderness with which he tucked into his pocket the

wretched little apology for a dog made further words superfluous.

Loveland, always polite to inferiors, unless overmastered by rage,

looked at the bench as if it were the first comer's property.

"If you don't mind, I'll sit down," he said.

The shabby one laughed. "I ain't paid for my lodgings," said he, "and if

I had, you'd be welcome--after what you done. You can have me for a

doormat if you like."

"Thanks," said Loveland, laughing, too. "I don't need a doormat. If it

was an overcoat, now----"

"You could have mine, if you weren't twice the size for it, and if

Anthony Comstock wouldn't run me in if he saw what I've got on

underneath. But I guess you wouldn't have to wish twice for a coat, if

'twas in your part."

"My part?" repeated Val.

"If the piece you're in called for it."

"I don't understand."

They were both sitting down now, filling the far corners of the bench,

and talking across it.

"Well, 'tain't my show. I don't want to be fresh. But though I've seen a

lot o' night-bloomin' plants growin' in this flower garden, I don't just

recall seein' one like you take root."

"You wouldn't now, if I had anywhere else to go," returned Loveland,

with his usual frankness.

"Gee! You take me for the fall guy. But say, do you want anything out o'

me? 'Cause, if you do, you can have it. If you're a journalist out on a

night stunt, and what you're fishin' for is the history o' my life, I'm

on, for Shakespeare's sake. Any form you like, sad or gay, moral lesson

or otherwise."

"Hang journalists!"

"Think so? Well, millionaire then, seein' how the poor live. You look

the swell all right."

"Thank you. Wish I felt as I look, then."

"You'd make the Gould and Vanderbilt crowd look like visitors, if you

hadn't forgot your overcoat."

"I left it at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel----"

"Sa--ay, if that ain't like me!" drawled the man, the twinkle of

moonlight striking a humourous glint in his eye. "Kind of absent-minded.

I left my Sunday suit just that way at the White House last week, where

I'd been spending Saturday to Monday with my friend Willy T."

"You think I'm lying?" said Loveland, with curiosity rather than

resentment.

"Just kiddin'."

"You're mistaken. They turned me out of the hotel----"

"Gee! But you _was_ there?"

"Yes."

"If that ain't the swell thing! I wouldn't mind bein' turned out, if

once they'd let me in. I should say to myself, 'Well, sir, you've

lived.' That's what I never have done, but what I'm always meanin' to

do, when my time comes. Say, would it be offensive if I asked why

they--er----"

"Turned me out? I couldn't pay for my dinner."

"Had you _eat_ it?"

"No. I wish now I had."

"I believe you. Whe--ew! Just to eat once at the Waldorf!"

"I had lunch there," said Val, beginning to be a little warmer, because

he was amused.

"Bet it was bully."

"I wasn't hungry--then."

"Pity! Still," the man at the other end of the bench murmured

reflectively, "you've got it to remember, and I guess a lot of other

nice things."

"If that were any comfort!"

"'Twould be to me. Say, I don't throw myself out much to strangers, but

you saved my dog for me, while I was snoozin' like a sick dormouse, and

there's somethin' about you kind o' gets me. Suppose we swop

stories,--if you really ain't on in this act. If you're not

kiddin'--playin' some game--if you're here because you're stumped, why

maybe I might put you up to somethin'--see? Wasn't there a verse in the

Bible about a lion and a mouse?"

"I think the lion and the mouse were Æsop," said Val.

"Never heard of the gent. But anyhow, I caught on to it in Sunday

School--when I was a kid, I'm dead sure of that, and I always was a

quoter. You ain't a New Yorker, are you?"

"No. I'm an Englishman," Loveland answered quickly.

"Gee, but you're a swell-lookin' emigrant! I ain't a New Yorker

myself--not by birth. I was a hayseed till I turned nineteen; workin' on

my stepfather's farm--mean old skinflint, but I couldn't see my way to

cuttin' till my mother was gone. Then I footed it to New York--sixty

mile--chuck full of hope, and nothin' else, unless beans."

"A regular Mark Tapley," said Val.

"Never played the part. In private life my name's Bill Willing: some

switches it round to Willing Bill, because I generally do my day's work

without howlin'; I blew into New York without attractin' much notice,

and that's nineteen years ago, and I haven't attracted much since,

that's a fact. But you may do better. Don't be discouraged by a setback,

if your game's square, and I bet it is, or you wouldn't be in the dog

savin' business. What _is_ your lay, anyhow?--excuse the liberty."

"Retrieving my fortune," said Val, after a moment's reflection.

"You can see me one better. Mine's to make yet, and I'm no kid--like

you. I won't see thirty-eight again. I'm an artist. But New York ain't

woke up to my talent. Maybe I've been too versatile. That never did pay.

The line I'd mapped out was paintin' pictures, but my chance was slow

comin'. Had to take what I could get on the way along: supin',

sandwichin', barkin'----"

"Eh, what?" broke in Loveland.

"You don't savvy? Oh, supin' in theatres. There's several, specially one

in the Bowery, wouldn't 'a been complete without me for years, till I

got the chuck like you did at the Waldorf. Sandwichin'--why, you know

what that is, sure? You wouldn't think how you get the cramps shut up

between the boards? The sandwichin' was generally in the theatrical

line, too, so I've always kind of hovered around the profession, though

I don't say I'm proud of my career as a barker in the dimes--museums,

you know. There was money in the business, though, if the freaks hadn't

caught on that I had the heart of a soft boiled egg--always ready to

part if they worked the aged mother dodge, or the baby brother who threw

fits. I ain't no penny-in-the-slot savings bank. Wish I was. I should be

better off now. Besides, my voice ain't an automobile horn, and barkin'

for a couple of seasons stove a hole in my top note. After that, no

manager would take me with a pound of tea and a chromo, but one of my

old govs switched me onto a job paintin' freak showboards, and I'd 'a

been at it yet if freaks didn't last too long. Once you've put them on

the boards, there they _are_. At present my speciality's meenoos."

Val looked blank, thinking of emus.

"French for grub cards. A swell like you ought to be on to that. But I'm

just thinkin' what there is for you. This stunt of mine I dropped into

by luck. 'Twas Shakespeare introduced me--like he did to you tonight."

"Why Shakespeare?" Loveland cut in.

"Oh, there's a--a girl in that story: actress in the theatre where I

suped--a real actress, mind you, a Fascinator from Fascinatorville. Why

Lil so much as looked at me, I don't know--but she did. I was near twice

her age, and 'twould have been playin' the game too low down to try and

hook onto her, though I was tempted--she was so pretty, so good to me. I

don't know what would 'a been the upshot, if the property man, who had

his eye on the gal, hadn't got me the sack, and Lil an engagement on the

road. She and I drifted apart. I never wrote, though she asked me to; I

knew 'twas better not, for her. But you see why I'm nuts on the dog. He

was hers, and Shakespeare was her name for him. She loved Shakespeare's

plays, and her ambition was to act in 'em. But all that's somethin' I

wouldn't 'a mentioned--if you hadn't kind of earned the right to Shake's

history. I was tellin' you about my speciality, and how Shake introduced

me to it. We was on our beam ends, Shake and me, our ribs showin'

through the silk. One mornin' after a night out--like this, only in a

square downtown, I was circulatin' around till I blew into Twelfth

Street, and dropped my eyes onto a new restaurant, with a good fried

smell, and an idea hit my brain like a hammer. In I walks and offers to

swop it with the boss for a dinner. He wasn't takin' any just then, but

I talked till I waked him up, showed him what I could do in the art

line, and began to work on the spot with a grand new thing in meenoos.

I've been at it ever since, and though the pay don't go up by leaps and

bounds, the house has, and lots o' the eaters say it's my work's made it

what it is--brought in the public like a flock of sheep. I get two meals

and three dimes a day out of the job, and I wouldn't be sleepin' in my

country house tonight, if I hadn't run acrost a guy who needed my money

more than I did. Well, it's all in the day's work; and I guess there

ain't many swells have got a finer palace than this, though it's kind of

draughty. Your castle across the pond ain't got a finer park, I bet?"

"My castle's full of draughts, too," Loveland humoured him.

"So you came over here to get out of 'em?"

"Exactly."

"And that fortune you want to retrace, or _re_trieve. Wisht I could

help."

"I'm expecting a cablegram in the morning, that will put me all right,

thank you," said Loveland. "You're a good chap, and I'm glad to have met

you, for you've--er--broadened my outlook, as well as passed the time.

I've only to worry through till tomorrow."

"That's some hours off," said Bill Willing. "Wisht I could invite you to

my hotel where I hang out when I'm not at my country place, but the

trouble is to see the colour of your money, or you don't see the colour

of their beds."

"How much is it for a room?" asked Loveland.

"Oh, a room! I don't run to a room. A bed in a vast wilderness is good

enough for me. But a quarter'll get you one. Three nickels for a bed."

Loveland searched his pockets, and dubiously exhibited two silver coins

mixed democratically with a few nickels and impotent looking little

coppers. The prospect appeared hopeless to him, but Willing exclaimed

with delight.

"Gee! Forty-five cents! You're a bloated millionaire. You might be

asleep in two beds at the Bat Hotel, instead of cooling in this

ice-cream freezer."

"If there's the price of two beds, you must have one," said Loveland.

"Thank you. You're the real stuff," returned Bill, gratitude in his

voice. "But I'm O. K. where I am. You stick to your stamps. I know just

how you feel. I'm always chuckin' my last cent away on some poor

dickybird, thinkin' 'twill be all right tomorrow and what's the odds."

"There are no odds against me this time," Val assured him. "You've

cheered me up no end, and you must share what I have. But about the

hotel?"

"It's clean all right. Mayn't be the Plaza or the Waldorf, but no dive.

It's warm, and the rooms are real natty."

"What about food?" asked Loveland. "Can we run to it?" and he glanced at

the coins in his hand.

"Keep the change. We'll eat for nothing. Now's our time to join the

Bread Line."

Again Val looked blank, and again it was necessary for Bill

Willing--guide, philosopher and friend--to explain. There were, said he,

two very important lines drawn every night in New York for the benefit

of the poor: the Bread Line and the Bed Line. Each was drawn in a public

square; the former in Herald, the latter in Madison; and both were

traced by the finger of Charity.

The Bed Line, Bill did not often patronize, because he could generally

pay for his own sleeping accommodation, and if he couldn't, there were

always the Parks. Besides, the parson chap who spoke in Madison Square

every night for the benefit of the poor, could collect only money enough

to supply a limited number of men with beds. There was such a long line

waiting, always, and the unlucky ones went away into the night looking

so disappointed. Bill couldn't bear that, or the thought that one more

must go bedless because he had got in ahead. As for the Bread Line, that

was different. There was usually enough to feed the whole line, with

coffee thrown in. It was a good show, too, and sometimes when Bill had

separated himself from his last coin, and wanted a little cheerful

company, he linked onto the Bread Line. Tonight they would both go.

"Unless," added Mr. Willing, "you're afraid some o' your swell friends

may spot you?"

Even if Loveland had been afraid, he would have denied the imputation.

"You're the only friend, swell or otherwise, that I have in New York,"

said he.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Lights of New York

It seemed to Lord Loveland that he had never known how dazzling light

could be, till the night-lights of New York flung their diamonds into

his eyes.

Though it was nearly midnight when he emerged from behind the purple

bed-curtains of the sleeping Park, there was no sign that less secluded

quarters of the city thought of sleep.

The amazing jewels of the city still scintillated against the sky,

flashing coloured fire. The Great White Way still blazed with brightness

brighter than day: the huge plate-glass windows of shops closed to

customers, advertised attractions for tomorrow. Electric cars were still

crowded, going up and down. Overhead was a ceaseless rush and roar of

elevated trains: and Herald Square, which the comrades reached by short

cuts and devious ways known to the initiated, seemed the beating heart

of the big, vital body whose diamond-crowned head was in the sky.

In the glass-sided palace of the "Herald," tomorrow morning's paper was

visibly going to press. There was a chewing rumble of huge printing

machines, and from somewhere out of sight of the bronze owls' staring,

electric eyes sprang covered wagons loaded with "up-state" editions,

which must catch early trains. Newsboys were yelling extras, trying to

howl each other down above the confused storm of sound; and as "Willing

Bill" towed his convoy into the Square, Minerva lifted her noble bronze

arm to give the midnight signal. Her pair of obedient blacksmiths swung

their hammers lustily, and struck the bell twelve times.

Val and his companion were nearly the last in a long procession of

applicants for newspaper hospitality, and for the first time in his life

Lord Loveland found himself among the dregs of humanity, learning what

it might be to suffer as they suffered, they who seethed in the cauldron

of the world's misery.

He had known that this sort of thing existed; that there were men and

women who went hungry and thirsty, who slept out of doors, and who had

no place on earth's surface which even for a night they might call their

own; but he had been wont to skip paragraphs about them in the papers,

and had always avoided brushing against a shabby person in a crowded

street. He had never felt any tie of blood between himself and common

men, except the Tommy Atkins who fought and died round him in South

Africa. Yet these weary ones on whom the light of Herald Square blazed

down, these men of hopeless, concave faces, beaten in by sin or sorrow,

pressed near to Loveland's soul and waked some feeling in it which he

had never known. It was as if his friend of the Park had initiated him

into some strange, secret society, in joining which the bare fact of

membership gave at once a mysterious sense of brotherhood. Val was

surprised that he felt no repulsion against the ragged wretches who

crowded round him. He did not draw himself away from them, or resent

their lack of respect for him as a superior being. He was sorry for

them all, with a consciousness of kinship, which, he thought, he would

probably remember with amusement tomorrow.

"They think you're some fly reporter, takin' notes; or a swell doin' the

night sights," said Bill. "They don't like you much. But they won't

bother you neither, only some chap may say 'What queer things you see,

when you haven't got your gun.' If he does, don't you take notice,

that's all."

Loveland promised forbearance, but his patience was not tried. In his

turn (which came when his nose had turned a pale lilac with cold, and

the silk-clad insteps above his pumps were slowly congealing) he

received a tin of hot coffee, and a roll. Food and drink were so good,

and, as Bill said, "filled such a long-felt want," that Val bolted them

greedily, only to yearn for more when both were gone. But etiquette was

strictly preserved in Herald Square. No one asked for a second helping,

and each applicant, when he had drained his coffee to the last drop,

walked away without a word unless it were a "thank you."

"Now, ho for the Bat Hotel," exclaimed Bill cheerfully. "It's a goodish

step; but as for me, after that grub, I feel like I could do a sprint

round the world."

Loveland was refreshed, too, and more than ever inclined to look on the

experience as an adventure over which he would laugh tomorrow night. But

he did not intend to forget Bill Willing when he forgot the troubles

through which Bill was his pilot. He must do something for the poor

chap, he said to himself, and glowed with hot coffee and a sense of warm

generosity.

Bill's hotel, it appeared, was situated in the Bowery. There were others

more or less of the same sort, dotted about in various streets of far

eastern and far western New York, but Bill would not guarantee these. "I

ain't a top wave swell myself--yet," he said, "but dirt and I ain't

friends, and I won't risk no menagerie for neither of us, nor

Shakespeare either. I've raised him to be particular. He's that _sad_

when he's made a public thoroughfare of by one or two o' them critters

as boarded the ark in disguise, that he won't look me in the face."

Shakespeare, who had shared his master's roll, and lapped the last

spoonful of coffee, was an incredibly small, black animal of somewhat

moth-eaten texture, who in form rather resembled a grasshopper. He had a

little sharp nose, which might have been whittled into shape with a

penknife; his legs were too long for his tiny body, and not much thicker

than a pencil; but his gentle eyes, curiously like his master's, beamed

with affection, and he was turning grey in the flower of his youth,

owing to the lava heat of his boiling emotions.

Loveland had visions of buying Shakespeare a red collar when he had

cashed his letter of credit tomorrow; but with a sudden pang, he

remembered a difficulty concerning that letter of credit which had not

occurred to him before. He had wired to the bank in London in the

afternoon, and given as his address the Waldorf-Astoria. After the way

in which he had been treated, and the manner of his exit, it would be

beneath his dignity to go back, on any errand whatever. He must send to

the hotel for the cablegram which, it seemed certain, would arrive

during the morning; also for the visiting cards which some of Jim and

Betty Harborough's friends were sure to leave after calling and finding

him gone. Perhaps some of these cards would make the hotel people

regret the error of their ways. But apologies would be in vain. He would

go to the Plaza, or the Belmont----

"We approach the castle doors, me lord," grandiloquently announced Bill,

little guessing that his jesting way of address was that to which

Loveland was accustomed from his inferiors.

Val started from the reverie in which he had been walking at his

companion's side like a mechanical figure. He waked to find himself in a

brilliantly illuminated street, like a tenth-rate imitation of Broadway,

lined with lighted shops, gaudy restaurants and strange houses of

entertainment.

"This is the Bowery," Bill mentioned with pride.

The Bowery? English Loveland had vaguely expected a gentle suburb of

trees and flowers, such as American Bill might have pictured Bloomsbury.

And as Willing knew naught of the pleasant "Bouweries" of old Dutch

days, he had no explanation to mitigate his companion's disillusionment.

They passed a tall building whose red front was pictorial with

advertisements of Wonders such as the world could not have survived had

it seen them in the flesh.

"My old pitch," said Bill. "I painted the Fat Twins with their heads

under their arms, and the Half-Zebra-Half-Camel. The Fair One with

Golden Locks, too, and the Human Bone are my Shay Doovers. What do you

think of 'em, chum?"

"Chum" was filled with respectful admiration of the artist's

imagination, if not of his _technique_, and he replied fervently that

the Shay Doovers in question were marvellous.

"Here's where I used to bark," went on Bill with a sigh for past

glories. "They'd ought to give us free passes for a look round, if you'd

like, but the Boss ain't built that way, and there's nothing to see

anyhow. The Freaks _ain't_ what they're painted. _Couldn't_ be, for a

dime."

Loveland answered that no doubt the pictures were the best part of the

show, which pleased the artist, and they walked on, Bill blasé, Val

interested to the point of self-forgetfulness. A few doors to the left,

after passing a shooting gallery and a drinking saloon which called

itself a café, Mr. Willing paused in front of a tall building which

loomed up dingy and ill-lighted in comparison with its gaudy neighbors.

A lamp over a low-browed door drew sufficient attention to the

announcement, printed in faded lettering, that this was "The Bat Hotel.

For Gentlemen Only."

Bill Willing opened the door as if he were at home, as indeed he was,

for "The Bat" had been his headquarters, more or less, for years. He

sometimes paid in advance for a week, or weeks, at a time, and then the

same bed and locker were scrupulously reserved for him; but he had been

a little irregular lately, owing to his many promiscuous charities.

"Come in, do," he said hospitably, and Loveland obeyed, to find himself

standing directly at the foot of a long, dimly lit stairway, the steps

of which were protected from the wear and tear of time and boots by

strips of iron.

At the top was a closed door; and this open, Loveland was plunged into

the life and movement of the Bat Hotel, appropriately named for its

night activities. Behind a grating, which formed a small room, stood the

proprietor or manager of the establishment, ready to accept payment,

allot beds, inscribe the names of new clients in a book, and deal out

keys of lockers or cubicles. This tiny office was cut out of a long

narrow room, in which fifty or sixty men were sitting glancing over the

newspapers, or writing a last letter before they went to bed. They were

grouped at one of several long tables that ran down the length of the

room, or assembled round a huge iron stove whose fat body was almost red

hot. The crude white light of unshaded electric lamps exaggerated the

hollows in tired faces, and brought out a kind of tragic family likeness

among them, different as were the types, and features: the likeness born

of the same kind of hardships endured without hope of anything better in

the world.

There were two windows at front and back of the long room, but they were

closed, save perhaps for a furtive crack at the top, and the heated

atmosphere was charged with the smell of cheap tobacco (for the men were

allowed to smoke, though not to drink, in the Bat Hotel), badly aired

clothing and hot humanity. As Bill easily leaned his elbows on a narrow

shelf in front of the office grating, explaining his errand to the

manager, Loveland wished himself back in the Park again, half drowned in

perfumed, moony vapour; but it was too late. He was "in for it" now, he

said to himself, as Bill, with a certain pride, announced that "his

friend" wanted a room. "A bed for mine," he went on pleasantly. "I'd be

glad of 81, if it's free. I always sleep mighty well in 81."

Eighty-one was engaged, but Bill got another number to which he was

accustomed, and then his friend's name was asked.

"Anything you like, up to Edward Seventh, or down to J. Smith,"

whispered Mr. Willing, as he moved away that Loveland might take his

place at the grating.

Loveland hesitated for an instant, and then gave the name of P. Gordon,

one to which he had a right, among many others.

As Bill was competent to play host, they were given their keys, and

allowed to find their own way to their quarters. Loveland's number was

on the next floor, but Bill's cheaper lodging was higher up.

At the top of another flight of iron-bound stairs was a row of cubicles,

boarded in half-way up to the ceiling, and protected above by thick wire

netting, lest some nimble night-prowler, moved by curiosity or a less

fanciful motive, should be minded to enter his neighbour's dwelling in

spite of lock and key.

The cubicles were not numerous, for such accommodation _de luxe_ was

beyond the means, beyond even the ambition of a hundred out of the

hundred and sixty men whom the Bat Hotel sheltered each night. The row

(called "Fifth Avenue" by those who could not afford to sleep there) was

partitioned off from a long room the size of the reading-room below; but

here, instead of tables and benches running along the walls, were beds,

many beds, placed at small, irregular distances from each other. A faint

light revealed them, and the straight dark shapes of the lockers shared,

half and half, by the sleepers whom Loveland could dimly see hunched up

under their grey blankets.

Some men slept in their clothes for warmth, though the room was not

cold. Here and there a hat or cap made a black blot on a thin, flattened

pillow, and the turned-up collar of an overcoat appeared above a

tightly-wrapped blanket. At the back, dark door-ways led to the

washroom; and a few wearily drooping figures flitted to and fro,

silently as the bat which lent its name to their lodging. Save for their

dragging footsteps, which scarcely sounded on the cement floor, damp

with disinfectant, there was no sound in the big dormitory, unless an

occasional snore or a word blurted out in sleep.

Bill unlocked the door of Loveland's cubicle for him. "This is pretty

complete, ain't it?" he asked in a whisper which respected the slumber

of others. "The beds are good enough for mine; but these rooms are fit

for a lord."

It was a much humbled lord who shut himself up in the boasted

magnificence of No. 15, there finding himself possessed of a narrow

hospital bed spread with a grey blanket strongly scented with carbolic,

and just space enough in the case to undress if he chose. But for

reasons which seemed good to him he did not choose.

Having bidden Bill "good-night" without saying a word in disparagement

of the Bat Hotel (moved by a new unselfishness which would not for the

world have hurt his friend's feelings) Loveland took off collar, necktie

and shoes, to roll himself up in the disinfected blanket. The bed was

not more than three or four inches too short for his tall body, and

though the mattress and pillow were as flat as stale jokes, and hard as

poverty, Val fell asleep.

Sleeping, dreams came to him, more real in seeming than any happenings

of the strange, nightmare day just passed.

They were of storms at sea, of fighting in South Africa; and when a

light persistent tapping at the thin door wrenched him awake he thought

he was being called for a night _sortie_.

"Yes! All right!" he muttered, sitting up dazedly. "I--what----"

"Sh! You'll rouse everybody," whispered Bill Willing's warning voice.

"Unlock the door, will you?"

Still half asleep, Loveland blinked in the dim light, found the key in

the lock and turned it. Like a shabby ghost, Bill stole into the

cubicle. "Mighty sorry to rout you out so early," he said, in cautiously

lowered tones, "but it's six o'clock, and in half an hour I've got to be

at the restaurant to begin work. If you'll get ready and come along, the

Boss's daughter, Miss Izzie, may take a shine to you, and smuggle you a

breakfast when Alexander the Great, her pa, ain't there to say no."

By the time that Bill had made his plans clear, Loveland's drugged

memory had begun to work. He recalled everything, with the sensation of

having opened a gate to set free a troop of grunting wild pigs. He was

cold: the carbolic smell, which he hated, made him feel sick. His head

throbbed as if tacks were being stuck into his temples and torn out

again. His muscles were stiff, and he felt more tired than when he had

lain down. It was disgusting to think that he had slept in his clothes,

in such a place as this, and had nothing fresh to put on, and he loathed

his own body because of the squalor in which it had consented to wallow.

How he longed for a cold bath in a great white porcelain tub, clean

linen, neat tweeds, and the luxurious silver toilet things, all of

which would have been his morning portion at home, or at the

Waldorf-Astoria! But repinings only added to the hatefulness of his

situation. He saw that, and shook them off, yet it was on the tip of his

tongue to vent his irritation on Bill, and yesterday he would have

yielded as soon as tempted. But something had changed in him since

yesterday. Something stirred, that through all his life had been asleep.

He made himself as neat as he could, did not grumble at the washing

accommodation, and moved with caution for fear of disturbing men whom

twenty-four hours ago he would have considered no more than sheep. That

was because he had been of the brotherhood, and though he expected soon

to give up his membership, he would never be able to forget. Men such as

these with whom he had touched shoulders would never be Things for him

again.

It was still night in the Bat Hotel as Loveland and Bill slipped their

keys into the key-box, and tip-toed downstairs; but outside, though the

lights of New York had been put out, the light of the world, climbing up

the far horizon, had begun to gild the city's domes.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Izzie of the Almond Eyes

It was not often that Loveland came into personal relations with

sunrise, and to see the rose and golden banners float high and higher

above the roofs and sleeping windows of New York, was like being first

gazer at some great painting in a Private View. There was hope and

promise of joy in such beauty, but he felt wretchedly out of the picture

in his rumpled evening clothes.

The virginal purity of dawn, translucent above the turgid darkness of

the town, made Lesley Dearmer seem suddenly to be very near him, so that

the air shone with her invisible presence. How sweet she was, how

delicately quaint in all her thoughts, how kind to others despite her

clear wit, and how sure of ultimate goodness, as she was of life!

Lesley had said that she had "faith in his other side," as she had faith

in the other side of the moon, though she did not expect ever to see

either. "You will always go on getting what you want," she had

prophesied just before they parted. What would she think of that

prophecy if she were even to dream of this humiliated figure, creeping

out of night to a new day?

Bill's hatchet face glimmered sallow and shabby through the pearly

twilight, and there was a frayed look under the patient, humourous eyes.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"A little," replied Val. "But I don't mind."

"You ain't used to the climate yet," said Bill, "and I'd make you

squeeze into my overcoat, only I'm a bit too sketchy underneath. Can't

afford to get me winter wardrobe back from my uncle's yet."

They passed out of the Bowery, and turned into Twelfth Street. Most of

the houses still had their eyelids shut in sleep, and their brick faces

looked dull, lacking all interest in life, as if it were hardly worth

while to wake up for another day patterned upon a dreary yesterday. But

in the middle of the first block there was one house which showed some

faint signs of life.

Originally it had resembled its neighbours in all essential features,

but the front on the ground floor had been altered, a large window of

plate glass having been put in; and from this window a sleepy, sulky,

bullet-headed youth was in the act of removing a few gouts of mud

splashed up by some passing cart. Above the wide window, in all the

glory of red and gold paint not yet faded, was the legend: "This is

Alexander the Great's." Inside, its face turned towards the glass, was a

big, framed blackboard covered with pictorial advertisements of various

dishes, done in chalks of violent hues, while from a gilded strip of

cornice depended large squares of cardboard glorifying Alexander the

Great and his system, in lettering of black and scarlet.

"Yesterday's show," explained Bill. "My work, the whole lot. The cards

last out the week; but the meenoo on the blackboard's new every day. I

tell you, it takes brain work! Hurry up, chum. I'm late."

The sleepy youth left the door open, and they went in, passing directly

into a room fitted up as a restaurant. The walls were painted with lurid

representations of Alexander the Great's battles, the costumes and

scenery having been studied more with a view to sensational effect than

accuracy of historical detail. There was a wild melée of warriors mixed

with palm trees, against backgrounds of rose-red sky, and cobalt sea;

and the face of Alexander--always a prominent figure in each scene--was

evidently a portrait done from a Hebraic model.

"What do you think of it?" asked Bill, who was hastily unbuttoning his

overcoat, to reveal a collar of immaculate celluloid and a jacket or

"blazer" of blue and yellow stripes.

"It's very striking," replied Val.

"My idea," said Bill, proudly. "Got it from the name over the door, as I

passed by that first day. Came to me like a shot. And then I thought of

the picture meenoos. When they're goin' to have rabbit, give 'em a

rabbit nibblin' a bit of lettuce--make it realistic. When they're goin'

to hev punkin pie, just make their mouths water only to see its portrait

in the window, so they've _got_ to walk in and eat a chunk of the old

original, if it takes their bottom nickel. Now, while I work like heat

lightnin', you amuse yerself examinin' my Shay Doovers."

As he spoke, he darted to a door at the back of the room, in front of

which hung a red curtain. Behind this curtain he disappeared with his

cherished overcoat, returning in a moment without the coat and with the

materials for his work, in a wooden box originally intended for starch.

Whistling melodiously "I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls," he

mounted the low platform in the window, which supported the blackboard,

and began to mop out yesterday's brilliant triumphs with a wet sponge.

A list of the principal dishes for the day had been jotted down for him

in pencil on a bit of paper which he pinned to the frame of the

blackboard lest memory prove treacherous in some succulent detail; and

then, with true artistic abandonment, he forgot everything except his

work.

Meanwhile, Loveland sought the neighbourhood of a huge stove which, its

flaming mouth muzzled with talc, looked like a black, round-bodied

goblin squatting, short-legged, on an island of zinc. The sulky boy had

made up the fire; and carrying off a coal-scuttle full of grey ashes

which he had raked out, he too vanished behind the red curtain.

Evidently ventilation was not one of the many popular specialities of

Alexander the Great's establishment, for the atmosphere of the

restaurant was heavy with the fumes of yesterday's food, the pictorial

advertisements of which were being now expunged from the blackboard.

There were gay duplicate patches on the two sides of this board; and

Loveland thought, in faint disgust, that he could detect a separate

smell for each dish represented. There was the ferocious-looking, horned

animal which might be anything from a mere mad bull to a Minotaur,

rising head and shoulders out of a blue cup. Yes, certainly the beast

had left a rich, soupy perfume, which mingled curiously with that of the

defiant fighting cock who spurred his way out of, or into, a pie-dish,

and with the fruity fragrance of a roly-poly pudding which belched forth

azure steam.

"Alexander the Great Fights Fair," announced one dangling card in the

window. "Alexander the Great Wins Every Time," alleged another.

"Alexander the Great Gives Great Grub." "Dine at Alexander the Great's,

and you Dine like a Prince." "You Get From Alexander the Great for 25 c.

More than You Get Anywhere Else for a Dollar." And so on, one glowing

eulogy after another, all round the window and hanging like a fringe

from the front of a large red desk at the back of the room near the

window of a kind of butler's pantry.

The room itself, with its bare but tolerably clean floor, was crowded

with small marble tables whose iron supports were painted light

vermilion to match the desk, the chairs and benches; in fact, everything

that could be red in the room was red, including doors, window-frames,

and even the clock on a rough mantel-piece which cut one of Alexander's

horses and a palm tree in halves.

Loveland had warmed himself thoroughly for the first time since leaving

the Waldorf, and had lost his disgusted sense of the close atmosphere,

when the red clock struck seven. At the same moment someone pushed aside

the door curtain, and came into the restaurant from a passageway at the

back. Val turned his head, and saw a very handsome, very untidy young

Jewess.

Her heavy black hair was twisted up anyhow on the top of her head, and

half a dozen patent arrangements for waving the front locks dangled low

over the double arch of beautiful brows. A full white throat which would

seem not quite long enough at forty, was gracious in its ivory curves at

nineteen, even though it rose out of a purple flannel dressing-gown that

left the wearer's figure to the beholder's imagination.

The girl came in yawning, but at sight of Loveland her languishing,

almond-shaped eyes opened wide, and a lovely carnation stained the

peachy sallowness of her rounded cheeks. She bit her full underlip, with

little even teeth that were white as kernels of corn in contrast with

the coral of her mouth.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, catching together her unbuttoned wrapper at the

throat, and taking a step backward, towards the door. Suddenly she

looked haughty, and a little defiant. "I didn't know anybody was here,

except Bill. We don't open till seven thirty. People don't come in this

early. But if you----"

"Thank you, I'm afraid I'm not a customer," said Loveland, pulling off

his cap, and flushing a little with embarrassment for himself and for

the girl.

"This gent's me friend. His name's Gordon--P. Gordon," explained Bill.

The girl laughed, self-consciously, pleased, yet half suspicious of the

handsome young man who had paid her the compliment of taking off his

hat. She was not used to men who did that, even for pretty girls like

her; but then she was not used to such men as Loveland. She recognised

the difference between him and the others, in an instant, and decided

that he was not "guying"; therefore that she need not hold herself

stiffly on guard. Not only was he the handsomest young man she had ever

seen, but he was a "swell," and swells did not patronise Alexander the

Great's. She wondered what he wanted, and why he should pose as a friend

of Bill's. Evidently he had been up all night, or he would not be in

evening dress at seven o'clock in the morning, but he had not the air of

having enjoyed himself. Perhaps Bill had helped him out of some scrape.

He looked gloomy and savage, like some gallant and beautiful animal

driven to bay, an effect which interested the girl very much and made

her like him better.

"I must trespass on your hospitality for a few minutes," Val said

hastily, "until Mr. Willing has time to help me carry out my plans for

the day. When he's finished his work----"

"You ain't in anyone's way here, I'm sure," returned the young woman,

still eyeing the mysterious stranger aloofly, but with admiration. She

put up one plump hand and uneasily touched the dangling hair-wavers, as

if she wished to tuck them out of sight.

"This is Miss Izzie, that I told you about," announced Bill, in his best

society manner, "the Boss's daughter."

The girl bowed, as she had seen heroines do on being introduced to

heroes, in plays at an adjacent melodramatic theatre. "How often must I

tell you, Bill, not to call me 'Miss Izzie'? Miss Isidora--if you

please. I hate Izzie." And she glanced out of the corners of her long

almond-shaped eyes at Loveland. "You're an actor, ain't you, Mr.

Gordon?" she asked.

"No, I'm not," replied Val, stiffening slightly.

"Excuse me, if I've said the wrong thing," cooed the girl, in her soft,

rather guttural tones, sweet as if she spoke with honey in her mouth. "I

didn't see how Bill come to have a swell friend, unless 'twas an actor.

Bill used to be always around the theatres before he worked for us, so I

thought----" She paused, still gazing through drooped lashes; then

turned away with a little shrug. "But I must go. I only came down like

this, Bill, to have a look round for Pa, because he's sick with a cold.

I told him I'd see after things till he's better. He don't like me

foolin' round in business hours, with a lot of men staring and passing

remarks" (she threw another glance at Val, to see if he were impressed

by this exclusiveness) "but he feels too bad to care today. I'll go pour

myself into my glad rags now and be down again as soon as I can."

"Boss sick, is he?" said Bill, who was finishing his work on the room

side of the blackboard, by indicating a lobster with thick, scarlet

strokes of fast flying chalk. "Won't be down till bye-and-bye!"

The daughter of Alexander the Great showed her dimples. "You think that

means you'll get a free meal, I guess. When the cat's away----"

"And has got a pretty, kind kitten for his understudy," Bill finished.

"We--ell, you know I'm soft, don't you? If you want anything, look sharp

and get it, or Pa might change his mind and pop in. Won't you have

something, Mr. Gordon?" she went on, hospitably, dropping the rough and

ready manner she used with Bill, for another attempt at imitating the

stage heroine who was her ideal of high-born feminine graciousness.

"If you'll trust me till afternoon for the price of a breakfast," Val

answered, trying to speak lightly.

"O!" she exclaimed, "I didn't ask you to _pay_. Pity if I can't invite a

friend to have a meal, without anyone making a fuss. I was just guying

about Bill. Besides, he's different. Pa throws in his dinner and supper

as part of his pay, and he's supposed to look out for his own breakfast.

He gets good money here, I'm sure, and if he's so soft that every old

applewoman or lame bootblack can wheedle his money off him, why that's

his business, and Pa says we ought to learn him better instead of

encouraging him to go on the way he does. That's why I have to sneak him

a doughnut and a cup of coffee on the sly sometimes. But I want you to

understand I've _invited_ you to breakfast, as a gentleman friend of

mine, and I shall be real hurt if you talk about paying."

"Very well, I'll accept your invitation with thanks, provided you'll

breakfast with me," said Val, as gallantly as if he were addressing a

Duchess--or a popular chorus girl.

"My! I couldn't do that," answered Isidora. "Pa'd be wild if he got to

know I eat a meal in the restaurant. We've a parlour upstairs," she went

on, with a pretty air of importance, "and the hired girl brings our

meals, Pa's and mine, for he doesn't have his down, either, except when

he's in a hurry, and just picks up a bite as he goes. But you'll be

seeing me soon again," she reassured Loveland. "I shall be at the desk

in Pa's place."

This was her exit speech, and she made it close to the red curtain,

which in another moment had blotted her out of sight. From some region

beyond the drapery, now came an appetizing smell of breakfast: coffee,

frizzling ham and frying sausages. The sulky boy, his face shining with

kitchen soap, came in with a tray full of dishes, and a red-faced,

middle-aged German followed, who stared with goggling, gooseberry eyes

at Loveland, the while he clawed clean cups and saucers from a hidden

cupboard.

Not fifteen minutes had passed when Miss Alexander alias Solomon

reappeared, this time in all her glory, panting with haste and the

snugness of her stays (perhaps she had drawn them in extra tight), yet

smiling in conscious beauty.

"My, but you _are_ got up to kill, this morning!" exclaimed Bill

Willing; and the fair Isidora darted a vexed glance at him, for she had

wanted the "swell" to believe that this gorgeousness was her daily

toilet.

She had put on a red cloth dress, which might have been made to suit the

restaurant, as well as the wearer; her bust was magnificently full, and

her waist impossibly small. She had powdered her olive face to a pearly

whiteness, and her black pompadour, with its bright undulations, looked

as if it would have scorned the plebian aid of metal hair-wavers.

"Now, the show's ready to begin," she announced, with a smile and a

glance, all, all for Loveland. And she was so lusciously handsome in her

richly developed young beauty that Val, despite the revolt of his

fastidiousness, admired her reluctantly.

No customers had come in yet, and Isidora insisted that Mr. Gordon

should have his breakfast. Bill, she said, could go into the kitchen and

"sneak something" from the cook; but it was Loveland's whim not to eat

unless his chum ate with him, and Isidora secretly liked him the better

for his loyalty to one so humble, not knowing that it was a new

development.

She had little of Bill's delicacy in the matter of asking questions, and

found it so impossible to restrain her curiosity that while Loveland

disposed of ham and egg, coffee and a doughnut, she hovered near the

table, trying with all her skill to probe the handsome stranger's

mystery.

Inclined to be reserved at first, it soon occurred to Loveland that,

since any port in a storm was better than no port, he had better enlist

Miss Alexander's aid. In response to her bids for confidences, he said

that he had landed in America yesterday, and had gone to the

Waldorf-Astoria, to find on his arrival that his clothes had been stolen

out of his luggage by an English servant. He added that his London

bankers had been dilatory about instructing their New York

correspondents; that when the hotel people, for some extraordinary

reason known only to themselves, demanded immediate payment, he had been

practically penniless, and had walked out in a rage, leaving everything,

even his overcoat. Not only did he keep the secret of his real name and

title, but he did not think it necessary to mention either his failure

to get in at houses where he had left letters of introduction or his

encounter with Mr. Milton. Yet, glibly as the story ran, it seemed to

the daughter of Alexander the Great like a fairy tale.

She, with quick feminine instinct, recognised the vast social distance

between "Mr. Gordon" and Bill Willing more poignantly than did Bill

himself, who had now almost forgotten it in friendly association. But

even so, to have sitting at one of her father's marble-topped tables,

hungrily eating a breakfast on her invitation, a young man who could

engage a cabin on the _Mauretania_ and a suite at the Waldorf-Astoria,

appeared like a brilliant dream. She had never before seen anyone quite

so gallant and aristocratic-looking as Bill Willing's friend; no, not

even when she walked Fifth Avenue on Easter Sunday at the hour of Church

parade; and she was distressed at the thought that she would soon lose

the wondrous visitor forever. She longed desperately to attach him to

herself in some way, but could not see the way.

Eagerly she began to plan a course of action, thrusting Bill's advice

aside. What was Bill that he should give advice? she asked

scornfully--for Bill had never looked into her languishing eyes, and he

was to her a mere painting-machine, scarcely a man at all. What did Bill

know of uptown, and the ways of swells? But, she intimated, she had some

knowledge of smart life. She had friends, Mr. and Mrs. Rosenstein, who

were rich (though indeed no richer than Pa) and sometimes she dined with

them at their flat in One Hundred and Fifty-third Street, or went to an

uptown theatre in their company. Therefore she was competent to advise

and to say "what was what."

She offered to send a District Messenger to the Waldorf-Astoria for the

telegram Mr. Gordon was expecting, and any letters which might have

arrived. "He can bring you the lot," she arranged, "and then you can

send him to your bank, unless they make you show up to be identified.

Anyhow, you can wait here for news. You can go on sitting where you are,

or you can come and stay by me at the desk, if the tables fill up with

folks for breakfast."

Loveland's face slowly reddened, and his eyes grew troubled.

"You needn't mind about the money for the messenger," she said quickly.

"You can pay me back afterwards, if you're so awful proud."

"Why, of course I'd pay you back," Val assured her. "But--er--the fact

is----" he hesitated, trying to find a way out of the tangled web "Mr.

Gordon" had woven--"the fact is, I"--(he wondered if he could bear to go

to the hotel and thus escape the difficulty about the name; but

pictured himself arriving in evening dress by broad daylight, and felt

his gorge rise at the degradation). "The fact is, anything coming for me

at the Waldorf will have on it the name of Loveland. 'The Marquis of

Loveland' will be the address on my letters."

"My goodness! you _did_ fly high!" exclaimed Isidora, dimpling. "I guess

it's no wonder they gave you a whole suite (she pronounced it 'soot') of

rooms. But that's all right. You put on a card what you want the

messenger boy should do, and you needn't be afraid to trust him. These

little fellers are safe as banks."

With this, the first paying customer arrived, demanding beefsteak and

apple pie for breakfast. Then, as if he had given the signal, others

poured after him, all in a hurry, but all good-natured, and all bolting

their meals (meals composed, it seemed to Val, of the most extraordinary

dishes) with such incredible speed that the Englishman was startled. By

the time he had finished writing his instructions, and a uniformed youth

had darted off with them, almost the whole first contingent of

breakfasters had gone, and given place to another.

Alexander the Great's clients consisted apparently of respectable

employés of lower middle-class business houses. If they had not all been

employed, Loveland reflected, they would not have been in such desperate

haste; but then he had not yet studied the American temperament, north

of "Dixie."

Bill Willing's habit was, when paid for his day's work, to find a seat

in a small adjacent park and play with the children whose out-door

nursery it was. There by witchcraft or wizardry his money was

frequently wheedled from his pocket; and often by the time he returned

to Alexander the Great's for early dinner, he was practically a pauper.

It was after such conjuring tricks that he migrated at nightfall to his

"country estate," as he called Central Park, and got through the hours

as best he could, till half-past six next morning.

Today, however, he was encouraged to linger in the warm restaurant,

Alexander's daughter being supreme in authority during her father's

absence. Isidora saw that Bill had the food he liked best for breakfast;

a steaming pile of buckwheat cakes trimmed round the edges with crisp

brown lace, and oozing syrup at every pore. Also she sent him a copy of

"New York Light" without having even glanced at the front page, although

a "gentleman friend" who had paid her a great deal of attention last

summer was at the beginning of his trial for a really exciting murder.

Isidora dreaded, yet longed, to see the messenger return, and at sight

of the slim figure in blue bobbing past the big window she started so

violently as to cover the floor with an avalanche of waiters' checks

which had littered her father's desk.

The youth entered the restaurant and went straight to the table where

"Mr. Gordon" still sat. Isidora could not hear a word of the

conversation which ensued, but from under her eyelashes she contrived to

see, without seeming to see, how the messenger shook his head in answer

to questions, and how Mr. Gordon's face grew ever more blank until it

hardened into an expression of hopelessness. She was sure that the boy

had brought neither letter nor telegram, and that something had gone

very wrong indeed with her mysterious guest's calculations.

An inspiration prompted her hastily to beckon Bill, who was earning the

continued hospitality of the restaurant by trotting in with clean plates

from the kitchen and trotting back with dirty ones.

"Here, take this, and pay the messenger," she whispered. "I guess your

friend's had a disappointment."

Bill obeyed, but did not at once come back. When the youth had been

paid, and had shot away up the street as if through a pneumatic tube,

Bill lingered in consultation with the pale young man at the table.

"Something's up," Isidora said to herself, in an agony of curiosity. But

what the "something" was, she could not find out till breakfast was

over, and the room clear of customers.

It was by this time after nine, a late hour at Alexander the Great's

restaurant, which the regular clients were deserting now for business;

but others might drop in for a piece of pie at any moment, so Isidora

caught at a propitiously quiet instant as she would have flown at a

moving electric tram.

"The cable I expected hasn't arrived," explained P. Gordon. "It's all

right, of course, when I come to think of it, and I'm not really

worried, for I haven't paid enough attention to the difference of time

between London and New York. I must send again later in the day, when

there will be letters, too, perhaps, and people's visiting-cards.

Meanwhile----"

"Meanwhile, stay where you are, and make yourself at home," cut in

Isidora, hospitably. Nevertheless, she was anxious when she thought of

her father, and the inevitable moment of his coming downstairs,

heavy-footed with illness, and "cross as a bear with a sore head." Pa

would want to have the beautiful young man in evening clothes

satisfactorily explained, and it was borne in upon the girl that he

would be rather difficult to explain. Non-paying people and things were

always difficult to explain to Alexander, especially when he was under

the weather. But--there was one way out of the scrape, and Isidora

snatched at it suddenly with a leap of the heart. All might be well

should she prevail upon Mr. Gordon to accept another loan from her--if

he liked to call it a loan!

She had been saving up her allowance to buy a new ball-dress, and had

already set her heart on the thing she would have. But she would deplete

the sum by a third for Mr. Gordon's sake, if he would take the money and

spend it as if it were his own, "for the good of the house." If he

indulged in pickled clams or pumpkin-pie, or cold fried oysters, at

intervals of, say every hour, under her father's eye, he would continue

to be welcome to his place for an indefinite length of time, even though

costume and conduct might appear open to curious criticism.

"Thank you, but Mr. Willing has given me a piece of good advice," said

Val. "If it hadn't been for him, I shouldn't have thought of it,

perhaps. He suggests my pawning a few things I have on me."

Now was Isidora's time to speak, and she offered her alternative

suggestion, but with some stammering and confusion under the growing

discouragement in Mr. Gordon's dark blue eyes. Nor did he let her

stumble on very far. As soon as he gathered the drift of her faltering

words, he broke in, thanking her sincerely, saying that she was most

awfully kind, but he couldn't trespass any further upon her goodness.

According to Willing, there was a pawnshop just round the corner. They

two would go there immediately; and then, with money to pay his debt to

her, as well as tide over unforeseen delays, he would be glad to come

back for a time.

Not only had Isidora never seen a man like Mr. Gordon, but she had never

heard any man talk as he did, unless perhaps on the stage. She could

hardly believe yet that he was not an actor, and that the 'Marquis of

Loveland' was not the name of some character he had played.

It needs hardihood to show oneself at nine o'clock of a cold, sunshiny

morning in evening clothes. Loveland had not by any means got rid of his

vanity with his other possessions, and he would rather have "run the

gauntlet" at the risk of his life from cowboy bullets or Indian arrows,

than face the grins and stares of a downtown New York crowd.

This time Bill did offer his overcoat, and press the offer, but to do

Loveland justice, its shabbiness and inadequacy were not his principal

reasons for refusing. Bill's "blazer" was not much warmer than tissue

paper, its sole virtue, save on a hot day of summer, being the fact that

it would cover a "dickey" and celluloid cuffs that had no visible means

of support.

Luckily for Loveland's fortitude, however, the ordeal--or the

out-of-doors part of it--was brief. He was whisked round the corner, and

hurried mercifully into a dingy den which Bill Willing seemed to regard

as a kind of "home from home," or, at the least, a cold-storage

warehouse.

Loveland denuded his shirt of studs, took the gold links out of his

cuffs, and produced his watch, asking almost humbly how much would be

allowed for the lot.

The watch was of gun-metal; the sleeve links, the simplest he had owned,

were destitute of precious stones; and the pawnbroker having examined

the offered objects with an air of disparagement, mentioned the sum of

nine dollars. When urged to make a higher bid, he remarked that he was

"no Santa Claus," and at last showed himself so indifferent that

Loveland was glad to exchange his despised belongings for one dollar

less than the sum at first refused.

"I expect the old Curmudge will be on for his scene by the time we get

back," said Bill, as they returned to Alexander the Great's after an

absence of nearly an hour, during which time Loveland had provided his

shirt-front with cheap celluloid studs.

But "Curmudge"--alias Mr. Solomon, alias Alexander--was still absent.

His understudy, Izzie of the almond-eyes, continued to reign alone over

a kingdom of marble-topped tables and empty red chairs awaiting their

next occupants; but sixty minutes had changed her oddly. She looked up

with a nervous start when Loveland came in with Bill, and hid in her lap

the newspaper which had been lying before her on the desk.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Morning Paper

"I shall be able to pay you for my breakfast and the messenger now,"

said Loveland. "And if you've a private room, I'd like to engage it till

afternoon, when I can send to the hotel again, and find the cable

telling me how and where to get the money on my letter of credit. It's

rather awkward being here in these clothes, and----"

"We haven't got a private room," replied the girl, "except our own

parlour. I wish we had, because--because I guess you're just about

right. You _oughtn't_ to be here, today, sitting around dressed that

way. You might be noticed, and--and----" She hesitated, then began to

speak again quickly, in a low voice. "See here, Mr.--Mr. Gordon. I don't

know but I'd better tell you something. Bend down; I don't want the

waiters to hear. Dutchy don't catch onto English much, but folks always

understand when you don't want 'em to. Of course it's all right about

Bill, as he's your friend. I suppose he _knows_?"

"Knows what?" enquired Val, bending down towards her as she had asked,

his elbows on the counter, while Bill tactfully retired out of earshot.

"Why--it's--it's in the paper; this morning's 'Light.'"

"Oh!" The blood sprang to Val's face, his scar showing very white. No

need, it seemed, for further questions. He thought he knew what Miss

Isidora Alexander had been reading in the paper, and cursed himself for

having uttered the name of Loveland. If he had not told her that

enquiries must be made at the Waldorf for Lord Loveland's cablegram and

letters, she would not associate Mr. Gordon, Bill Willing's friend, with

the hero of "New York Light's" story.

That cad, Milton, had evidently made up some tale, on recovering his

disgusting senses, a tale not too damaging to himself, and had named his

assailant.

"Give me the paper, please," Val demanded.

"Not now," said the girl. "Dutchy's looking, and that, silly boy,

Blinkey, has just come in. I don't know as Dutchy reads English, and

'tain't likely Blinkey bothers about the news, even when he gets time.

But you never can tell. They may have read, and they may be putting

things together already. Better not let 'em guess we're alludin' to

anything in the paper."

"Is it about my knocking a man down?" asked Loveland.

"Yes, a swell, well known in s'ciety. I've seen his name often in 'Town

Chat.' And it's about you at the hotel, too----"

Suddenly it seemed to Val that he would not have the heart to read that

article about himself in the newspapers. His sensitive vanity sent a

sharp twinge through his body, as if a nerve had been touched with the

point of a knife. That scene of his humiliation in the Waldorf

Restaurant, and afterwards in the hall! how could he bear to see it all

set out in vulgar print, accompanied perhaps by an "interview" with the

hotel employé who had turned him into the street? No, he could not look

at the paper, could not see himself held up to public ridicule--probably

by the pen of the man he had ordered from his door with Cadwallader

Hunter yesterday in the morning.

Physically, Loveland was not a coward; but touch his vanity and he

shrank as if with fear, and, mortified to the quick, as his imagination

pictured the amusement his plight must be at this moment creating round

thousands of breakfast tables, he broke in upon the girl's revelations,

almost roughly. "Never mind--that part now," he said. "That's nothing.

Has the man Milton set the police on me?"

"Nope. I guess not. There's a kind of interview with him in the paper,

and he says he deserved what he got for havin' anything to do with a man

of your sort. He says after he'd told you exactly what he thought of

you, you hit him from behind; which I don't believe, because you ain't

that kind, I'll bet----"

"Thank you," said Loveland, looking so handsome in the pallor of his

anger that the Jewish girl could not take her eyes from his face. Her

sensuous temperament made her adore beauty, of which she saw little in

her everyday life. It was because she loved beauty and colour that she

chose red and other vivid-hued dresses for herself. Because she loved

beauty she studied fashion-plates, and pinched in her plump waist to

what she considered perfect elegance of form. Because she loved beauty

and thought she was attaining it, she covered her smooth polished skin

with pearl powder, and tortured her hair with metal curling-pins.

Because she loved beauty she was now ready to fling her soul at this

stranger's feet. Having read the newspaper, she believed him to be a

blackguard; but she had not been taught a high standard of virtue for

men; and if she had, she would still have been fiercely ready to protect

this splendid scoundrel.

"No, I'm not that kind of man," Val echoed her words. "Evidently the

cowardly beast must have picked himself up before he was seen,

otherwise, as he was lying flat on his fat back, his story about having

been hit from behind would hardly have held water. Will the police do

anything on their own responsibility, do you think?"

"Not unless somebody sends them lookin' for you, I hope," Isidora

reassured him, flattered that she should be taken into consultation.

"This Milton says in the interview, he don't want to be mussed up in a

scandal, or called on as a witness against you in a police-court."

"It's his own scandal!" broke out Loveland. "He knows I could defend

myself only too well. And being a cad himself, he doesn't know that I

wouldn't bring in certain names."

"Still, the hotel people may try to make trouble," the girl suggested.

"It was so early when the messenger got there, p'raps they hadn't read

the papers, because if they had, they could have followed the boy here,

if they wanted."

"I shall have to send again for the cablegram, no matter what happens,"

said Val. "I must get money."

"Sure you _can_ get it?" Isidora asked in a confidential, yet somewhat

doubtful, tone.

"Of course I'm sure. I have my letter of credit--the one thing I did

manage to keep."

"Yes, but----"

"There isn't any but," cut in Loveland, impatiently. "It's certain to be

all right this afternoon, at latest. The cable will have come to the

hotel, and then I shall know what to do. Even supposing the police

should arrest me for that affair--well, at worst, the trouble ought to

be over and done with in a day or two."

"Oh, indeed it wouldn't," exclaimed the pretty Jewess. "I don't know

what mightn't happen to you. You _will_ be careful, won't you--if it's

only to please me?" And her eyes were large and beseeching.

"You're very kind to take an interest," said Val, really grateful,

though he had to restrain an impulse to draw back from her advances. "Of

course I don't want to be let in for a scandal which might do others

harm as well as me--and would, if that beast Milton could manage it. I'm

not exactly pining to see the inside of a New York gaol--which you seem

to think I'm in danger of doing. Things are bad enough, as it is." And

his face darkened, for he thought that, after the loathesome publicity

the newspapers were now giving the name of Loveland, he might have

difficulty in bringing down such game as he had crossed the sea to seek.

Also, he remembered with a pang Lesley Dearmer's prophecy that the

Louisville journals would reprint New York gossip.

"Oh, I'm sorry you think things here are so bad," retorted Isidora,

flushed and pouting.

"You know I don't mean things here," protested Val, with less truth than

politeness. "You're too good to me, and I appreciate it all immensely."

"Do you?" she asked, her eyes liquid.

"Of course I do. I hope I shall be able to prove that before long."

She blushed. To her mind, there was only one way in which a young man

could prove that he appreciated a girl's goodness to him: by making love

to her. And she could almost have fainted with joy at the thought of

what it would be to have this glorious hero--villain though he might

be--as a lover. Already she had a dim yet intoxicating vision of herself

a bride in white silk (or should it be cream satin?) and a wreath of

artificial orange blossoms amid clouds of tulle. There would be

difficulties--a hundred difficulties, of which the greatest was now

upstairs enjoying a well-earned rest. But who cared for a love that ran

smooth? And Isidora thrilled as her fancy held a spyglass up to the

future.

"Well," she said, warmly, "I mean to go on being good--better--best to

you; for I'm studying out a plan to get your things away from the

Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, and all the same to keep you out of trouble.

You're a foreigner, and don't understand our ways yet, but I'll see you

through all right."

"How are you going to do that, my guardian angel?" Val smiled at the

pretty Jewess.

Isidora had the sensation of being bathed in perfumed cream. His

"guardian angel"! She had been called a number of nice things, such as a

"real beaut," a high-flyer and a Floradora; but no one had ever hailed

her as his guardian angel before, and with all her heart she vowed that

she would live up to the name.

"I don't know exactly yet how I'll do it," she admitted. "But you leave

it to me, and it'll be done, you'll see. Only give me an order signed

'Loveland,' to bring away anything of yours from the hotel. Meantime,

I've thought of one thing, which is, you'd better not be seen here till

we're sure they ain't onto you, through that messenger boy. I tell you

what; I've got a lady friend in this street, Mrs. Johnny Gernsbacher,

who's lookin' after an empty house that's for rent."

"A caretaker?" asked Loveland.

"I guess that's right. Me and Mrs. Gernsbacher's good friends. She's a

widow lady, quite old, 'most forty-five, so she'll do for a chaperon. Pa

had her boy here once to wait, and then through me and friends of mine

he got a better job outside. She'd be glad to do me a good turn. You can

see to things here for five minutes till I run across and ask if she'll

let you stay there in the house, as a friend of mine, till you have time

to look around."

"_I_--see to things?" echoed Loveland, blankly.

"Yes. If anybody comes in, they'll take you for a swell waiter, in those

clothes. They'll think Alexander the Great's startin' in for uptown

style."

She laughed with amusement at the joke, and Loveland laughed, too,

though not very heartily. He was not enchanted at the idea of being

mistaken for a "swell waiter," but beggars must not be choosers, and he

offered no objection to the plan.

Wrapping over her head a red crocheted scarf which she called a

"fascinator," Isidora darted into the street, panting with haste lest

the worst should happen in her absence, and her father take it into his

head to come downstairs. But she had seen him last dozing over the

Police News, in a quilted home-made dressing-gown, and that was such a

short time ago that she hardly thought there was danger of a surprise.

Mrs. Gernsbacher must have been very accessible and easily persuaded,

for in less than ten minutes the girl was back again, flushed with

triumph. "It's all right," she announced. "Beccy G's standing in the

basement door, waiting for you to pop in. Bill, you show him the way to

Beccy's. Goodbye, Mr. Gordon. Don't stay here another minute. I'll be

over as soon as I can, to tell you what's up--and I'll send Bill along

at noon with something good for your dinner."

Carried off his feet by her enthusiasm, Loveland did not stop for

further argument. Caught by an eddy in the tide of fate, he let himself

be swept away.

CHAPTER TWENTY

A Back Number

Nothing had happened when Bill Willing came at half-past twelve, to find

Loveland an inappropriately ornamental figure, keeping guard in Mrs.

Gernsbacher's kitchen during that lady's absence on a shopping

expedition: nothing had happened worth reporting, except that Alexander

the Great was "around again."

Isidora had sent, wrapped in a Japanese paper napkin, a ham-sandwich,

and a generous slice of pumpkin-pie, a delicacy strange to the

Englishman's palate. Bill had brought food for himself, too (that part

of his wage which he took out in kind), preferring a cold picnic meal

with his friend to the hot meat and potatoes he might have had at the

restaurant. He also was provided with pie and a sandwich, and though his

portion was smaller than Isidora's surreptitious gift to "Mr. Gordon,"

he had smuggled in his pocket a bottle of ginger ale for both.

"Have you read the beastly newspaper article about me?" Val forced

himself to enquire.

"No," answered Bill, "I ain't seen it. Miss Izzie offered me the paper,

but I--well, I didn't care to read it. Seemed as if 'twould sorter be

spying on you, behind your back."

"You're a good fellow," said Val. It was a new idea, only born to him

last night, that a shabby waif like Bill--a mere autumn leaf, blown here

and there by contrary winds of circumstance--could be a "good fellow,"

with the heart of a man. But here was such a one. And it seemed to Lord

Loveland that the leaf was very like a gentleman.

"I don't see where the goodness comes in," protested Bill, modestly.

"But I can run back and sneak the paper, if you've changed your mind and

want a squint at it."

"No, thank you," said Val; though he half scorned himself for moral

cowardice. "I've no wish to see how deep New York journalism has pushed

me into the mud."

Bill, who did not wish to be overheard gossiping about his friend's

affairs by the returning Mrs. Gernsbacher, pottered away after the meal,

promising to run in later with a message from "Miss Izzie," if the young

lady were prevented from coming in person. If Isidora had mapped out a

definite plan, she had not confided it to Bill, but he had little doubt

that her idea would "pan out all right, because she was a mighty smart

girl when she set her wits to work."

Some hours passed, and Loveland became as restless as a caged lion

lately imported from his native desert. It was only his horror of vague

atrocities which might be perpetrated by the New York police--horrors

such as he had read or heard of--which restrained him from rushing out

of his dreary hiding place, even at the price of being hooted in his

evening clothes, in the full glare of noonday. After all, he said to

himself, bitterly, those who might see him perambulating Twelfth Street,

thus unsuitably clad, would only do as Isidora had suggested--"take him

for a swell waiter." But he did not like that dark, haunting vision of

the police, and constrained himself to patience.

Rebecca Gernsbacher returned from her morning's shopping to ask almost

as many questions as she drew breaths, freezing into a cold statue of

suspicion as her mysterious guest froze into reticence. Not having heard

the name of Loveland, she did not associate any sensational headlines in

the morning paper with Isidora's "swell mash," but there was no crime

between pocket picking and murder of which she did not believe the

handsome, sulky fugitive easily capable.

Loveland had parted with his watch, but there was a battered "one day

Bee" clock in Mrs. Gernsbacher's untidy kitchen, and he had begun to

tell himself gloomily, that it would soon be too late to draw money from

any bank, when Isidora appeared in great splendour at the basement door.

She had on a large picture hat of red velvet, nodding with cheap ostrich

plumes which shaded from palest pink to deepest magenta; and in her

"electric seal" coat she looked as little like a lady as a beautiful

girl could possibly look. But she was enchanted with herself--and

evidently expected to impress Loveland by her taste and elegance.

"Well!" she panted, having kissed her friend Beccy, and dusted off a

chair with the big muff which matched her cloak. "Well, I've got news

for you, Mr. Gordon. Guess what it is."

Val was in no mood for graceful badinage, but he forced himself to reply

smilingly that he could not guess, and was anxious to hear. "I began to

think you were never coming," he added; which remark was more

flattering to Isidora than to Mrs. Gernsbacher.

The girl, pleased at his impatience, which made her conscious of her own

importance, gaily plunged into her narrative: what she had done, and why

she had been so long in doing it.

In the first place, Pa had been cross, and hadn't wanted her to go out;

but when she had teased, he had only grumbled a little, and directly

after dinner--before Bill came back--she had taken an "L" train

downtown, to consult the husband of a great friend of hers. This

gentleman she had persuaded to leave business--he being a tobacco

merchant--and to drop in at the Waldorf-Astoria, with the object of

making certain enquiries. She had not, she said, confided any secrets to

her friend, though she was sure she might have done so safely, but had

merely pleaded a passionate yearning for further details of the "story"

in "New York Light." What were the hotel people going to do? Were they

searching for the Englishman, and if so, had they got upon his track?

Mr. Rosenstein being an occasional customer of the Waldorf bar, when he

"had on his gladdest rags and was out to do himself well," did not

hesitate to undertake the mission. He went to the hotel and asked

questions without arousing any suspicion that he was actuated by a

deeper motive than idle curiosity, and he learned that the staff of the

Waldorf-Astoria took but little interest in the gentleman calling

himself Lord Loveland. The Englishman had gone away without paying for

his rooms, as the newspapers had said, the hotel people admitted, but

goods worth about the amount owing had been left behind. Possibly the

owner would redeem the things; and if not, it was a matter of no great

importance to the hotel, which was full of other clients and of other

business. Anything that might have happened, anything of which the

Englishman might be accused, did not concern the Waldorf-Astoria, now

that he was no longer a resident of the hotel, and employés had been

instructed not to gossip either in his favour or disfavour. Besides, a

good deal of water had run through the mill since his eviction, and the

late Lord Loveland was now shelved as a "Back Number."

Having got this information, passed on from Mr. Rosenstein, Isidora had

felt safe in attempting her _coup d'état_. Bidding her obliging friend

goodbye with thanks, she went herself to the Waldorf-Astoria. Assuming

the air of a Duchess (as she conceived it) she showed to a clerk the

paper given her by Loveland, and signed by him. At the same time she

mentioned haughtily that she was a friend of the gentleman's, and had

dropped in for his mail.

There was no mail, had come the laconic answer; no cablegram; no

letters; no visiting cards; and nobody had called with the exception of

two or three newspaper men.

Loveland's heart was cold as iron, and as heavy, when Isidora's story

had reached this climax. Difference in time could no longer account for

the London bank's failure in replying to his wire of yesterday. There

was some other reason for silence--some strange, sinister reason

connected, no doubt, with the attitude of the New York cashier

twenty-four hours ago. Val asked himself insistently what that reason

might be, and could get no answer, although various disturbing

conjectures flitted through his brain. He thought of the debts he had

left behind in London, and wondered if any of his creditors could

possibly be responsible for the mysterious trouble which had attacked

him simultaneously from both sides of the world.

And nobody had called or written! This lack of courtesy showed, to his

mind, that Jim's and Betty's friends had all read the newspapers, and

had taken his affair with Milton in bad part. The man Milton was to

blame for the scandal, which had doubtless been spread by Cadwallader

Hunter's journalist friend, in revenge for a snub. Cadwallader Hunter's

malice, too, must have been another match to light the fire of mischief;

and taking everything together, Loveland began to fear that the game in

America was up. He hated to fail, hated to be thwarted--pushed back with

brutal violence from the very threshold of success; but it was all too

sordid, too humiliating for a gentleman to contend against. He began to

tell himself that the dignified course was to turn his back on America

and march homeward with flags flying as if he had suffered no defeat.

Yes, that was what he would do. It would be disgracing himself and his

name, to go down and wrestle in the arena with enemies who did not

pretend to fight fair. Yet--to leave this country for ever, with no hope

of seeing Lesley Dearmer again! She had not even given him her address,

and had only laughed elusively when he suggested "calling on her some

day, after everything was comfortably settled." He knew no more than

that she lived "near Louisville," therefore he could not write to beg

that she would not believe any hateful tales the newspapers might

invent. Oh, yes, it was all over--that, little episode, which had been

so sweet, which had taught him that he had heart enough to love and

long for a woman, because of what she was, not because of what she had.

"You needn't look so broken up," said Isidora. "Wait till I come to the

end of the story. I've got a messenger waitin' in the street with

something for you. I wouldn't let him in, till we'd had our talk. Now

I'm going to call him down, to cheer you up a bit."

She bounced off her chair, ran to the door, and shouted up from the

level of the basement to the street. In another moment a uniformed youth

walked in and deposited a large paper-wrapped bundle; but it was not

until he had been sent away that Isidora began to open the parcel.

"I wanted to get the lot," she said, "but my, the bill was high!--way

above me. I'd twenty-five dollars I'd been savin' up--oh, for something;

but you needn't care. I'd a heap rather do this than buy any old thing

for myself. And here's what they give me after a lot of fuss."

She tore off the brown paper with a dramatic gesture, and triumphantly

displayed the suit of tweed clothing which Loveland had taken off the

evening before in dressing for dinner. Then her face fell, as she saw

that his expressed no pleasure.

"I thought you'd like these better than anything, as I couldn't run to

all," the girl went on disappointedly.

"You paid my hotel bill!" exclaimed Loveland.

"Only a little, weeny part," Isidora broke in. "Wisht I could have done

more."

"I don't," said Val, hastily. "Oh, you're very kind--too kind. I don't

know what to say. But--your money, that you were saving--why, I--Jove!

it's horrible. And I mayn't be able to pay you back for days."

"I don't want you to pay me back," the girl said proudly. "It's been a

pleasure."

Loveland's heart reproached him. He had shuddered a little at the

thought that this gaudy young beauty in flaunting feathers and cheap

finery had gone to the Waldorf claiming him as her "gentleman friend."

But it was a thought far less palatable that she should spend her

savings for him. He was grateful--more grateful than he would have known

how to be yesterday, to a person not of his own class--yet gratitude was

not now his strongest emotion.

He thanked her as best he could for all she had done, and talked down

her objections to being repaid. Now, he said, owing to her kindness he

could walk the streets without being stared at, and would lose no time

in cabling to his mother. Oh, he had plenty of money for that! and

smiling as if it were part of a huge joke, he showed what the payment of

his small debt to the restaurant had left of his eight dollars.

Seven dollars and a bit-nearly thirty shillings! Why, he was rich. All

he asked now, was a room in which to change his clothes.

As there was a houseful of empty rooms, this request was easily granted;

and presently Loveland came back to the kitchen suitably clad for

daylight--except for the detail of his necktie. He would have given a

good deal for a change of linen; but there was no use in crying for the

moon. And Isidora saw no fault in his appearance as she walked proudly

at his side, on the way to send a cablegram to Scotland.

Secretly, Loveland would have been glad to dispense with her company,

but she assured him that she had "more time than anything else," and

that she would be delighted to guide him. Only, they "mustn't go past

home, for if Pa saw her with a strange gentleman, there'd be trouble."

Isidora peered over her companion's shoulder, as he wrote out his

message to his mother, and was much interested in the address. To save

expense, he put only "Loveland, Dorloch, North Britain," therefore the

girl's curiosity was not greatly rewarded. All she could say to herself

was that, apparently, he had some right to the name of Loveland, and

that he really did seem to expect that "somebody over there" might send

him a remittance. Otherwise why should he waste good money on a

cablegram, and without a code, too?

Loveland had not written to his mother since his change of plan about

the ships. But after all, he said to himself, it did not matter. He was

always a bad correspondent--always had been--and the mater just put up

with it, poor dear. She wouldn't be worrying anyway, as she must suppose

him to be on the high seas at this moment, a passenger on the

_Baltic_--unless she had heard from Betty or Jim--an improbable

contingency. Even if he had sent off a letter directly after landing,

she would not get it for days yet, so his negligence had done no harm.

As for the Marconigram Jim had suggested--why, as things had turned out,

it was as well he hadn't wasted money on it.

Unfortunately, to make his need of money clear, Val was obliged to write

a long message, even though he attempted no elaborate explanation,

beyond saying: "Don't believe newspaper canards." When he had finished,

and did not see his way to striking out a single word, he was vexed to

find that he would have to pay six dollars and fifty cents. Still, his

mother would instantly send the fifty pounds he asked for, even if she

had to borrow, and in a few hours this hideous situation would be ended.

He could pay all he owed; and then, if there were no hope of anything

good in America, he would take passage on the first homeward bound ship.

Isidora advised him to give as an address the house where Mrs.

Gernsbacher was caretaker, as embarrassing questions might be asked by

Pa if an answer came to the restaurant. She was afraid that Mr. Gordon

would have to "chum up" with Bill again for the night, if he were

determined not to accept a little loan from her; and she was grieved to

think of the boring evening he would have to spend.

It would be fun, she thought, if he would "just drop in at the

restaurant like a stranger," and have some supper, which would cost him

as little there as anywhere, since he was bent on paying. But Loveland

made an excuse which pleased her so much that she relinquished the plan

almost without a pang. It would be difficult, he said, after all her

goodness, to treat her like an entire stranger. He said this carelessly,

but to her it meant a great deal--so much, that she went straight home

almost as happy as if he had been by her side.

With his evening clothes under his arm (the first time in his life,

perhaps, that he had carried a parcel larger than a letter), Loveland

found his way back to the Bowery, back to the Bat Hotel, back to his

friend Bill, who was already in the reading room. And once again the

name of "P. Gordon" figured humbly among the hundred and fifty lodgers

for that night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Man Who Waits

There came no cablegram from Scotland next day. Loveland's mother did

not answer his appeal. But Val tried to persuade himself that this was

not strange. Perhaps she could not get together such a sum as he had

asked for, without a little delay, but she would send as soon as

possible. He was sure of that as he was sure that his present address

ought to be First Circle, Hades.

The dollar which remained to him after sending his expensive cry across

the sea, was gone. He borrowed of Bill Willing, who offered and was

delighted to lend. In a day or two at most, Loveland said, he would

repay, and planned to give Bill a handsome present as well. Meanwhile

Loveland passed his time miserably between Alexander the Great's and the

Bat Hotel, or walking the streets in the desperate hope of seeing some

English face he knew. He saw many pleasant faces, to whom no appeal of

sorrow would be made in vain. But they were strangers' faces, and he was

not a beggar yet.

He had bought with Bill's money--an advance from Alexander--two or three

collars, a change of linen, and a dark necktie, therefore he looked

smart and prosperous enough in his tweed suit to pass muster in a crowd,

the absence of an overcoat seeming a mere eccentricity. Perhaps there

were men who envied the handsome young Englishman who strolled past them

with a jaunty, leisured air, while they were forced to hurry. But he

would have given a good deal for the need of hurry.

Four days dragged by, including one ghastly Sunday; and when there was

still no word from Lady Loveland, Val began to feel the heavy conviction

that none would ever come. Some awful spell had fallen upon him, it

seemed, a curse which made him a pariah even for those who loved him

best. It had begun with Foxham's treachery; and now it had come to his

mother's neglect. What might follow, he could not guess; he would rather

not try to guess.

He thought over his past, and realised that he had been selfish; but he

did not feel that he had ever done anything which deserved such a

punishment as this, if punishment it were--if there were a God who

watched the children of the earth, and punished, or rewarded, their

deeds. Never before had it occurred to him to pity others, beyond a

"poor old chap, so sorry, don't you know," and a quick forgetting; but

now he was filled with a dumb sympathy for everyone who suffered. Above

this bright, gay city--the gayest and brightest Val had ever known--it

seemed that his eyes had gained a magic keenness to see the smoke of

human suffering rise like incense, to the clear remoteness of the sky.

Loveland did not always take his meals at Alexander's. Sometimes he let

a meal-time pass, too deeply depressed to be hungry; or if Bill Willing

insisted on food for both, there were places where it could be obtained

even more cheaply than at Alexander the Great's--when Alexander himself,

and not Isidora, was behind the counter.

Val had met the "Boss" now, though not officially. While he had a few

dimes and nickels in his pocket, he patronised the restaurant, glad to

have a glimpse of Isidora's friendly, pretty face, and a chance to warm

himself at the glowing stove. The "Boss" regarded him as a client--a

"queer cuss," down on his luck, but worth being civil to, for in New

York you never knew how men's fortunes might change.

Nevertheless, Loveland realised that Alexander had as much real kindness

of heart for the world in general as Shylock, or a tiger. He had his

friends, perhaps--for tigers may have friends, in their native jungle,

if there be no question of a carcass to divide; but when most sleek and

smiling, there was something vaguely terrible about the fat Jew. Wake

the tiger in him from its sleep of purring prosperity, and it would

spring, tearing and rending with unsheathed claws the creature who had

roused it.

Isidora, thought Loveland, must resemble her mother, who, it appeared,

was long ago dead; and maybe that was one reason why the fierce-eyed Jew

loved the girl so jealously, as a tiger loves its young, or as Shylock

loved Jessica. She had something of his Hebraic cast of feature,

although he had taken a Christian wife; but nothing could be less like

the hawk-eye, with its fierce glance suddenly unveiled, the cruel nose,

and the big rapacious mouth of the gross, elderly man, than the

langourous beauty of the young girl.

His father had been a German Jew, but he--once Isaac Solomon, now

Alexander the Great--had been born in the slums of New York, and had

fought his way up, biting, clawing, or fawning, whichever seemed the

wisest course. Now he was growing rich. He was proud of his own

portrait on the walls, in the battle-paintings, proud of the queer

pictorial menus and smart advertising cards which helped to make the

success of the venture in which he had risked his capital; but he

acknowledged no debt of gratitude to Bill Willing's ingenuity, and would

have sacked the artist the moment he ceased to be useful. He decried the

value of Bill's work; he bullied his two black cooks and his ill-paid

waiters; nor had his prosperity given him any fellow feeling for others,

who, like himself, were struggling to reach the top.

If you deserved to get on, you got on, and devil take the hindmost, was

Alexander's motto. But he loved and admired Isidora, and though he

grumbled when she asked for money, secretly his chief joy in piling up a

fortune was for her future, that she might marry well and hand his name

on, for posthumous honours. He had already picked out the bridegroom, a

young Jew with goggle eyes, a turned up moustache, and glittering black

hair; a fondness for celluloid collars and red neckties; a smooth manner

with his prospective father-in-law, and a truculent front for his

inferiors. The young man was making "good money" as a "drummer" for a

firm of Jewish tobacco merchants, but there was a slight "tache" upon

his parentage, and he would be willing to take Alexander's name, on

marrying Alexander's daughter. Bye-and-bye, when years from now

Alexander might wish to retire on his pies and fried oysters, as other

heroes had retired on their laurels, Leo Cohen would, with Isidora,

carry on the restaurant and its glory from generation to generation.

This was Alexander's dream, and woe unto him who should try to

interfere with its fulfilment! But he had no fear of any such dangerous

person, even when Leo was away drumming up interest for a certain firm

in the West, and a tall, handsome, sulky-looking young Englishman was

dropping in every day for cheap food and a smile from Isidora.

If Loveland had had money, he would have sent off other cablegrams, but

he soon came down to his last copper; and Bill, though willing by nature

as by name, seldom had in his best days more to lend him than fifteen

cents at a time.

On the fifth day the situation passed beyond bearing. Not only was

Loveland penniless, but he could not bring himself to borrow more of

Bill's pitiful nickels and hard-earned dimes. Each one of those coins

was more to Bill than a sovereign (usually someone else's sovereign) had

been to Lord Loveland in his palmy days. The thing couldn't go on; and

so Val was saying to Bill as the two drank hot coffee (at Bill's

expense) standing up before the counter at Alexander the Great's on the

fifth morning after Loveland's arrival in New York.

It was not quite seven o'clock, but Bill had finished his work on the

"meenoos," and had invited P. Gordon to "stoke his furnace" at an

expenditure of two cents.

Alexander, who had presided at a political ward meeting the night

before, had not yet come down to growl at his man-servant, his

maid-servant, and all within his gates. "Dutchy" had been discharged

with violence the night before, because he had drowned his vast

homesickness in unlimited beer, and "Blinkey" was the only member of the

household on view except the black cook Dick and Dick's assistant.

"Bill, I can't stand this any longer. I shall have to work or

steal--anything but borrow more--until I can touch my money," Loveland

broke out, when Blinkey had disappeared behind the red curtain and was

being harangued in the distance by big Dick.

"It ain't easy to do either in New York," said Bill, mildly.

"To think of my being practically reduced to starvation and nakedness,

with a letter of credit for a hundred and fifty pounds in my pocket!"

groaned Val. "Do you think old Alexander would advance me anything if I

told him my whole story?"

"Oh, I guess I wouldn't tell him the story," Bill advised, hastily.

"Why not?"

"Well, he's got a sharp tongue, Alexander has."

"In England such a fellow could only get at me at all through my

servants."

"I--suppose so," agreed Bill, gently. "But this ain't England."

"I should think it wasn't, worse luck."

"You do have bad luck," said Bill. "But 'twouldn't change it if you

asked Alexander for a loan on that letter of credit. If he said anything

fit for publication, he'd only say, if the bank wouldn't accommodate

you, he wouldn't; and what the dickens did you take him for? When I want

a quarter before it's due, it's like gettin' milk out of a corkscrew;

and the one thing he thinks of, is whether I shall get run over by an

automobile before I work out the money next morning. Oh, I know

Alexander."

"What's Pa been up to now?" pertly demanded the voice of Pa's fair

daughter.

Isidora had come in while the two were so deeply occupied in

conversation and the dregs in their coffee cups, that they had not seen

her lift the curtain.

Since the day of her first introduction to P. Gordon, she had not

appeared at this early hour of the morning. Her father was generally at

his post, and when he was there, Isidora was supposed to exist not for

use, but for ornament. However, she knew that Alexander was now reposing

after last night's eloquence, and she had taken advantage of his

absence. This time she was not in wrapper and curling pins. She had

dressed herself with great care for the day, having learned from the

"hired girl" that Bill Willing's "swell friend" had come in with him.

"What's Pa been up to now, I say?" she asked again, before the startled

and mortified Bill could answer.

"Oh, nothing," replied the artist, apologetically. "We was just

talkin'."

"I was wondering if he would advance me anything, enough to get back to

England with--on my letter of credit?" Loveland frankly explained.

Isidora's eyes dilated at Val's suggestion of going back to England. It

had not occurred to her, facts being as stated in the newspapers, that

he would wish to return to his own country; and as fortunately, after

the first sensational paragraphs, his affairs had been crowded out of

public interest by various startling events of far greater importance,

she had thought that he would be thankful to "worry along" as he was.

"Get back to England!" she echoed, blankly.

"It seems the one thing to do now, if I weren't kept here by the lack of

a few wretched sovereigns," said Loveland. "If your father would trust

me----"

"Oh, he wouldn't!" Isidora hastened to put that idea out of P. Gordon's

mind, once and for ever. "He never trusted anybody yet, and he wouldn't

begin with you. Why, he says his success in life comes from never

believin' anybody but himself. If a man tells him it's a nice day, he

goes to the window and peeks out before takin' a walk without his

umbrella. And he'd think 'twas like takin' a walk in his best clothes

when it rained cats and dogs, to lend a furriner money."

"On a letter of credit?"

"Pa perfectly despises that word 'credit.'"

Loveland gave up hope of winning confidence and obtaining dollars from

Alexander the Great. "This state of things is enough to make a man blow

his brains out!" he exclaimed.

"I guess you need your brains now more than you ever did," suggested

Bill. "And you couldn't git 'em put back where they belonged, if

everything come right directly they was out. What I think of, when them

ideas get to workin' in my head, is the awful long time you have to

_stay_ dead, whether you're suited or not. It's a lot easier to pawn

your dress clothes, and see what turns up."

Before Loveland could answer Isidora clapped her pretty hands, which

were much cleaner than usual since P. Gordon had come into her daily

life.

"Don't pawn 'em!" she cried. "That's made me think of something. Pa's

always talkin' about visible assets, or somethin' like that. Well, your

dress suit might be a visible asset if--if you're really sick of life

when you can't pay your way. But are you dead sure you are sick of it?"

"Dead sure!" echoed Loveland. "What have you thought of for me to do?"

"You won't be mad if I tell you?"

"What nonsense! Am I in a position to be 'mad'?--in the sense you

mean--though it's a wonder I'm not mad in another sense. I'd sweep

crossings if I could get the job--or break stones--if anyone wanted them

broken. But I suppose you're not going to suggest one of these

employments, as evening clothes wouldn't be suitable to either."

"I was thinking," said Isidora, "that--I might tease Pa to take you

in--in Dutchy's place, if--you'd care about it?"

"Good Heavens! Be a waiter?" stammered Loveland. He had felt ready for

any ignominious, if paying, work when in the abstract; but as soon as it

took definite form--and such a form as this----

"Oh! I knew you'd be cross!" Isidora pouted.

Loveland was silent; and as his dark eyebrows--so like his cousin

Betty's--were drawn together in a frown, the girl supposed that he was

sulking.

"I only thought it'd be better than nothing," she explained hurriedly,

"if Pa'd let you; but perhaps he wouldn't. He'd think he was doin' a

favour--see? He wouldn't understand how you felt about it. I'd have to

explain you was temp'rily embarrassed; and my, what a howling swell of a

waiter you'd look. You'd get two dollars fifty a week, to begin, and

your food. That's what Dutchy did. And now and then folks give a nickel

to the waiter, even in a place like this, which I suppose you turn your

nose up at, after the Waldorf-Astoria. But I shan't say any more, you

needn't be afraid----"

"I beg your pardon," said Loveland. "If your father'll take me, I'll do

it. When he comes----"

"Oh, you mustn't ask him yourself! You'd spoil the whole thing," Isidora

broke in. "You must let me get at him. Two or three raw Germans and

Swedes are bein' sent round this mornin' to look at; but while Pa's

dressin' I'll talk you up, and you can be on hand when he gets

downstairs. I'll go this minute, and Blinkey can see to anybody that

comes in. You call him, Bill."

She darted off, all excitement; and Loveland sat waiting for the great

man's verdict, feeling as if he had laid down his soul for sale with the

pumpkin-pie and pork and beans.

Bill tried to cheer him. He would have practically no expenses, and

being such a "good looker" would be sure to pick up a lot of nickels and

even dimes. Why, he might save three dollars a week, and as for that

trifling debt to him--Bill--they would wipe it off the slate and

consider it paid; or, if Gordon wouldn't consent to do that, he might

send the money from England when he'd got home--if he really did think

it best to go home. At three dollars a week it wouldn't be long before a

chap could lay up enough to cross in the steerage, the way those big

ships were fighting each other for rates. For fifteen dollars you could

do it, on some boats; and at three dollars a week----

But before Bill could finish his calculation--a rather intricate one for

him--Isidora had flown in, her cheeks as red as her poppy-coloured

blouse.

"Pa's in one of his funny moods," she whispered. "Won't give me any

satisfaction. But I know he'd take you if you'd let me tell him who you

are. I mean, if you're willing, I'll say you're the man all that stuff

was in the papers about, how you was at the Waldorf as the Markis of

Loveland, and how it was you knocked that swell Mr. Milton down. Nobody

appreciates the value of advertising better than Pa (Bill can tell you

that), and amatoor or no amatoor, you can be gettin' not only your

two-fifty a week but twice that, and maybe more, out of Alexander the

Great."

"I'd rather starve or drown myself," said Loveland, turning red, and

then white.

"It's nasty, starving," ventured Bill. "And folks are that interfering,

they're always fishing you out of the water and puttin' you into the

newspapers as a Case. Besides, what's the odds? If you've got any

swagger friends, they ain't likely to come nosin' round here.

Alexander's is 'great,' but it ain't swell."

Loveland had shuddered at the thought of the steerage, when Bill

suggested it a few moments ago, but now it seemed to him that the

"horrors of the middle passage" would be heaven to the humiliations he

endured. For fifteen dollars, Bill said, he could get back to England.

If Alexander would give him five dollars a week, in three weeks he could

be off--or say, four, having paid Bill what he owed. But, no, that was

an eternity--not to be endured. At bay and desperate Val determined to

strike high.

"Tell your father who I am, then," he exclaimed, "but say he can't have

me for any beggarly two-fifty, or even five dollars a week. I'll have

ten, or nothing."

Isidora looked at him with respect, and dashed away behind the curtain.

Neither man spoke. The sound of her little high-heeled slippers,

clicking on the uncarpeted stairs, was sharp in their ears. In three

minutes--before Loveland had had time to repent--she was down again.

"Pa says 'Done,'" she panted. "He's going to use you for all you're

worth."

"I bet he will," murmured Bill, _sotto voce_. But neither he nor

Loveland guessed in what way Alexander the Great meant to make the

"swell waiter" worth his wage.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

News From the Great World

"Lesley, wasn't Loveland the name of that Lord you knew on the boat?"

asked Lesley's Aunt Barbara, peering at her niece from behind an immense

newspaper which hid all the upper part of her body as if with a screen.

Lesley was curled up on a sofa at the other end of the room, which had

for some reason or other, more or less appropriate, been called "the

library" for several generations. The girl was writing a story, which

was promised for a certain time, but her heart was not in her work, and

she welcomed interruptions, instead of discouraging them, as usual.

If it had been her habit to shut herself up alone for several hours a

day, or if she had sat bolt upright at a desk, Mrs. Loveland would have

taken Lesley's work more seriously; but when a pretty girl, looking

scarcely more than a child--a girl you have seen grow up from

babyhood--nestles cosily in a bank of ruffly silk cushions, with a

frivolous "scribbling pad" on her knee, and a pencil in her hand, how

can one realise that she is gravely pursuing literature as a profession,

and must not be addressed even if one has the most exciting things to

say?

Lesley did not answer at first, for she was composing her voice, that

Aunt Barbara might not guess she had been taken by surprise; therefore

Mrs. Loveland asked the same question over again in a louder tone.

"Yes," said Lesley. "Don't you remember my telling you his name was the

same as yours?"

"There! I thought so!" exclaimed the little dovelike lady. "Only I

wasn't quite sure whether you said the name was exactly the same, or

_rather_ like mine. You didn't talk as if you took much interest in him,

and it seemed as though you would, if we'd been namesakes. I don't think

you spoke of him more than once, did you?"

"I don't remember, I'm sure," replied Lesley, beginning to scrawl the

name of "Loveland" aimlessly across the top of the page which ought by

this time to have been covered with brilliant conversation between her

hero and heroine. She answered in an indifferent tone, almost as if she

were thinking of something else; but if her mind had indeed been

properly bent on the story, she would have said: "Auntie, darling, I'm a

thousand miles away, please, with Dick and Susanne. Don't bring me back,

there's a dear!"

"Well, I'm glad you didn't take much interest in him," went on Mrs.

Loveland, in a tone pregnant with mystery and importance. "I know I

oughtn't to be talking to you when you're at work, and I don't often, do

I?"

"Not _very_ often," smiled Lesley, her dimples softening the gentle

little reproach, if it were a reproach. But she didn't look up at her

aunt. She pretended to be writing on; and so she was. But it was only

one word, over and over again, that she wrote: "Loveland--Loveland." And

her heart had begun to beat in a hurried, warning way, as often it had

on shipboard when she heard Loveland's voice, and wondered if he were

coming to talk to her--or to some other girl.

"But this is something really very special," Aunt Barbara apologised.

"It's quite exciting. Only fancy having known him! I almost wish you'd

pointed him out to me that last morning on board, when I was up on deck.

It would be interesting to remember what he was like."

"Is there something about him in the paper?" asked Lesley, who had been

expecting news, but would have preferred to read it herself, if she

could have chosen.

"I should think there was!" exclaimed her aunt, screened behind the

great printed sheets again.

"Is he engaged already?" Lesley enquired, making a sketch of Lord

Loveland's profile in the midst of a speech of Dick's, though Dick was a

very different sort of young man from Loveland, a very different sort

indeed. How many times she had caught herself tracing the outline of

those features--so clear, so straight, so perfect an outline, that it

was as easy to draw as to copy a Greek statue. She knew every line, and

often the little profile-portrait was there before her eyes on the paper

before she knew what she had been doing. She was almost perfectly

certain what Aunt Barbara's answer to her question would be. Of course

he was engaged. He had hardly had time to make the acquaintance of any

new girls in New York, and propose marriage, so it must be Elinor

Coolidge--or Fanny Milton.

"Engaged!" echoed the elder. "No, indeed. What a mercy he's been found

out before some nice girl was mixed up in the scandal. Of course he

wanted----"

"A scandal!" Now at last Lesley did lift her head, quickly, and the

last profile-sketch looked as if it had been struck by lightning.

"Shocking," answered Mrs. Loveland. "What a dreadful thing that our

country should be looked upon as a sort of gold mine by these foreign

birds of prey."

Lesley's little ears burned pink as if her aunt had boxed them. Her eyes

sent out a spark, but its fire was quenched in a sudden trickle of

nervous laughter. "Dear Aunt Barb! Would 'birds of prey' make successful

miners?"

Aunt Barbara laughed, too. "You're always catching me up for my

similes," she said. "But luckily I don't write stories, so it doesn't

matter. And anyway that's what they _are_; birds of prey. As for what

they do, they marry our girls, who find them out too late, and then try

to get divorces. What an escape for some poor little heiress, that this

creature is hoist with his own petard in the very midst of baiting his

wicked trap! You needn't look at me like that, child. I don't care _how_

mixed up I am. Did this man look like a gentleman?"

"Yes," said Lesley. "Naturally, because he is a gentleman."

"My dear! he must have been clever to hoodwink an observant little thing

like you, who can see right down into people's hearts, even when you

hardly seem to be noticing how they do their hair, or the colour of

their neckties. This man is nothing but his own valet."

"So am I my own maid," said Lesley. "He never said he was rich, or----"

"I mean he isn't a Marquis."

The soft outline of the girl's figure stiffened, and she sat up very

straight on the sofa.

"Who says he isn't a Marquis?" she asked sharply.

"Everybody. The newspaper."

"Oh--the newspaper!"

"But it's true. He's been turned out of his hotel. I'll read you

the----"

"Please, I think I'll read it myself, if you don't mind, dear," said

Lesley. "That is--when you've finished. I can wait."

"I have finished, all I care about reading," Mrs. Loveland hastened to

assure her, for she invariably discovered that she has ceased to want

anything which Lesley could even be suspected of wishing for.

"Take the paper, dear. Don't get up. I'll bring it to you."

But Lesley did get up, and stood with her back to her aunt as she read

the Louisville version of Tony Kidd's sensational "story." She took a

long time to read it, and when she had come to the end, she laid the

paper on her aunt's lap without saying a word.

"Well--has it struck you dumb?" exclaimed Mrs. Loveland, disappointed:

for if she spoiled Lesley with petting, Lesley spoiled her with

responsiveness.

"I am rather horrified," said the girl.

"No wonder. You actually knew him--or thought you did."

"I think so still."

"Why--did you suspect at all?"

"Nothing that I don't suspect now. Poor fellow!"

"'_Poor!_' Dearest, that's carrying soft-heartedness too far. Think--if

he'd married some girl."

"I have often thought of it."

"What must Mrs. Milton and Fanny be feeling?" went on Mrs. Loveland.

"Friends on the ship--and now he knocks down the husband and father in

the street, because----"

"Ah, yes, because of what?" echoed Lesley.

"Mr. Milton says----"

"I read what he said. But his photograph is in the paper."

"What has that got to do with it?"

"Nothing, unless one's interested in physiognomy."

"I don't know anything about physiognomy," said Mrs. Loveland.

"Neither do I," said Lesley, "except what I was born knowing."

"Well, dear, I don't think I'd talk to any of our friends about having

met this dreadful impostor," Aunt Barbara suggested, gently. "People

might fancy, if you did, that there'd been--oh, some little shipboard

flirtation, perhaps, nothing serious, of course, but----"

"So they might," admitted the girl. "I didn't think at the time, myself,

that it was anything serious."

"I should hope not!" breathed Aunt Barbara. "A valet!"

"Marquis or Valet?" murmured Lesley, with a quaint little smile. "It

sounds like the title of an old-fashioned story."

"For goodness' sake don't use it," begged her aunt. "The material isn't

worthy of you."

"Oh, my stories are always new-fashioned," said Lesley. "You know, the

critics reproach me for running ahead of the times in my ideas."

"You certainly are rather unexpected," replied Mrs. Loveland. "Sometimes

I almost wish you were a tiny--just a tiny bit more conventional."

"You wished it when I said 'poor fellow.'"

"Oh, but you didn't really mean that."

"I did," persisted Lesley. "I should be disappointed in myself if I

thought I could fail to recognise a valet when I saw one. And I hate

being disappointed--in anyone."

"It _must_ be disappointing to an author--one who has to be a student of

character," assented Aunt Barbara, soothingly.

"Even when she's forgotten all about that part of herself for awhile,

owing to--interruptions."

The dovelike little lady looked hurt. "Oh, my dear, I do beg your

pardon!" she cried. "Of course I know, at this time of day--I'm only in

the library on sufferance."

"I didn't mean you, Auntie," said Lesley, kissing her.

"Not me? Who, then----"

"But I really ought to write."

"I do hope I haven't taken your inspiration away, dearest."

"No. You've given me one."

"I'm so glad. Well, I'll run away now. I've lots of things to see to.

Forget all about the Marquis of Loveland--I mean the valet. Put him out

of your mind."

"Don't worry, Auntie. It's quite easy to put a valet out of a tidy,

well-regulated little mind like mine."

"Think of Dick," said Mrs. Loveland. "He's going to be a splendid

fellow."

"Dick's a paper doll," said Lesley.

Perhaps it was because she was not in a mood to play dolls that, when

Aunt Barbara was gone, Lesley did not go back to her sofa and her story

writing. She picked up the paper which Mrs. Loveland had left lying on

the table, but she did not read. She merely looked at Mr. Milton's

photograph. Then she went to the desk where she kept papers, and took a

cheque-book from a drawer.

"No, that won't do," she said to herself, after thinking for a minute.

She put the cheque-book back in its place, and opened another drawer,

not locked, for neither drawers nor cupboards nor hearts were ever

locked in this old-fashioned Kentucky house.

The second drawer was full of greenbacks. Perhaps it was a kind of

savings bank for the young author; but, poor or rich, authors are

proverbially easy about parting with their earnings, and Southern-born

Lesley was no exception to the rule.

She counted out a number of bills--(more than half)--folded them up in a

blank sheet of paper, torn off the writing pad, that there might be no

address upon it, and pressed the flattened parcel into a large, stout

envelope. This she sealed with blue sealing wax, and after a moment or

two of puzzled reflection, began to print, in big black letters:

"The Marquis of Loveland

Waldorf-Astoria Hotel

New York

To be sent immediately to present address."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Marquis of Twelfth Street

It was Isidora who found out first what was in her father's mind,

because she saw the advertisement which Alexander the Great had written

for the papers. It lay on the parlour table, in clear black and white

for any eye to read, when Isidora came to clear away the litter of odds

and ends that Emmie the "hired girl" might lay the dinner things.

"Oh, Pa!" she gasped. "Is _that_ what you're going to do?"

"Of course," said Alexander the Great, staring at her over his

spectacles, as he wiped his pen and pushed his chair from the table.

"Tell that gel to hurry up. Don't she know by dis dat I've got just

twenty minutes for dinner? I'll have to go before dessert, if she don't

get busy."

"You want to change the subject, Pa," said Isidora.

"No, I don't. Why for? 'Tain't your business."

"'Twas me had the idea. He won't stand bein' advertised."

"Pooh!" said Alexander.

"I tell you he won't. He'll quit. He's afraid the police are onto him,

anyhow."

"Milton ain't lodged no complaint. Nobody has, or I'd have kicked de

feller out, first thing, when you tol' me who he was. Nobody ain't goin'

to touch him."

"And nobody ain't goin' to keep him, when he sees _that_," added

Isidora, pointing to the paragraph written in Alexander the Great's

clearest handwriting.

"He needn't see it, unless you blab, silly gel," said her father. "What

for should he read newspaper advertisements? I guess he got somet'in'

else to do."

"Somebody'll tell him."

"People come here to eat, not talk. Anyhow, dis goes."

And it went.

It went to several papers; and though Alexander the Great paid only for

the insertion of small paragraphs in the columns of the journals, he

chuckled to himself in anticipation of receiving far more valuable

advertisements, gratis; nor was he wrong. In matters of business within

the scope of his capabilities Alexander was seldom wrong. That was why

he was great. True it might be that "Lord Loveland of the

Waldorf-Astoria" (as Tony Kidd had dubbed him) was a back number, and

had been superseded in public esteem by at least two promising

murderers, and one lively divorcée; nevertheless, even small crimes were

thankfully received by newspaper men and women, as Alexander had reason

to know. Did he not owe part of his present success to a dearth of

sea-serpents, just about the time when Bill Willing had begun to

decorate the walls of the new red restaurant in Twelfth Street?

Alexander had spent a little money then in sprinkling a few paragraphs

over dull columns that set forth the advantages of pale pills, or bath

chairs. Reporters on the prowl had happened to read, happened to laugh,

and eventually happened to pass through Twelfth Street.

So now Alexander hoped again for something to happen, and did not hope

in vain. Journalists were not needing sea-serpents at this season, which

was rosy with debutantes, pearly with brides, and sparkling with balls

and dinner parties, as well as lurid with exciting murders. But Tony

Kidd's enterprising eye lit on Alexander's inspiration, while it was

still as fresh as tomorrow's bread, in the issue of "New York Light"

which was in the making.

He considered Loveland still his own--though Tony had passed on to

better "scoops" since the night when he had changed his first sketchy

impressions of the "Difficult Young Man to Approach" into a "story" far

more entertaining. He was greatly amused at the latest development of

"l'affaire Loveland," and thought that even a preoccupied public would

be amused, too, especially as Alexander's own paragraph was quaintly

quotable.

"Lost at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, the Marquis of Loveland. Found,

Ditto, at Alexander the Great's in Twelfth Street. If you want to be

served by a Lord, dine at Alexander's for 25C, Marquis included. You eat

your dinner; Waiter Loveland does the rest."

Tony was very busy just then, having an important errand out of town by

the first train in the morning, but he secretly commissioned an

understudy to be at Alexander's when the red restaurant should open its

doors; to order breakfast, and, while seeming to eat, to sketch the new

English waiter. The understudy was not to question Loveland himself,

but, if possible, Alexander, and was not to let the waiter see that he

was under fire of attention. Notes of Loveland's appearance, as well as

a drawing, must be made for Mr. Kidd's benefit, because the sharp young

journalist was not going to let himself be "spoofed." It was quite on

the cards that some other enterprising person might have taken a fancy

to call himself a Marquis, in order to attract customers to Alexander's;

and if so, Tony's little story would have to differ slightly from the

original design.

When he came back from the country, late in the afternoon, however, Mr.

Kidd at once recognised the cleverly executed sketch. There was no

longer any doubt in his mind that the young man who had slammed the door

in his face at the Waldorf-Astoria was now "pie slinger" in a cheap

downtown restaurant.

Tony questioned his understudy as to what he had found out, and learned

that Alexander himself had been privately interviewed. The great man had

discouraged the artist-reporter from talking with the "Marquis," who, it

seemed, was ignorant that he had begun to figure again in the

newspapers. The fellow had been starving, said Alexander, and permitted

the use of his name to a limited extent, but "might kick" if he heard of

the advertisements. Alexander wished him to "kind of get used to things"

before people noticed him much, for he was a queer fish, close-mouthed,

inclined to hold onto the ragged edges of dignity in spite of his fall.

The idea was to let it leak out very gradually that "Lord Loveland" was

being "worked to draw a crowd"; and thus admonished, Tony Kidd's

understudy had let the new waiter alone.

Tony Kidd himself, however, only laughed, because he understood

Alexander's little ways, and guessed how he expected to get his money's

worth out of the newspapers. The journalist wrote his story, which he

fancied exceedingly, and his editor was pleased with it, too, although

it was sure to give Alexander a tremendous free boom. Next morning

there was half a column on a good page of "Light" (including space for

the understudy's line portrait of a tall young man in evening dress,

with a coffee pot in one hand and a milk-jug in the other); and even the

printers grinned at the heading: "The Marquis of Twelfth Street: Newly

Acquired Title."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Through the Telephone

A persistent ringing of the telephone in Fanny Milton's bedroom waked

her out of a delightful dream.

She was on shipboard again. It was moonlight, and Lord Loveland was

telling her that he really cared a great deal more for her than for

Lesley Dearmer. She confessed that she liked him, too; and he was just

asking her to come and reign over Loveland Castle as well as his heart,

when the distant, though disturbing, notes of an amateur concert in the

music room of the _Mauretania_ turned definitely into the shrill bur--r

of that wretched telephone. The dream broke like a rainbow bubble, and

Fanny sat up in bed, disappointed with life.

It was past ten o'clock, but she had been at a ball the night before,

and had not meant to wake till eleven. After the dream realities seemed

flat and unprofitable for a minute, and she was angry with the

telephone, so angry that she was tempted to spite it by turning over and

trying to sleep again. But the hateful thing went on bumbling like a

distracted bee; and after all, the simplest way to get rid of the pest

was to see what it wanted.

Fanny got up, looking like a cross, pretty child of twelve, with her

hanging hair, and the delicate, fluffy nightgown in which she was not

cold, because the temperature of her room would have been considered

warm for summer.

She seated herself by the telephone and snatched up the receiver as if

she were going to shake it. But she soon settled down to an absorbing

interest in the give and take of conversation with the instrument.

"Hello!" she said. "Who are you? Oh, Elinor Coolidge--what?--I was in

bed. You waked me up. Never mind. It doesn't matter.... Yes, it was a

nice enough ball. Were you.... Oh, at Mrs. VanderPot's. How swagger! No,

we weren't invited. I didn't care. But Mamma was mad. I don't know

what's the matter with Mamma since we got back. She's got a 'chip on her

shoulder,' for nearly everyone.... No. Of course we haven't seen the

paper. I just told you, you waked me up.... What?... Lord Love--oh,

don't call him _that_! It sounds so cruel. I shall never forget his face

at the Wal----Why, Elinor Coolidge, you don't mean it! Waiting in a

cheap restaurant.... I don't believe it's true.... In the paper? Well,

there's nothing in _that_.... I know a newspaper man myself.... What?

Oh, his name's Tony Kidd. He's great fun. He says he lies all night

thinking of lies for all day. Says a pressman must lie all in all, or

not at all. If it's his paper.... Yes: 'Light.' Oh, then it's sure to be

a joke.... No, I would not like to go and find out for myself. It was

bad enough at the Waldorf that night. It just about gave me nervous

prostration, and I didn't see how you could take it so coolly as you

did, or Mamma either.... No. She likes you. She hasn't a good word for

him, now. Says she suspected from the first, and was always trying to

pump him and find out things.... Oh, that horrid affair about him and

Papa? I don't think she cares much. She says Papa oughtn't to have

spoken to him, and then it wouldn't have happened.... Yes, Papa went off

to Old Point with that sneery Mr. Mason Mamma detests so.... It was the

very next day, I believe.... Who says Papa's back in New York?... Well,

if he is, he must be going to surprise Mamma and me. We haven't seen him

yet.

"Oh, Elinor, I think it would be _horrid_ to make up a party and go to

that restaurant.... Yes, I like slumming and seeing Bohemian places

pretty well, at least I think I do.... I haven't done much yet. Mamma

has, but she hardly ever took me out with her anywhere, you know, till

we went to Europe.... Yes, in Paris.... But here it's different....

Well, I don't believe we'd find him there if we went, but all the same,

I don't want to.... Why, I can't help it if you ask Mamma to chaperon a

party.... _I_ won't go. Nothing will make me.... I can't answer for

her.... I don't know whether she's engaged this evening or not. She

hasn't been going out so very much since we came home.... Oh, yes. She's

sure not to have left the house yet. She's never out till eleven....

Who? The Comte de Rocheverte?... I met him at the ball last night....

What?... He was at Mrs. VanderPot's dinner first?... Took you in?...

Yes, he did speak to me of you, when I danced with him.... Oh, it was

only one waltz, but I tore my frock, so we sat out the last part. I

can't dance with Frenchmen: they hop so--and twirl you about.... It was

only that he asked me if I knew you.... Of course he said he thought

you beautiful. Everyone thinks so. He told me he met you at Major

Cadwallader Hunter's lunch at Sherry's, two days after we got home....

No, the Major didn't ask us. Mamma says he's turned the cold shoulder to

her lately. I don't know why.... Yes, the Count _is_ rather

good-looking. As handsome as ... oh, nothing to compare! You _know_ he

isn't.... Pooh, I don't think so much of French titles, as all that....

I suppose people will be nice to him.... Yes, quite good enough for a

flirtation, but.... You're welcome to your old Comte.... It's no

inducement to _me_, if he joins the party. It may be to Mamma.... You

can ask her.... Well, I think it would be jolly bad form of you all to

go to such a place and stare at him, if it could be true that he ...

yes, perhaps 'jolly bad form' was an expression of his. I don't care if

it was.... Oh, I suppose all the horrid things about him must be true,

because the news wouldn't have come the way it did, if they weren't. But

I _did_ like him, and I won't say I didn't now, just because he's down

in the world.... Lucky not to go to prison? Why, he didn't defraud

anybody, exactly. He came over here to ... well, perhaps he did. But he

didn't do it, anyhow.... I don't believe he stayed in New York after

what happened. Everyone who knew anything about it, said he probably

slipped out of town that same night, for fear of trouble.... Why, abroad

somewhere, I should think.... I would, if I had been in his place....

Not money enough to go away anywhere? Oh, he must have had some.... How

too awful if it should be true!... No, I wouldn't see him again for

anything--not if you'd give me your diamond dog-collar to do it.... I

think if you and Mamma and your Comte de Rocheverte go you'll be just

like ancient Romans watching the martyrs eaten up by lions.... Not much

like a Christian martyr? Well, no, perhaps not. Like going to see

gladiators fight and kill each other, then.... Elinor Coolidge, hearing

you talk that way makes me just see how you'd look dressed like a Roman

lady, sitting on a marble seat beside Nero or some other wicked old

horror, and putting your thumb down when it meant a man's death. Yes,

you would.... I believe you were a Roman woman in another state of

existence.... I won't talk about it any more.... You can ring up Mamma,

if you like.... Goodbye!"

Down went the receiver, and back scrambled little Fanny Milton into her

lavender-scented bed, shivering, not with cold, but with emotion. Her

telephone was silent at last, but she could not find her way into the

dream again. The door of that dream was shut forever; and Fanny was not

jealous even of Lesley Dearmer now.

"I wonder if she knows--if he ever wrote to her?--they were such

friends," the girl said to herself, with the cover pulled up to her

small chin, and the big eyes that had overflowed for Loveland, staring

through the pink twilight of her curtained room. What if it's true about

that restaurant--if he were starving?

After all, it was no use to try and sleep again. Fanny rang for the prim

maid her mother had imported for her from England, and demanded the tea

and toast which that maid said all well-regulated English ladies took on

waking. Then, as if on a second thought, she added: "Oh, you may bring

me the morning paper. It must be "New York Light." If it isn't in the

house, please tell them to send out for it."

But it was in the house. Mrs. Milton had been absorbing "Light" with her

tea and toast; and when her telephone bell rang for the unfolding of

Miss Coolidge's amusing plan, she said she would have a great deal of

pleasure in chaperoning a "slumming party" to Alexander the Great's. She

had an engagement for the evening, but she would break it in order to

go. She quite understood that Elinor did not care to mention the

expedition to Mr. Coolidge. Men had such funny ideas about things, and

he mightn't approve, but it would be all right if he didn't know, and a

great lark. Elinor was to ask the Comte de Rocheverte, of course, and

tell him that Mrs. Milton had consented to be the chaperon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Alexander's Busy Day

Elinor Coolidge's first thought after reading Tony Kidd's very

entertaining "story" in "New York Light," went no further than the fun

of paying a visit to Alexander the Great's, and being waited upon by the

man whose supercilious airs on the _Mauretania_ had made her feel "ready

to burst with spontaneous combustion." She had hurried to telephone

Fanny Milton, because a chaperon was necessary, and Fanny's mother was

one of the few women she knew who would not care whether Mr. Coolidge's

consent had been asked or not. Then she had thought that it would be

nice to go with some particularly good-looking and distinguished young

man, whose presence with her would prick the unfortunate Englishman to

jealousy, and give him the sensations of an outcast dog, who sees

another animal pampered with choice morsels, and collared with gold.

When Mrs. Milton consented to be the chaperon, it no longer mattered to

Elinor that Fanny refused to join the party. Fanny was a silly,

sentimental child, anyway, thought Miss Coolidge, who had asked the girl

only for the sake of obtaining the mother. But, having got so far,

Elinor's plan began to grow and take ambitious form. It occurred to her

that it would be dramatic to collect the whole circle of girls

(excepting little spoil-sport Fanny) to whom Lord Loveland had been

attentive on board the _Mauretania_. Each girl must, if possible, bring

a man, Elinor naturally picking out the best for herself; and the most

desirable seemed to be Comte de Rocheverte, a new arrival in America,

whom she had met for the first time a night or two after returning to

New York.

Of course he wasn't nearly as splendid a person as a real Marquis of

Loveland would have been, but (though conservative girls who preferred

home products, and jealous girls whom titled foreigners didn't

cultivate, called French counts "thick as blackberries and nearly as

common") Elinor had a weakness for old aristocracies. Besides, de

Rocheverte seemed to her of that dashing type which prides itself on

doing anything to please a woman. If she asked him to play a certain

part in her little comedy, she thought that he would carry it off gaily,

whereas the rôle might not be to the taste of her American friends.

She sent a note by messenger to a club of which the Comte had been made

an honorary member, to make certain of securing him. Then, his answer

having assured her that Raoul de Rocheverte was "entirely and devotedly

at her service when, where, and how she liked," she telephoned to the

four girls she wanted for the adventure. Of these, one could not come;

another could, but wouldn't, for the same reason as Fanny's (this was

Madge Beverly); and the remaining two thought it would be "more fun

than a wedding." Each would bring a man (Mrs. Milton also could be

trusted to find one), and the party would therefore consist of eight.

Never since Bill Willing had first made the fame of Alexander the Great

had there been such a busy day in the red restaurant as the day when

Tony's story and sketch of "The Marquis of Twelfth Street" appeared in

"New York Light."

Breakfast was almost normal; but an unusual number of people strolled in

between nine and eleven--"pie and milk" hours--and nearly all had

newspapers in their hands. As they sat at the red-legged tables, sipping

a two-cent glass of milk, they glanced at something in the paper, and

stared at the tall young man in evening clothes who moved about solemnly

with a tray of plates or cups and saucers.

By noon there was a rush of customers; the crowd increased rather than

diminished up to half-past one, and throughout the afternoon the place

was crammed.

Luckily, foreseeing that the new waiter would be awkward, more valuable

for ornament than for use, Alexander had accepted the services of a

young Pole in Dutchy's place. There was also Blinkey; but Blinkey was

deep in the agony of hopeless love for the Boss's beautiful daughter,

and was not to be counted on with any confidence, owing to his habit of

gazing at Isidora when she was in sight, and pouring hot liquids down

clients' necks if she suddenly disappeared.

There was more work than Alexander, Loveland, and the two others could

do; therefore soon after twelve the aid of "Miss Izzie" had to be called

in. The coloured cook and the cook's assistant worked until their brains

were as nearly addled as any egg ever employed in their most economical

moments; and to several members of the staff the reason for the rush

remained a mystery. Alexander knew and smiled in his sleeve. Isidora

knew, and cast reproachful, "I told you so!" glances at her father, as

she heard the rustle of opening newspapers. But the Pole did not

understand the curious questions people whispered to him; Blinkey was

stupid as well as sullen; while as for Loveland himself, none dared to

catechise him, so set were his lips, so threatening his brows.

Of course he suspected that it was he who brought the crowd, and raged

in the shame of his burning martyrdom. Alexander had said that he was to

be "used for all he was worth" and he was sure that, already, he was in

some way being used. But he did not know how, or guess the worst.

At first, when the place began to fill, and eyes regarded him with

interest, there was a hot instant when he asked himself if a new card

had been hung in the window, offering a British Lord as an attraction--a

kind of side dish, with sauce piquante. But he had slept at the Bat

Hotel the night before, and in coming "on duty" had seen the cards as

usual. There had been no sensational addition to the number, and no

opportunity for anybody to have made one since, unseen by him. Bill had

received no orders for any secret new design, Loveland was sure; for

Bill was loyal and would certainly have warned him. Val supposed,

therefore, that Alexander must have told people that the Marquis of

Loveland would act as a waiter in the restaurant; that such people had

passed the news to others, and so on, working upon the snowball system;

this great increase of visitors being the result.

Loveland hated his notoriety with hatred inexpressible, though it was,

in a way, a ghastly sort of tribute to the importance of the British

aristocracy. It was not, however, the sort of tribute his vanity craved,

and his one consolation was that the crowd Alexander had drawn to gaze

at the tame Marquis was a common crowd. Indeed, he thought there was no

danger that the red restaurant would be invaded by the upper classes. He

would not see or be seen by the sort of people he would have met if he

had not stumbled into this obscure pitfall of misfortune. Soon, too, he

should have earned enough money to climb out of it, and leave the

country.

With the feigned indifference of a caged white bear for a bank holiday

crush, the new waiter performed his duties during the day. If the

restaurant were crammed throughout the afternoon, by six o'clock there

was a mob. By seven, however, the place began to clear and Alexander

rejoiced, because there was much work for his staff to do before eight.

Dishes must be washed and special food cooked, and a dozen tables

prepared for two "crowds" who had engaged accommodation in advance.

One was a wedding party of Italians, numbering fifteen. The other was

something more exciting: a party of "swells" who had telephoned for

dinner at eight.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Fire!

Laughing and talking they all trouped into the restaurant. Elinor

Coolidge and Comte de Rocheverte; Eva Tanner and Kate Wood, with the

handsome Hungarian twins, who were rather sought after in New York just

then; Baron Ludovic Zsencha and his brother Paul; last Mrs. Milton and

Tony Kidd.

Tony had intended to drop in at Alexander's in any case, to have a look

at the Marquis of Twelfth Street, who had been "discovered" by that

morning's "Light"; but he would have come on directly after returning

from a second out of town expedition if a telegram had not been

forwarded to the country, asking him to be Mrs. Milton's escort.

This invitation Tony accepted with pleasure, not only because it tickled

his sense of humour to go to Alexander's as a member of a "slumming

party," but because he hoped to see Fanny Milton, whom he thought the

sweetest girl in New York. Last year Mrs. Milton would hardly have

considered him "good enough" socially to select as companion, but there

were people who looked at her a little askance now, and she could not

pick and choose as she had done. Tony knew very well to what he owed his

promotion, but that did not affect him in the least if it gave him a

chance of seeing Fanny.

He was disappointed to find that she was not going, and his spirits were

dashed by the news that she disapproved of the "Loveland sensation," for

which he knew himself to be largely responsible. Nevertheless, in manner

he was as gay as the others, when the party of eight made its merry raid

upon Alexander's.

The Italian marriage feast was already in full swing; but neither the

bridal party nor any of the thirty or forty other occupants of the

restaurant were too deeply absorbed in their own affairs to notice the

arrival of the "swells."

Not a soul in the room but instantly recognised the fact that they

_were_ "swells," for though the ladies had put on their plainest gowns

for the expedition, and the men had been forbidden to appear in evening

dress, there was a marked difference between Alexander's eight latest

guests and all the others already assembled.

"Hullo! I suppose we ought to feel honoured!" muttered Mr. Leo Cohen,

who had just arrived from the West, and was paying a surprise visit to

the establishment of his future father-in-law. He had demanded fried

oysters and coffee, and had greatly enjoyed giving the order to the

handsome new member of Alexander's staff.

"Get a move on, _if_ you please," he finished, pointing his black

moustache, and prodding his white teeth with a gold toothpick, as he

stared at the man made notorious by today's newspapers. Pressing his

lips tightly together Loveland turned away to pass the order to Black

Dick, the cook.

It was at this moment that Mrs. Milton's party entered the restaurant,

and Mr. Cohen murmured his comment to Isidora who, at her father's

urgent suggestion, was hovering about that young gentleman's table,

looking her prettiest.

Tony Kidd, at Mrs. Milton's request, had telephoned for a table for

eight, to be withdrawn as far as possible from the big front window,

that dinner and diners need not be criticised by the man in the street.

Alexander had, therefore, caused Blinkey to drag the largest table in

the room close to the curtained door at the back. At this table--by the

time Loveland had given Cohen's order to Black Dick, and returned across

the corridor which divided the restaurant from the kitchen--the four

pretty women and their escorts had taken their seats.

The door behind the curtain was never shut in business hours; and as

Loveland pushed back the red drapery, carrying a tray loaded with ice

cream for the Italians, he looked straight into the eyes of Elinor

Coolidge, Mrs. Milton, and the newspaper man, Tony Kidd.

They and their companions had already been searching the room for him,

but their presence took him completely by surprise.

Not since early morning had he found a moment's rest. He had had no

appetite, and would have had little time to eat even if he had been

hungry. The day's work had irritated and unnerved him up to the last

notch of his endurance. No battle of his brief but lively South African

experience had cost him physically or mentally as much as these thirteen

hours of waiting on Alexander's customers, and the sudden sight of those

familiar faces, smiling coolly on his shame, came upon him like a volley

of bullets from a quick-firing gun.

Involuntarily he took a step back, knocked the edge of the tray against

the door-post, and dropped it with a crash of breaking crockery. Plates

smashed, spoons flew, and ice-cream gushed among the ruins. Blinkey and

the Polish waiter sprang to their colleague's assistance, not

displeased, however, that he should be disgraced. Alexander scolded, the

Italian bride screamed, and had to be reassured by the bridegroom. Leo

Cohen laughed disagreeably; Isidora jumped; and Mrs. Milton's party

looked at each other from under lifted eyebrows.

[Illustration: "_Involuntary he took a step back, ... and dropped the

tray with a crash of breaking crockery_"]

In the confusion of the breakage Loveland found himself again. Pride

came to his rescue--not mere hurt vanity, but a truer pride than had

ever made his heart beat high.

As he bent down to pick up the broken plates, he told himself that these

people, who had come to plunge him still deeper in humiliating depths,

were not worth a pang, and should not see that they had power to inflict

it. They had caught him unawares, but he knew the worst now, and would

bear it without letting those laughing, curious eyes see how their

glances made him suffer.

For one short instant, he detested Mrs. Milton so intensely that he half

regretted his vow to spare her name at all hazards; but by the time he

had picked up the last piece of broken crockery he knew that, if

everything were to come over again, he would do as he had done.

"I take dat out of your wages," said Alexander, loudly enough to be

heard by those who sat round the table near to the curtained door.

"Of course," replied Loveland, his voice steady.

"I shouldn't have thought the British aristocracy would have such clumsy

ways," Leo Cohen remarked audibly to Isidora. Then, calling jocularly

across the room, "Say Alexander, got any mock turtle soup tonight?"

"No," growled Alexander.

"Thought you might be makin' a speciality of it this week," went on

Cohen.

"Why?"

"Oh, cute idea for an advertisement: 'Mock Turtle served by Mock

Marquis.'"

A titter went round the room among those who had enough English to

understand the joke, and there was even a faint, suppressed sound of

laughter at Mrs. Milton's table.

Loveland turned white. He had an impulse to hurl the broken dishes, now

collected on the tray, straight at Cohen's oiled black head; and a week

ago he would have done so without stopping to reflect. But he had lived

longer in six days since landing in New York than in as many years

before; and he was learning a lesson which no one had even tried to

teach him in the past; mastery of himself.

He knew that if he took violent revenge upon the insolent young Jew, his

late shipmates and their friends would delight in the exhibition. They

would think that they were getting their money's worth out of the show,

and Loveland determined not to play mountebank for their entertainment.

Pale, but perfectly composed in appearance, he did not even look towards

Cohen, and seemed to take no more notice of the young man's impertinence

than of the barking of some mongrel dog, too feeble to be kicked.

Ardently Loveland longed to get out of the room and to stay out, but

though he could have escaped by carrying the broken dishes into the

kitchen, he would not deign to turn his back on the enemy. He gave the

tray to Blinkey and obeyed a gesture of Alexander's which sent him to

take a new order from the Italians.

"I don't believe he'll come to wait on us," whispered Mrs. Milton to

Tony Kidd. "If he doesn't, it will have been hardly worth the fag of

coming all this way downtown. His handing us our things would have been

the best fun of all."

"I think you'll get your fun," mumbled Tony. But he was not enjoying

himself.

"Of course the man's a fraud, and deserves all he's got," the journalist

thought. "But I'm hanged if I like seeing him take his medicine. He's a

good plucked one, anyhow."

Never glancing at the eight faces, which watched his every movement with

sixteen brilliant eyes, Loveland passed their table and went to tell the

cook that the Italian party would have a rum omelet in place of the lost

ice-cream. Cohen's fried oysters were ready, the Pole having just served

them, and now the second course of the dinner--begun already with Blue

Points--was waiting for the "swells." It was soup, and Loveland had

either to carry it in, and serve it himself, or else to show that the

torture of the lash was beyond his endurance.

"They shall see that I'm not ashamed for myself or afraid of them," he

resolved, returning to the restaurant with a steaming tureen and eight

hot plates on a tray. Without a change of expression he laid those eight

plates, one by one, in their places on the table; and then, with a hand

which he forced to be steady, he ladled out the soup. The ladies drew

back, as if uneasy lest he might seek some small revenge; but he was

careful not to spill a drop.

"_Les biscuits, s'il vous plait_," said Comte de Rocheverte, looking

Loveland straight and superciliously in the eyes; but the English waiter

did not flinch from the stare of the French nobleman. He walked quietly

to the counter, took some biscuits (which Isidora called "crackers")

from a glass jar, put them on a platter, and handed them to each member

of Mrs. Milton's party.

"He understands French," murmured de Rocheverte to Miss Coolidge. "He

must have had some education."

Loveland heard, and swallowed a lump in his throat. He knew that the

young man and the girl were looking at him, talking of him; and that if

he were visibly distressed by the knowledge they would be the more

amused. But he snatched a moment's respite in waiting upon a seedy,

bearded stranger, who had just come in and taken an isolated table--a

stranger who looked like a foreigner, a person who would not be

interested in a marquis born of any nation. In a moment, however, came a

summons from Alexander. "You attend to the ladies and gents," was the

Boss's order; "Blinkey can see to that feller. What does he want?"

"A ham-sandwich and black coffee," said Loveland.

"Oh, Pa, don't send Mr. Gordon to wait on the swells again," softly

pleaded Isidora, flitting up uneasily. "They're trying to take a rise

out of him. It's crool. I----"

"Thank you, but I don't mind, Miss Alexander," said Loveland, with a

grateful look, which went so straight to Isidora's heart that tears

started to her eyes.

Val took away the eight soup plates, and would not see the amused

glances of the good-looking Hungarians, or Elinor Coolidge's French

Count. Rocheverte was not cruel at heart, but he did not like Englishmen

at best, and Elinor Coolidge, having told him the story of Lord

Loveland, as she knew it, had said: "We girls want to punish him not

only for the way he would have deceived us all if he could, but for his

perfectly horrid, supercilious airs when we used to know him on board

ship; so please help us by sneering and staring as much as you can

without making a scene."

She had looked so handsome when she made this request, that de

Rocheverte had told her he would grant it with pleasure, and he was

doing his best to keep his word.

They had got as far in the dinner as chicken fried with cream gravy, for

which Black Dick was renowned, when the restaurant door opened, and Mr.

Milton walked in, accompanied by another man.

Mrs. Milton flushed with vexation, for she was sure that he had come

back to town thus unexpectedly with the idea of surprising her; that he

must have gone home and questioned Fanny as to her mother's whereabouts,

and then have followed to Alexander's solely for the satisfaction of

spoiling her pleasure--unless a little for the sake of seeing his late

antagonist figuring as a waiter.

Milton sauntered over to the table and spoke to everyone civilly,

darting only one covert, ugly glance at his wife, when her fascinated

gaze rested upon the fading bruise which discoloured his square jaw.

"Read 'Light' this morning, Tony, and the afternoon papers copying it,"

he said. "Thought I'd drop in at the cockfight and see the fun. Great

stunt, isn't it?" He eyed Loveland up and down, as if the Englishman

were a freak at a museum. "Of course the story was yours?"

For the first time Val's eyes and Tony's met, only for an instant, but

there was something like reproach in Loveland's. A trapped hare might

have thrown a look like that at the keeper who trapped him.

"I suppose he thinks it was revenge for the slammed door," the young

newspaperman said to himself. "But it wasn't. I'm not that kind of chap.

I'd like him to know I'm not. But I expect it'll have to go at that."

"Well, ta ta!" said Milton, "and I'll order something for the good of

the house, now we're here. We're not obliged to eat it, thank Heaven."

He turned away, and was drawing out a chair for himself near one upon

which the seedy, bearded stranger had placed a small leather handbag,

when suddenly the whole restaurant seemed alive with dry, crackling

explosions, and in the same instant the electric lamps went out. The

room, a moment ago brilliantly lighted, was black as a vault, save for a

glimmer from the street that shone through the window. Then, as everyone

jumped up, overturning chairs or breaking glasses in their hurry and the

shrieks of the Italian women mingled with the strange crackling sounds,

there came from somewhere at the back a loud detonation, followed by a

hoarse roaring like a blast furnace. Men cried out in amazed alarm, and

the dark room lit up ominously with a crimson glare that turned the

curtain through which it leaked the colour of blood.

In rushed Black Dick and his assistant, with Blinkey, who had been busy

in the kitchen, and all three shouted wildly: "Fire! Fire!"

The restaurant was in a state of chaos. A long jet of flame, sweeping

out from the kitchen and across the narrow passage, caught the curtain

in the door-way, up which little serpents of fire began to crawl. Every

woman was screaming now, in a panic of fear whipped to horror by the red

darkness, and the crackling explosions which snapped and spluttered on

every side. The excitable Italians chattered and struggled with one

another in the dark, the new Polish waiter ran here and there like a

frightened chicken that sees the axe; the two negroes were almost in

convulsions, and Tony Kidd called vainly on the Hungarian brothers and

de Rocheverte for help in bringing order out of confusion.

The thought that flashed through the minds of all was an anarchist

plot--a dynamite bomb. For one terrible second everybody remembered the

bearded stranger with the little bag, and debited him with the deadly

mischief--everyone, perhaps, except Loveland and Tony Kidd.

Into their heads the same thought sprang at the same moment, for each,

it happened, had in his memory some such scene as this.

At the time of the first explosion Loveland had been quietly setting a

plate of fried chicken before Tony, and as the journalist leaped from

his seat, the two young men were close together.

"Short circuiting--escape from a fused gas pipe," Loveland yelled

through the noise.

"Yes, that's it," the reporter shouted back mechanically, as if to a

friend.

Then, for a few seconds, Tony was overwhelmed by a wild rush of

frightened women. In the red light that streamed through the burning

curtain he saw a crowd fighting to reach the window and the closed front

door of the restaurant.

Upon his incredulous eyes flashed a horrid tableau of de Rocheverte

throwing off Elinor Coolidge, who clung to him, crying, "Save me--save

me!" As the Frenchman blindly flung her away and dashed towards the

door, the girl would have fallen on her knees, to be trampled under foot

by the two Hungarians, had not Loveland pushed the men violently aside,

and caught Elinor in his arms.

"Keep her--keep all the ladies in this corner out of the crush," he

cried to Tony. "I'm going to turn off the gas at the main." Then he gave

Elinor, half fainting, to Tony Kidd, who firmly called Mrs. Milton, Miss

Turner, and Miss Wood by name. The sound of the two calm voices in the

midst of shouts, smashing glass, falling chairs, and foreign

exclamations, rallied the women's courage. As Tony held Elinor the three

others passed near him, deserted by the foreigners of their party; and

in the bloodshot haze all saw Loveland's tall figure apparently plunge

into the flame. He made a dash through the door-way, his arms thrown

across his eyes, to shield them from the fire; and ten seconds later the

loud roaring ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The cracklings had

ceased, too, for the short circuiting was over, and the stream of gas

burnt itself out an instant after Loveland seized the handle of the

main. But the curtain still blazed; the stairway in the passage, the

door frames in the kitchen and restaurant were on fire, and the panic

raged as wildly as ever among the fallen chairs and tables.

The doorhandle had been broken by Leo Cohen as he fiercely disputed with

Milton the right to get out first, and none could now escape that way,

although men battered the panels, and strove to break them in. Someone

had smashed a hole in the thick plate glass window, big enough to create

a dangerous draught, but not large enough to give a means of retreat for

any of the men and women who, with cut and bleeding hands, struggled to

squeeze through the jagged opening.

One hand badly burnt, face and hair singed, Loveland was back in a

minute from his errand at the gas main. He had snatched up a huge kettle

of water from the stove, and dashed it onto the stairs, quenching the

small flames which had begun to curl and writhe. Then, tearing down the

curtain, he trampled out the fire, and as the flames died into shooting

sparks and feebly puffing smoke, he urged Tony to bring the ladies that

way. "Upstairs--we'll get them upstairs, out of the crowd," he shouted;

but instantly the whole throng would have turned to stream in that

direction, had not Tony Kidd kept the way clear by making an obstacle of

his own broad shoulders.

He got a fierce blow or two, but held the pass until the four ladies of

his party, and Isidora, had reached shelter with Loveland.

The women safe, Tony tore off his coat and began beating down the fiery

snakes which crawled up the door frame towards the ceiling. Loveland,

meanwhile, having refuged the four ladies with Isidora, hurried back to

stand by Tony Kidd. Together they collected all the Italian women, whom

they lifted bodily over a barricade of tables, and grouped in a corner

beyond the reach of fire or crowd.

It was left for Blinkey to give the alarm. Being the thinnest and

smallest, he contrived to squeeze his lean body through the broken

window, and shout for the police. Three minutes later two big men in

blue sent the door crashing off its hinges into the restaurant, and by

the time the fire engines swept clanging and snorting into the street

the flames were stifled, and Alexander had found a few candles to light

up the smoky darkness.

The whole drama in one act had played itself out from beginning to end

in less than ten minutes; but it had come close to tragedy, as none

realised more fully than the two whom it had very strangely brought

together: Lord Loveland and Tony Kidd.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"You're a Man"

No one was killed or seriously injured, fortunately for Alexander the

Great's popularity. Many hands and faces were cut with window-glass; two

or three women had bruises or sprained wrists, and the Italian bride and

groom were objects for compassion.

Loveland and Tony Kidd had saved the situation. Nobody else seemed to

have accomplished anything deserving praise; but, when calm followed

storm, de Rocheverte, Milton, his friend Mason, and the two Hungarians

vied with one another in volubly explaining each act and failure to act.

They had wanted to make a way out for the ladies; that was why they had

tried to get to the door, but they had been caught and overwhelmed in

the crowd. They all talked fast and eagerly, almost convincingly; but

the ladies, pale and shattered, listened without answering. And when

they thanked Tony Kidd for "saving them from being burnt alive," they

were careful neither to contradict nor assent when he assured them that

it was "our brave pretender who did everything."

As for Loveland, he was no longer to be seen. While the police asked

questions, the firemen examined dark corners, and the battered crowd

trailed gloomily away, Tony looked in vain for his comrade in battle.

Milton, for appearance sake, was compelled to offer escort to his wife,

who cried and laughed hysterically, when she did not show symptoms of

fainting. The husband's presence relieved Tony from guard duty, and he

alleged as an excuse for staying behind the necessity to make a "story"

out of the business. His party left the restaurant in carriages and

motors, sadder and perhaps wiser; but no one asked for Loveland. Even if

they thought of him, the women who had come to see him play the rôle of

waiter could hardly acclaim him in the part of hero; while as for the

men, if they realised what he and Tony Kidd had done, it was not to

their interest or credit to acknowledge it.

Loveland had not, however, mysteriously disappeared. He was only keeping

himself in the background; and the one background available at

Alexander's was the kitchen.

It was now a smoky and dismal kitchen, with a wild litter of pots and

pans, a table overturned, broken dishes, eggs, oysters, and raw batter

strewing the floor; nevertheless, it seemed a haven of refuge to

Loveland, after what he had suffered.

His dash through the flames to find the gas main had been a deed more

gallant perhaps than the impulsive rescue on the battlefield which won

him his D. S. O. Tonight, he had deliberately counted the cost, whereas

in South Africa he had acted first, and thought afterwards. He was not

excited now; that was all over, and there was time to think; yet he was

conscious that he had conducted himself not unworthily.

"Funny thing," he thought, as he looked at his burnt left hand, and his

singed coat; "funny thing! I suppose I behaved fairly decently, because

I had to do it, and there was no other way. But I've fancied myself a

lot more, before this, for a grand slam at bridge, or a right and left

shot at a couple of birds."

There was no need to prove his courage further by reappearing in the

restaurant. If he went back, it would look as if he were bidding for

compliments from his late tormentors, and Heaven knew that he wanted

nothing of the sort. He wanted only to be let alone. So he lurked in the

kitchen, and looked on while Black Dick and Dick's still blacker

aide-de-camp calculated and repaired the damage to their supplies. He

even condescended to set the fallen table on its legs again, and in

return for this service Dick was binding up his injured hand when the

sound of a voice behind his back made him turn quickly.

"See here," said Tony Kidd, "I've been looking for you, because I want

to tell you something. Whatever else you may or may not be, you're a

man, anyhow."

As he delivered himself of this speech, Tony's pleasant, clever face

lost the quizzical expression it was wont to wear, and looked very

attractive in its earnestness.

"Thank you," answered Loveland, rather stiffly. Then, melting as his

blue eyes and Tony's brown ones held each other, he added, smiling: "So

are you."

"If I've made things any worse for you, I'm sorry," went on Tony. "It's

all been in the way of business, you know."

Milton's words to the young journalist had cleared the mystery of the

crowd who had glanced up from their newspapers to stare at the English

waiter, and gone back to their newspapers again; Tony's veiled allusion

brought no surprise to Loveland, therefore, and he answered without

heat. "It doesn't matter," he said, quietly, in a tired voice which made

good-natured Tony wince.

"You're in pain, aren't you?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing to speak of," said Val. "Burnt my hand and wrist a little,

that's all."

"It was a narrow shave," said Tony. "By Jove, a 'shave' literally, for

you've pretty well made a clearance of hair on one side of your head."

"I must look like a convict," returned Loveland. And considering

everything, it struck Tony Kidd as odd that the Englishman should make

that particular remark about himself.

"You've been having a mighty hard time of it since--er--since I saw you

last," the journalist observed.

"It has been an experience," said Loveland.

"I'd like to show my appreciation of the way you've acted tonight," said

Tony. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

The thought flashed through Loveland's mind that he might tell this

newspaper man the whole story of his extraordinary adventures since

coming to New York--the trouble with the bank; the mysterious silence

which alone had answered his two cablegrams; the unaccountable attitude

of the Waldorf management; and the rudeness of his shipboard

acquaintances in the restaurant. Tony Kidd had certainly "written up,"

or caused to be written up, his quarrel with Milton, from Milton's point

of view; and now he had evidently drawn public attention to Loveland's

affairs again by some further article. But if the journalist had

cherished a desire for revenge, apparently he felt it no longer. Now he

was hinting that he wished to make atonement, and Val believed that he

meant what he said. If he would advance money on the letter of

credit--but no; after a moment's reflection, Loveland made up his mind

not to ask. He had had so many snubs already, he would prefer not to

risk another, he told himself. Besides, after all that had happened, he

could not ask a favour of this man, no matter how pleasantly it had been

offered.

"Thank you very much, but I think there's nothing you can do," Loveland

answered.

Tony knew of one thing that he could do, and had already decided to do

it: to turn the tide of public opinion as far as possible by a graphic

description of the fire at Alexander's in tomorrow morning's "Light."

But, after all, that would not accomplish much, if any, material good. A

wave of sympathy would only send more curiosity-seekers to Alexander's,

and Tony's keen eyes had seen, through Loveland's mask of indifference,

how he writhed under his punishment.

"Say, you can't stay on here," the American explained impulsively. "It's

a dog's life--and whatever you are, whatever you've been, you're too

much of a gentleman by breeding and education to stand it. You'll have

to quit; and perhaps I could think of some way out, if you----"

"I'll thank you not to try and take my waiter away from me, Mr. Kidd,"

broke in Alexander the Great, speaking so suddenly behind the two young

men that both started "like guilty things upon a fearful summons."

"This isn't the right place for him, Alexander, and you know it,"

retorted Tony.

"It's the place he's engaged to stay in, until he leaves the country,"

Alexander persisted. "And I mean to hold him to his word, or know the

reason why."

"So said another gentleman of your race once," remarked Tony Kidd. "He

did business in Venice, but in the end a lady got the better of him."

"Ladies don't interfere in my concerns," grumbled Alexander, who had not

a prophetic soul, and did not guess what the next few hours might have

in store for him. "If Gordon leaves me without a week's notice I'll make

him sorry for himself."

"He saved your place tonight, and Lord knows how many lives," said Tony.

"Dat ain't got nothing to do with the case," insisted Alexander.

"Don't bother, thanks," Loveland said hastily to Tony. "Things can't be

worse than they've been tonight. Perhaps they'll be better. I shall try

and fight it out here--till I can see my way."

"Pay my way," he might have said; but he did not wish to bring up the

question of money between himself and Tony Kidd.

"It's bad enough for me to have my place upset," went on Alexander,

"without having my people enticed to leave me in de lurch. 'Tain't a

friendly act, Mr. Kidd. I shall be days makin' up my loss, what wid

tings busted and burnt, and I shall need all the help I can get to put

the restaurant in shape again."

Tony turned impatiently from the man's grumbling. "Well, if you won't

let me do anything for you, you won't," he said to Loveland. "All the

same, I shan't forget, and the time may come. Now I must be off, and

write my story."

He put out a hand, and Val responded with his unbandaged one.

If any one had told Tony Kidd a few hours before that he would yield to

an irresistible impulse impelling him to shake hands heartily with the

notorious "Marquis of Twelfth Street," he would not have believed it

possible.

If any one had told Loveland that he would feel pleased, even

complimented, by the offer of a handshake from the journalist who had

made a target of him in black and white, he would have said, "it could

not happen." Yet neither thought it strange when it did happen.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A Proposal of Marriage

After the restaurant was cleared and all outsiders gone, Alexander

remained, wandering dolefully about the room and discussing with Leo

Cohen the sum he hoped to get from the company in which he was insured

against fire.

The conversation ought to have been of absorbing interest to Cohen, as

eventually Alexander's business would be his, provided there were no

hitch in the marriage negotiations; nevertheless, he was absent-minded,

for the new waiter had not yet left the premises, and--the watchful

Cohen had noticed a peculiar light in Isidora's eye when her father had

brusquely ordered her upstairs, "out of the way."

She had offered no objection to going, and had bidden Leo good-night,

very prettily. But before tripping away, she paused for an instant in

the corridor, her face turned towards the kitchen in which P. Gordon was

helping Black Dick put things to rights.

Cohen noticed this turn of the head, this fluttering hesitation,

standing as he did near the door-way now stripped of the red curtain.

But when Isidora had vanished above, Alexander dismissed Blinkey and the

Pole, shutting the door which usually stood open, because of the draught

from the broken window.

"Why don't you send that man Gordon away, too?" Cohen asked.

"Because I'm payin' him big money, and he's got to earn it," explained

Alexander. "He can stay and help Dick tidy up, if it takes till twelve

o'clock. It ain't hurting us. Why should you care?"

Even Cohen, who seldom erred on the side of timidity in speech, scarcely

ventured to put into words the reason why he did "care." Alexander was a

good friend of his, and desired warmly to welcome him as a member of the

family, but he worshipped his daughter Izzie; and as he had a violent,

uncertain temper, he might resent a suggestion that she could be

interested in Gordon.

Cohen had a rooted objection to draughts, or fresh air in any form,

except in the warmest weather; still he would have preferred a draught

to the shut door behind which the girl might steal downstairs to gossip

with the Englishman in the kitchen. Of course Dick was there, but he was

a slave to Isidora's fascinations, and the coal-black youth who was his

adjutant had now gone home to patch up burnt hands and head. Cohen

hardly heard what Alexander said, so keenly was he pricking his ears for

a footfall on the stairs, behind the closed door; and he answered at

random while his intended father-in-law demonstrated the prospects of

opening the restaurant as usual in the morning.

"See here, are you sick, or what's the matter?" snapped Alexander at

last.

"Oh, I'm all right," said Cohen, "only the smoke's got into my eyes.

They smart so, I can see no more'n a bat. If it hadn't been for the

smoke, which always makes me blind and dizzy, I'd have been more use in

the panic."

Alexander laughed. "Well, you weren't no hero. Never mind, though, most

of us was put out of business. And nobody had time to see what anybody

else was at. But you do seem dicky. Mebbe you'd better be gettin' home.

I don't want to keep you up."

"Oh, I'm not all in yet," Cohen hastened to protest. "But can't you

leave me to watch that winder, while you see after Izzie? She was

lookin' white and scared. Maybe she don't like bein' left alone. Or I

could go up myself, and sit by her awhile. 'Tain't late."

Alexander chuckled. "Say, you're mighty thoughtful, ain't you? But you

let Izzie alone tonight. I know dat girl, and de best ting for her is to

go to bed."

"It ain't much past nine," said Cohen. "I don't guess she'll go to bed

yet."

"Well, she's got the hired gel to chat with--unless it's her evenin'

out. Now, don't you look so glum, Leo. Izzie ain't mashed on you yet,

and if you was to go stir her up when she's all on the jump, you'd do

for yourself with her. I tell you dat straight. And dat ain't what you

want, huh?"

Cohen admitted that it was not, and gloomily allowed his services to be

enlisted by Alexander in the way of examining the furniture for damage,

piling broken chairs in a corner, and sorting out those in a fit

condition to be used tomorrow.

Meantime Isidora had been busy justifying her lover's worst fears.

As she reached the top of the staircase, she heard the loud slamming of

the door which had been warped and blistered by the heat. Her heart gave

a little jump of excitement. Already she was keyed to a highly

emotional state, and in her longing for a talk with Loveland, alone, she

was ready to run almost any risk. The thought that he was still in the

house, so near yet so far, had been almost insupportable, and she had

fully intended to have a "good cry" the moment she arrived in the

sitting-room upstairs. But the unexpected shutting of the restaurant

door caused her a tremor of delight. She tip-toed down again, with her

heart loud as a hammer in her breast, and flitted softly into the

kitchen, not daring to speak till she had quietly closed the door also,

lest the sound of her voice should carry across the passage.

"Oh, Mr. Gordon," she breathed. "I'm so sorry about your poor hand; and

your face is scorched, too. I do wish you'd let me do something for

you."

Loveland thanked her, but said that Dick had bandaged up his hand and

wrist very nicely, with a soothing application of lard on an old rag.

Isidora gave a little sniff of scorn for the negro's ministrations.

"A pretty bandage!" she sneered. "A nasty torn bit of coarse towel; and

lard ain't the right thing, either. I've taken lessons in First Aid. All

the girls in my school did, and I ain't forgot what I learnt. Please

come with me, and I'll do you up all right. Now, don't say no, or you'll

hurt my feelings. I feel ready to cry anyway, and I sure will, if you

ain't kind."

Loveland disavowed all intention of being unkind, but assured the girl

that he was in very little pain, and need not put her to trouble. He

would soon be ready to go away, and really thought it would be better.

But when he had got so far in his rather straggling argument, two tears

splashed over Izzie's cheeks. More threatened to follow, and Loveland

yielded incontinently. It would hardly have been human not to feel some

stirrings of gratitude, and besides, Loveland hated to see a woman cry.

"Oh, I'll come," he said desperately, and followed Isidora into the

passage. Her finger on her lip told him that his visit to the family

sitting-room was to be a secret, but even if prudence would have turned

him back at the last moment, he was committed to the adventure and could

not escape.

The parlour, which also served as dining-room, was appalling in its

bravery of old gold plush, and portraits of defunct Hebrew ladies and

gentlemen on a claret-coloured wall paper. There was an upright piano

with the latest thing in coon songs upon it; there were wax flowers

under glass cases; there were terra-cotta statuettes of incredible

ugliness; there were crocheted "tidies" on the sofas and chairs. On the

centre table, which was covered with a blue cloth, stood a lamp that had

been lighted when the electricity failed, and in its rays, filtering

softly through a shade composed of pink paper roses, Isidora looked even

prettier than usual--perhaps partly in contrast with her hideous

surroundings.

She made Loveland sit down in a leather armchair which smelled of the

tobacco her father affected; and then, kneeling on a low footstool

beside him, she began to unfasten Black Dick's clumsy bandage.

"I don't like to have you wait on me," said Loveland, who, a few weeks

ago, took the most exaggerated petting for granted, from pretty women.

"Well, I like to _do_ it, anyhow," replied the girl, with a lingering,

liquid glance. "You're so brave, I'm proud to be waitin' on you. I never

knew anybody just like you, before."

Loveland thought this very probable, but merely remarked, with becoming

modesty, that he had done very little.

"You were a real hero," said Isidora. "Oh! o--oh!" and she breathed

little cooing sighs of pity at sight of the hero's burns. "I could cry

over your poor hand. It's a shame----"

"Please don't!" exclaimed Loveland, laughing. "I can't stand any more

tears."

"Did you mind when I cried?" asked Izzie.

"Awfully," said Loveland. As he spoke he smiled down at her in a

friendly way; and the kindness in the blue, black-lashed eyes made the

girl's heart flutter like an imprisoned bird. She had been in love with

him since the first day, a little; then more and more. Now her love

overflowed. It was too much for her emotional nature. She could not keep

it back. And why should she try to keep it back, she asked herself,

since her love must be considered an honour by this unsuccessful foreign

adventurer? She felt that she was like a queen, laying down her crown at

the feet of a handsome beggar--she, Alexander the Great's only daughter

and heiress. There was no question in her mind but that her love would

be welcomed.

"I'm glad," she almost sobbed. "Oh, you're worth more to me than

anything in the world. I won't cry again if you ask me not. I'll do

whatever you want me to. Pa'd 'most kill me if he knew I was talking

like this. But I don't care--I don't care for anybody but you--no one

else. Oh, suppose I'd let Pa make me marry Leo Cohen before I'd met

you!"

Loveland was dumbfounded. "My dear girl!" he exclaimed. "You don't know

what you are saying. You----"

"I do know," Isidora broke in. "I know you are poor, and in a lot of

trouble, and you might have gone to prison. But you're a gentleman, all

right. You're You, and that's enough. If you care about me same as I do

about you, why, all the rest----"

"But I--I mean, I'm sure you--don't really care," stammered Val,

checking himself on the verge of saying something rude.

It would have simplified matters if he had said it, for Isidora's

opinion of her own high value as Alexander's rich, desirable daughter

made it too easy for her to misunderstand.

"I do care. You needn't be afraid," she assured him. "I wouldn't have

said a word--I'd o' waited for you to speak if things had been

different, but I saw how you felt by the way your eyes looked a minute

ago, and I wouldn't stop for manners, because, I says to myself, he's

too much of a gentleman to tell a girl he loves her, when he's got

nothing and she everything."

"I hope I am too much of a gentleman to----" Val began desperately, but

she cut him short, with one little plump, Patchouli-scented hand over

his mouth.

"I know it! That's what I said. You don't need to tell me," she hurried

on. "We'll have to run away and get married. Then Pa'll forgive me. I'm

all he's got. He couldn't bear me to want for anything. But it's no use

asking him first. He----"

"Dear girl, I have no idea of asking him----"

"No, of course. You ain't so silly. His heart's set on my taking Leo,

but I wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole, now. My hero! I'll marry

you tomorrow."

"The devil you will!" said Alexander.

They stood together at the door, he and Leo Cohen, who had persuaded the

old man at last, on one excuse or another, to invite him upstairs.

Neither Loveland nor Isidora had heard the door open; neither knew how

long the eavesdroppers had listened outside.

The girl struggled up from her knees, and as Loveland bounded out of the

big chair she caught his arm, nestling against him.

"You villain, stealin' my gal's love, behind my back, and enticin' her

to run off with you!" stuttered Alexander, purple with fury.

"I didn't----" began Val, indignantly.

"What, you didn't?" roared the Jew. "You want me to believe my gal asked

you to marry her?"

Loveland started as if Alexander had struck him, and flushed to the

forehead. Involuntarily he glanced at Isidora, who looked up at him

beseechingly. "Spare me!" the almond eyes implored.

"No. I don't want you to believe that," he said. And how hugely he would

have laughed had he been told a few weeks ago that he would let himself

be misunderstood and shamed for the sake of a girl like Isidora! But now

he did not feel it strange that he should make this sacrifice for her.

And curiously enough, it seemed to be Lesley Dearmer's voice, Lesley

Dearmer's eyes, which--haunting him always--bade him spare this common

little Jewess, at any cost.

"You're a d----d sneak," said Alexander. "Ain't you ashamed of

yourself?"

"No," answered Loveland.

"Shows what you are, den. You're a tief. You try to steal my daughter,

because you tink you get her money."

"Oh, Pa, he loves me! It's me he wants!" wailed Isidora, weeping, yet

not daring to defend her lover at the expense of womanly self-respect.

What good would it do him, she thought, for her to confess who had

proposed a runaway marriage? Her father would be no less angry with

Gordon, and he would be a great deal more angry with her--so angry that

he would watch her always, perhaps insist on an immediate wedding with

Leo Cohen. No, she could not speak; and besides, it would be too

humiliating, before Leo. So she only sobbed, and sobbed the louder, when

Loveland gently but firmly unlinked her arm from his.

"You're a little fool, Izzie, or you wouldn't believe any such a ting,"

Alexander scolded her, somewhat softened by her tears. "A feller like

dat--a fraud, a liar----"

"If you were a younger man you wouldn't dare to say that," Loveland cut

him short. "It's you who are lying."

"What--you call me a liar? You--you cheat, you convict!" sputtered

Alexander. "Take dat for your impudence!" And rushing at Loveland like

an angry bull, he struck him with both podgy fists.

Isidora screamed, and seized her father's arms, struggling with him,

crying out that he was wicked, cruel, ungrateful to the man who had

saved his house from burning.

"Don't be afraid, I'm not going to strike back," Loveland reassured her.

"He knows that."

"Yes, he knows dat, because he knows youse a coward," Alexander sneered,

wheezing asthmatically. "You come over here to cheat Noo York, but you

ain't done it, not much. Lucky for you you ain't in prison. Now you get

out of my house, quick--see? You just git."

"That's exactly what I'm anxious to do," said Loveland. "Goodbye, Miss

Alexander."

"Oh, you ain't leavin' me forever?" cried the girl. "Pa, don't send him

away like this. He--he ain't to blame." She hesitated, stammering: then

a wild longing to keep her lover at all hazards overcame fear and

scruples. "It was me who----"

"Don't," said Loveland. "You can do no good. I shan't forget your

kindness. We won't see each other again, but you must forget tonight,

and marry some man who can make you happy. Goodbye once more." And

pushing regardlessly past Cohen, who hovered near the door, he sent the

commercial traveller sprawling as he walked out of the room.

Black Dick, who had been told to guard the broken window of the

restaurant, in the master's absence, had heard all or most of the

disturbance, from the foot of the stairs, and he ran after Loveland to

suggest the wisdom of getting money from Alexander.

"He am a mighty wicked ole man," whispered the Negro. "You done a lot

fur him, an' now he kick you out o' de house widout wages."

"I shall never get a penny from the old beast. It's useless to try,"

said Loveland, heavily, seeing a vision of homeward-bound ships sailing

away without him on board. "Goodbye, Dick. I wish I had something to

give you to remember me by, but I haven't."

"Lawd, why I'm a rich man, wid money in de bank," protested Dick. "Do

you tink because I got a black face, I take suffin' off'n you? No; on de

odder hand I lend you what you like, sah, and you pay me back when you

like. You've tret me like a gemman."

Loveland thanked him, curiously touched; and as he refused the loan he

found himself, somewhat to his own surprise, shaking hands warmly with

the coloured cook.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

"Wanted: Juvenile Leading Man"

Bill Willing sat reading in the coldest corner of the writing-room, in

the Bat Hotel. Somehow, when he had not denuded himself of his last

nickel, and could afford to pay for a corner anywhere, it was always the

coldest corner, because he blithely sacrificed his chances of the warmer

ones to others. But he was not conscious that his corner was cold

tonight. There was that in his heart which would have made the edge of

an iceberg seem a comfortable resting-place; and he was so deeply

absorbed in his paper (which was one devoted to the interests of the

stage) that Loveland had to speak to him twice before he heard and

looked up.

At any other time he would have started, stared, and wanted to know

whether Loveland's battered appearance was due to a fight or a fire; but

now in self-absorption unusual for him, he noticed nothing strange.

"Just look at this, my boy," he exclaimed, his eye sparkling with

excitement, as he pointed to a paragraph which he had marked with red

ink from a bottle on the table. The paragraph was an advertisement, in

the midst of a column of other advertisements, apparently all of the

same nature, and that column was one of five or six on a page entirely

devoted to such advertisements. Still, the few lines were evidently of

the most vital importance to Bill, and Loveland supposed he had hit on

the offer of some wonderful situation, such as he had been looking for

all his life.

"Wanted," was the attractive word which headed the paragraph: and that

was what Val had expected; but as he read on, he grew puzzled.

"Wanted--For Repertoire Work, Juvenile Leading Man. Must be tall; good

looker, not over thirty; gentlemanly manners and appearance, slim

figure, fashionable wardrobe on and off stage. No boozers or loafers

need apply. Write at once enclosing photo, and stating experience, age,

weight, and lowest salary, to Jack Jacobus, Managing Star Tour for

Lillie de Lisle, the Little Human Flower; Modunk, Ohio."

Loveland read the advertisement over, half aloud, his friend following

every word with the keenest interest and delight.

"Great Scott, ain't it the grandest ever?" Bill demanded, with a beaming

smile.

"I don't understand," said Val. "Are you going to try for the

engagement?"

"I?" echoed Bill. "Lord, no."

"Well, then what are you so excited about?" Loveland wanted to know.

"Why, that she should be a star--a real live star. My little gal, Lillie

de Lisle. It's her--it's _her_! There can't be two Lillie de Lisles.

Praise be, I've heard of her again. And she's way up top. She's a star."

"Oh, the girl you used to be in love with at the theatre?" asked

Loveland.

"Used to be? Was, am, and will be till I end my days. Gee! Every week,

whenever there was a spare dime, I've always bought this paper, to see

if I could run acrost her name, and know where she was or what she's

doing. Once, I seen a letter advertised for her, but that was all, till

now. And here she is, a star, on a tour of her own, doin' business as a

Little Human Flower. Great, ain't it?"

"Modunk, Ohio," Loveland read again. "Is that much of a place?"

"Never heard of it," admitted Bill. "But geography ain't been my

speciality."

"It doesn't sound like a big town," said Val.

"No, that's so. But it's a lucky town, because the Little Human Flower's

bloomin' there."

"Why don't you write, and say you'd like to have this engagement?"

"Me? Oh, Jiminy, am _I_ a good looker, am _I_ under thirty with a

fashionable wardrobe on and off? Huh! Mine's mostly _off_." Bill

laughed, and then sighed. "The good Lord didn't make me for no juvenile

lead."

"But if she still likes you, she'd stretch a point in your favour,"

Loveland suggested.

"Jacobus wouldn't. He was the property man I told you about, that got me

the sack on account of Lillie."

"By Jove," exclaimed Val, forgetting his own troubles enough to be

genuinely interested in the dramatic development of Bill's love episode.

"I say, you don't suppose he's married her since?"

"Can't have; at least, not unless his wife's gone off the hooks," said

Bill. "I heard of him not a year ago from one of the boys who used to

supe with me. Said Jacobus had married an actress named Thora Moon, a

big dark woman, in the heavy line."

"The heavy line?" asked Loveland.

"Yes. Does heavies, don't you know? But you never can tell with pros.

It's married one year and a bachelor the next."

"Widower, you mean," said Val.

"No, I don't, unless it's grass, and grass don't count. I should feel

mighty bad if I thought Lillie'd married Jack Jacobus. He ain't the

right sort. Jinks, I wish they was advertising for a scene painter,

instead of juvenile lead. Wouldn't I just whizz out to Modunk like a

shot. Say, Gordon, you wouldn't like the job, would you? Great idea!

Why, you're made for it. And you could give the Little Human Flower old

Bill's never failin' love."

"I couldn't get them to take me, I'm afraid," said Loveland. "I'm not an

actor."

"An actor!" repeated Bill, with inexpressible scorn. "As if they wanted

an _actor_ in a show like that, or would know one if they saw him!

You're a good looker, you're young, with a tall, slim figure, and all

the other qualifications named."

"Except the experience--and the wardrobe."

"Pooh!" said Bill. "Ain't you ever played as an amateur?"

"Yes, once or twice. They roped me in," said Loveland, recalling a

brilliant scene in the country-house of a Duchess, and another for the

success of which some of the young officers of his battalion had been

responsible.

"Well, then, there you are with your experience. And as for the

wardrobe--my goodness, lad, what do you want more than those swell

tweeds of yours, and the dress suit you've got on? If it comes to

costoom parts, why, the management will just have to fit you out with

some of their own glad rags--or make the ghost walk your way in

advance."

"You don't seem to think much of your star's company, if you believe a

raw amateur, with hardly a stitch to his back, would be good enough for

them," Loveland said.

"I don't claim it's a Noo York Company," explained Bill. "I guess

they're doin' the barn-storming act. Perhaps I've been kind of carried

away, thinkin' of Lillie, and what it would be to get the news of her

from a chum. I don't suppose there's much in this for you. Maybe you'll

do better at Alexander's, now you're a kind of star yourself----"

"A fallen star," laughed Loveland. "Look at me, and see the marks I got

sliding down the sky."

Then, for the first time, Bill noticed that his friend's hair was singed

and his face reddened on one side, his white shirt covered with black

spots, and his left hand partly in, partly out of, a clumsily made

bandage.

"Moses! But you have been through the wars!" exclaimed Bill. And he

listened with growing excitement to Loveland's version of the fire.

"Alexander ought to give you a partnership," he commented at last,

though Val had made no boast of his own part in the affair.

"He's chucked me," said Loveland.

"Je--_ru_salem! Why, in the name of all that's decent?"

"It was in the name of everything indecent--'villain, cheat, liar,

coward'--that he did it. According to him I was all those, and ought to

be in prison; though what he meant by his weird accusations, I can't

imagine, unless he just hit on whatever came first. I suppose it must

have been that. He thought I'd been making love to his daughter."

"Gee! And had you?"

"No. It was a misunderstanding. But I couldn't explain. And the long and

short of it is that I crawled in the dust for a few wretched dollars,

which it seems I've got to lose, after all. I don't know how I'm to

touch any more--unless I do as you say, and get this place with your

friend, the Human Flower."

"You'll go?" asked Bill, brightening.

"Rather. If they'll have me. But I haven't even a photograph----"

"Come out with me," said Bill, seizing him by his sound arm. "I know a

place where they do you a tin-type by flashlight for ten cents, and

finish while you wait. I'll stand the racket. You can turn your good

side to the machine; by the time the answer comes, your hair'll have

grown out and you'll be looking A 1. Hurrah! Three cheers for Lillie de

Lisle, the Little Human Flower, and her new Juvenile Lead!"

CHAPTER THIRTY

Show Folks

"Mo--dunk!" shouted a brakeman, slamming the door of the day coach in

which Loveland had traveled since some vaguely remembered hour in the

night, when he had changed trains.

He had dozed, sitting on the hard red seat, his head leaning wearily

against the window-frame; and he started up at the yell which for an

instant seemed part of his dream.

But then, everything lately had been a dream. His weird experiences in

New York; the absence of replies from his mother and the London Bank, in

answer to his cabled appeals; the coming of the telegram from Jack

Jacobus, accepting the very modest terms named at Bill's suggestion; his

start from the magnificent Grand Central Station in New York, where the

new "juvenile lead" had found his ticket awaiting him. And now, as he

bundled half dazed out of the local train he had boarded some hours ago,

the dream suddenly grew more bewildering than ever.

What a contrast was this little country "depot" with the splendours of

the Grand Central in New York! The rough frame building was little

better than an exaggerated shed, and no town was to be seen, across the

desolate waste of brown fields which billowed round the railway shelter

and its high platform, like a wintry sea round a small, bleak island.

Through an open door of the passengers' waiting-room Loveland caught a

glimpse of a squat stove, rising like a fat-bodied grey dwarf from a big

box of sawdust, and a man who had been warming his hands came out of the

room as the train stopped. There were also three or four other men,

lolling on a bench outside the window, but they were long-bearded,

soft-hatted, tobacco-chewing individuals who had evidently dragged

themselves hither through the mud for the excitement of seeing a train

come in, and took no interest beyond that of curiosity in the

passengers.

The man who came out of the waiting-room was a very different order of

being, and almost offensively conscious of the difference. He was fifty,

perhaps, and tall, with a swaggering walk, which caused the shabby

fur-lined coat he wore to swing like the skirt of a woman's dress as he

moved forward. He had on patent-leather boots, cracked with old age and

caked with new mud. His rather long, straight hair and the heavy double

curve of his moustache clearly owed their raven tint to artificial

means, but his big chin was blue, and the thick brows over a pair of

light grey eyes were still black. The nose and mouth, though

ineffectively cut, contrived to express cruelty and an insolence which

was accentuated by the upward tilt of a cigar between the strong

yellowish teeth and the downward tilt of his badly kept silk hat.

Every line of the face and figure, every article of clothing, bespoke

the fifth rate, seedy actor who has parted in his time with most things,

except his self-conceit.

The idlers on the bench stared at him, then at the newcomer, and

regarded with lazy curiosity the meeting between the two: for this

gentleman in the tall silk hat and fur overcoat was Mr. Jack Jacobus,

come to claim Mr. P. Gordon, the new member of his company.

If it had been possible for Loveland's heart to sink lower--which at the

moment he did not believe--it would have sunk at sight of Miss de

Lisle's manager. But, he asked himself, what else had he a right to

expect from the advertisement, and Bill's assurance that it would be

useless to demand a higher weekly screw than ten dollars, the management

paying board?

One quick glance, and the glass-grey eyes had taken in each detail of

Loveland's appearance, from the smartly made travelling cap, which still

kept its shape, down to the neat brown boots. He approved all, it was

evident, except the battered gladstone bag which Bill Willing had bought

extraordinarily cheap at a pawnbroker's sale, as a gift for his friend

Gordon. This Loveland carried in his hand, and he saw the

actor-manager's gaze rest sardonically upon it.

In a deep, measured voice, as theatrical as the rest of his personality,

Mr. Jacobus enquired if he had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Perceval

Gordon. Then when answered in the affirmative, he delivered himself of a

few polite words of greeting.

"Glad you got here all right. Don't know what we should have done if you

hadn't turned up. Our juvenile lead came down with typhoid at our last

week's stand, and we've been fakin' our best ever since--any old play we

could, that had the fewest men, and the lot of us doublin' parts till we

was ready to drop on the stage with the curtain. Got the checks handy

for your big baggage?"

Loveland had to explain that he had no big baggage, and under the

changing, freezing eyes of Jacobus felt as insignificant as a crushed

worm. Until very lately he had not known the meaning of this sensation;

now, he was becoming accustomed to it as to a daily worn coat; but never

perhaps had his pride been more flatly ironed out than in this brief

instant.

"What--no wardrobe?" demanded the manager; his tone of friendly

condescension to a new member of his company altered to one of bullying

suspicion.

"My wardrobe is here," said Loveland, holding out Bill's present.

"Sorry I forgot to bring a magnifying glass," sneered Jacobus. "But see

here, I call this false pertences. How are you going to play a new part

every night of the week, some of 'em costoom ones, all out of a grip no

bigger than your pocket? You ought to have told me what you _didn't_

have--if it wouldn't have taken you too long."

"_You_ ought to have told me I had to play a new part every night," said

Loveland, and the young man and the middle-aged one, looking each other

straight in the eyes, conceived for one another an intense dislike. "I

was given to understand by a person of experience, that I should have

enough to get on with until I could buy something--if necessary."

"Well, that depends on how soon you buy," returned Jacobus, less

bitterly. "You knew very well that you'd have me on the leg, once you

got out here at this Godforsaken place, with your ticket paid. Our show

ain't made of money, especially the past two weeks. Heavens! What a

frost! We've been livin' on our gleanings from last month (when we were

going like smoke) and countin' on the new juvenile lead to help work up

better business. That's why I'm so sore at your cheek, Mr. Gordon,

shootin' yourself out West with what you stand up in. But as you _are_

here, we must make the best of a bad business. The girls may like you

even with whiskers on your shirtcuffs, and I suppose among us, we'll rig

you up somehow, out of our theatre trunks. That's what you were layin'

for, eh?"

"Look here, if you're going to insult me much more, I shall turn round

and go back, if I have to walk," said Loveland, cold, hungry, tired and

miserable, but with just spirit enough left in him to be furious.

Jacobus saw that he had gone too far, if the juvenile lead were not to

slip through his fingers. He did not want that to happen, though he

already had an uneasy jealousy of P. Gordon. So used was he to bullying

the members of his company, male and female, that he had hardly realised

what was likely to be the effect of his sarcasm, until he saw the

expression of the newcomer's face.

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, laughing. "Don't you know a joke from an insult

in your part of the country? It give me a start to see you land without

a wardrobe, and I have a right to be mad; but I've just said we'd make

the best of it, and help you out all we can. What can we do more? I

suppose you don't grudge me a bit of fun? Come along to the great and

glorious city of Modunk, which must have as many as one thousand

inhabitants. Hope you don't mind goin' on Shanks's Mare? It's the only

kind we'd get in this town--even if we ran to something better; but it

ain't far--about a mile and a half; and your grip can't weigh much."

Loveland wished that he had no heavier burden to carry than his bag, but

he kept the thought to himself, and trudged off with the arbiter of his

destiny. The loungers on the bench, too far away to overhear the

conversation, guessed that it was not altogether of a friendly nature,

and transferred their quids of tobacco to their cheeks, in order to

discuss the situation with a new, if fleeting, animation. As he passed

them to descend the platform steps to the muddy country road, Loveland

caught the words, "Show folks."

"Show folks!" Yes, he was one of the show folks.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Dignity and Delight of Being a Juvenile Lead

"Show folks--show folks! Say, come look at the show men!" Impish little

boys and girls yelled to each other, taking up the refrain from cottage

to cottage along the roadside, on that Via Dolorosa which led to the

town of Modunk.

Loveland pricked all over, as if with a million stabs of tiny pins, but

Jacobus only laughed, and said that it was a good advertisement.

Business had been bad during the week at Modunk which would come to an

end that night--Saturday; but he attributed this ill luck to the fact

that the company had been forced, for lack of a juvenile lead, to choose

plays which were not the most popular in their repertoire. Things would

be different next week, he hoped, when they were going across the river

into Kentucky, to a small but lively show town, whence the advance-agent

sent encouraging accounts.

He questioned Loveland sharply concerning his theatrical experience,

seeming to incline towards distrust since the incident of the travelling

bag. Very soon he found out, in all its nakedness, the truth which had

been veiled in the letter dictated by Bill; that Mr. Perceval Gordon's

experience had all been as an amateur, and not very extensive at that.

However, as Bill had prophesied, he did not appear to think it mattered

much, though he sniffed and "hum'd" a little, by way of curbing the new

man's self-esteem. "You've got a good stage presence and voice," said

he, "though I don't know what the folks here will think of that English

accent of yours. Pity you can't talk United States. They're mighty sharp

at guying anything foreign or affected, so don't be knocked silly if the

little boys in the dime seats mock you a bit. Just keep your hair on,

and go along as if nothing had happened, and they'll shut up in a minute

or so, when they've got used to you."

This was--as Bill would have said--a new "proposition" to Loveland; that

he had an "English accent," which might be objected to on the ground of

affectation. He had heard a good deal in England about the American

accent, and had chaffed Jim Harborough because of it, but as after all

the English nation had more or less invented the language current on

both sides of the water, he had supposed that theirs was, without

question, the only right way of using it. However, opinion seemed to

differ over here, and he did not choose to argue with Mr. Jacobus.

The actor-manager watched his new acquisition furtively as he plowed

through the mud, and at last interrupted himself in describing with some

acerbity the absent members of the company, to remark suddenly: "You

look like a soldier."

"I am a soldier," Loveland replied before he stopped to think.

"Oh!" said Jacobus, regarding him keenly. "English army, of course?"

"Yes," answered Val shortly, regretting his frankness.

"H'm! What were you--sergeant?"

Loveland could have broken out into savage laughter. He, a lieutenant

in the Grenadier Guards, asked by this seedy theatrical man if he were a

sergeant! But he kept his countenance, for fear of committing himself

unwittingly under the catechismal fire.

"No. I wasn't a sergeant," he replied.

"H'm! See here. I hope you didn't leave the army--er--on short notice,

eh? You know what I mean?"

"Do you mean, am I a deserter?" Loveland flashed out, turning red.

"Well, excuse me if I'm offensive. But the arm of Edward is supposed to

be a long one, if any of his red coats take a vacation without

permission, and _I_ don't want to get into no trouble with kings. We may

not be Noo York stars, but we're a pretty respectable crowd, take us all

round."

"Well, set your mind at rest," said Loveland, swallowing his wrath. "I'm

not a deserter, and I shan't bring disgrace upon your company."

"All right, all right. I'll take your word for it. I guess there's

nothing else to do, as you're the only man on the spot. But say, the

more I look at you, the more I have a kind of sneaking idea I've seen

your picture lately. Did you get your photo stuck in any of the

theatrical papers, since you landed?"

"No," Loveland replied; but flushed again, instantly guessing where and

in what connection Jacobus must have seen his portrait--a sketch, or

some snapshot, perhaps. Evidently the man did not yet associate him with

anything in particular, but the connection between the new juvenile lead

and a certain Englishman made notorious by one or two New York papers

might at any instant link itself in Mr. Jacobus's head. This Loveland

was far from desiring: not that he thought his value to the management

would be decreased by the discovery--rather the contrary, judging by his

experience with Alexander--but because he could not bear to repeat that

experience.

Luckily, Jacobus did not pursue the subject, which apparently interested

him less than others. When he had described the members of his company

according to his own conception of their characters and social status,

he went on to tell the new recruit something about the parts he would be

required to play. Then it was that Loveland learned the esoteric

difference between being a leading man, and a "juvenile lead."

Jack Jacobus was himself, it seemed, leading man for Miss Lillie de

Lisle, the Little Human Flower: "Heavy Lead" he called it, but to the

Heavy Lead apparently belonged all the really good parts in the

company's repertoire. Their productions struck Loveland as being

wonderfully good for a strolling troupe, playing week by week in

extremely small towns, but Jacobus laughed when he remarked that it must

be expensive to obtain the rights of such popular pieces as Sidney

Cremer's, for instance, and to put them on the stage properly.

"Properly!" he echoed, grinning. "Well, that depends. Folks here ain't

perticular about scenery. They don't travel, and don't have no chance to

see anything better than we give 'em. I guess I may as well let you into

the secrets of the prison-house, for you're one of us now, and you'll

soon find out for yourself, anyhow, what we are, for good and bad. We

carry six men in our show, counting me and you, and there ain't many

pieces we put on, except Sidney Cremer's comedies, where there's less

than a dozen or fifteen male characters, sometimes more. We all double;

sometimes each one of us--even me--the leading man, because I ain't

proud, and needs must when somebody drives--manages to do two or three

small parts besides his own. It takes it out of us, but it's all in the

night's work. What characters we can't double we leave out. Same with

the women. We carry four of them, counting Lillie herself, and they earn

their money. You see, we _must_ bill popular pieces, melodramas and

comedies mostly, or we shouldn't get no houses; so we can't choose plays

with few characters to please lazy actors. As for the rights to

produce--why, we don't trouble ourselves about them, any more than we do

about the pasts of our juvenile leading gentlemen. It simply don't run

to it. What we want we take. Good motto in this life, eh? There are

fellows make their livin' by writin' down the words and biz of

successful plays, in shorthand, copyin' 'em out at home, and then

sellin' 'em on the sly to poor but honest show folks like us, who must

live but can't afford luxuries. It's quite an industry. 'Pirates,' the

Puritans call our sort, but it don't kill us--or our business. And as we

always work only the smallest towns, which the stage papers don't touch,

it ain't as risky as you'd think, though once in a way the police do

shove their noses in where nobody wants them, and I confess I'm a bit

scared about Sidney Cremer's new piece, which we're just puttin' up.

Say, you're lookin' kind o' sick. I hope _you_ ain't one of the

Puritans, are you? Don't they have shows of our sort in your country?"

Loveland said he really didn't know; but as he hastened to add he was

not a Puritan, and anyhow, Mr. Jacobus's business was his own, that

gentleman did not feel called upon to translate into words the thoughts

his eyes had begun to express.

Mr. Perceval Gordon, it appeared, was expected to play seven parts, at

the least, during the season, and must be "letter-perfect" in the first

one by that very night. It was, however, but a small rôle; that of an

old man, who conveniently expired at the end of the first act in great

agony. It was, the manager explained, a "fat acting part," though there

weren't many lines to speak; and--yes, certainly, a juvenile lead was

occasionally expected to play old men or, indeed, to do anything he was

asked to do; and an amateur like Mr. Gordon might think himself jolly

lucky to get varied experience under such stage management as he would

find in the Human Flower's company. This particular piece, a melodrama

called "The Dead Hand," had been chosen for the closing night of the

engagement at Modunk because the part for the juvenile lead wasn't too

long or difficult to "get up in" with one rehearsal, which they would

have after noon; and indeed the Dead Hand was to be that of Mr. Gordon

himself. He would appear as a ghost near the end of the last act, and

wave the said hand behind a gauze, with strong lime-light turned upon

it; which was the scene which made the part so "fat." Also,

incidentally, at a ball, he would be asked to "walk on" as a young

gentleman of fashion. Could he waltz? Good! Then he should have Mrs.

Jacobus for his partner, as she liked a decent dancer in that scene,

where she had experienced considerable trouble with awkward brutes who

stepped on her "party dress." Mrs. Jacobus--known professionally as Miss

Thora Moon, was--her husband went on to state--Miss de Lisle's leading

lady, who played adventuresses, villainesses, and important parts of

that ilk, to the Human Flower's soubrettes and ingenues.

"My wife had some money--when I married her," he mentioned, with an

introspective look, accompanied by a faint sigh. Thus Loveland was

enabled to guess how it was that Mr. Jacobus might have been induced to

forget his early _penchant_ for Miss de Lisle, Bill's "little gal."

A bitter wind was blowing, but exercise kept Loveland warm, and he did

not envy Jacobus the overcoat, which the actor was obliged to hold

together with one cold, red hand (as several buttons were missing) while

he frantically seized the brim of his silk hat with the other, each time

they turned a corner. At last they came into the town of Modunk, which

consisted of one long business thoroughfare, named, of course, Main

Street, and various other avenues sacred to the home, branching off from

it at right angles and regular intervals.

Main Street was paved with red brick, and most of the residence streets

were content with a coating of tar, or else they wallowed in their

native mud. The shops, or "stores," as Jacobus called them, appeared

depressingly unattractive to Loveland, though they were not inferior to

those in villages of the same size in England or Scotland. Millinery,

"dry goods," and groceries were sold in the same establishments, and

seemed to the uninitiated eye to be hopelessly mixed in some of the show

windows. Most of the private houses were built of wood, painted white,

brown, grey or pale green. They had outside shutters to the windows,

such as Loveland associated with Southern France, and stood surrounded

with neat little "yards" fenced off from each other and publicity by

painted or whitewashed palings. There were, however, a few more

pretentious houses, rising from among less important neighbours, with

the air of being mansions. They were of brick, or stone, but Loveland

liked the little frame houses best, and was hoping he might be lodged in

one of them, when Jacobus stopped in Main Street, in front of an ugly,

new building constructed of wood and brick. There was a kind of veranda,

above which appeared a large signboard with the words "Smith's Hotel" in

green and gold letters.

"Here we are," said Jacobus, sighing as he looked at his mud-encrusted

patent leathers. "The whole crowd's here. I'll show you to your room,

and by the time you've had a wash, if you want it, dinner'll be ready. I

guess you'll be ready for _it_, too!"

"What--dinner at half-past twelve?" asked Loveland.

"You bet. They'd like to give it to us with our breakfast if they could,

so as to get the work out of the way. You'll find the crowd in the

dining-room, and I'll introduce you. After dinner you can have a look

through your part in "The Dead Hand" if you get through in time;

everybody who's on in your scenes has a call at the theatre for

rehearsal. That's for half-past one, sharp."

Loveland made no comment on these announcements. He walked into the

hotel behind Jacobus, who, being manager of the company, heavy lead, and

stage-manager combined, naturally marched in front of the insignificant

"juvenile," who carried his wardrobe in his hand.

There was a narrow, uncarpeted passage, with an uncarpeted and still

narrower stairway leading steeply up to regions above. Also there was a

strong, nay, over-developed smell of dinner, which could be all too

easily divided into its component parts: corned beef and cabbage, with

perhaps a bodyguard of onions. As they went upstairs the smell followed,

but on the next story began to mingle with a suggestion of hot iron,

coal-smoke, and unopened windows.

"One more flight for you," explained Jacobus. "They ain't got too much

accommodation here; and Miss de Lisle, me and my wife, and the other

ladies are on this floor; gentlemen above."

They continued to ascend, and the actor-manager stopped before the first

door at the head of the second stairway which led to the top story of

the hotel.

"Here you are," he said, and with a light knock which was a

notification, not a request, he flung the door open.

On a narrow bed visible from the threshold a young man, hardly more than

a boy, was stretched, reading something that looked like MSS. He glanced

round, but did not move, on seeing Mr. Jacobus and a stranger.

"I thought you said this was my room?" exclaimed Loveland, startled.

"So it is, and there's your room-mate. Didn't know whether you'd be in,

Ed. I can introduce you to each other, right now. Mr. Ed Binney, our

property man, prompter, and second villain. Mr. Perceval Gordon, of

England, our new juvenile. Now you know each other; and I guess, Eddy,

you can put Mr. Gordon up to all he needs to know."

This was worse than the Bat Hotel, where each man who earned twenty-five

cents could have his own cubicle. But, now, Loveland was not paying his

own way. The "management" was to do that; and feed him, too. As he had

but a quarter in the world, thrust upon him as a loan or gift by

generous Bill, Loveland was not in a position to be critical. Here he

was, and here he would have to stay, till he heard from home, or

something "turned up."

As for hearing from home, he had begun almost to despair, for his two

cables had remained unanswered now these many dreary days. Still, after

an interval of more waiting for a telegram from his mother, he had

written to her and to Betty Harborough, ashamed to take outsiders into

the deepest secrets of his humiliating adventures. But at best, it would

be a fortnight before Bill Willing could forward to some address yet to

be given, a letter from across the sea; and meanwhile Loveland was a

slave of necessity--if not of Jack Jacobus.

That gentleman, having acquitted himself of his duty to the juvenile

lead, disappeared, banging the door, leaving the old occupant and the

new occupant of the mean, bare room to make each other's acquaintance.

Mr. Binney did not think it worth while to get up, as the juvenile lead

was no guest of his, but he raised himself on one elbow, and observed

Loveland with an interest that might or might not develop into

friendliness. He was thin, pale, and delicate-looking, but he had bright

eyes--almost too bright for health--and a firm chin.

For a moment Val resented the youth's existence so keenly that he did

not trust himself to speak; but brief reflection reminded him that after

all, he was the intruder. A short time ago he would have been intolerant

of circumstances even less disagreeable, such as finding himself forced

to share a cabin on shipboard, or a _wagon-lit_ compartment, after

expecting to travel alone. But much water had gone under the mill of his

pride since then; and besides he had learned, greatly to his own

surprise, that kindly, agreeable human beings can be found in the lowest

classes and queerest circumstances.

Ed Binney looked as though he might have pleasant qualities, if

approached in the right way, so with amazing self-restraint Loveland

refrained even from the mild insult of a disgusted glance. He said, in

his nice voice, that he hoped Mr. Binney wouldn't mind his coming, as he

really couldn't help himself. Whereupon Mr. Binney grinned, showing

teeth white as a girl's, and replied that if it weren't Mr. Gordon it

would be someone else, who might be worse, as it struck Mr. Binney that

Mr. Gordon would at least be fond of washing himself.

To this Mr. Gordon responded that there were few things he liked better,

but it seemed as if there wouldn't be much opportunity at Smith's Hotel.

You had to do it in sections, with a washbowl, said Mr. Binney, but

never mind, you got there just the same, if you were in earnest. Then

they both laughed, and Binney exclaimed with evident relief, that he was

jolly glad Gordon wasn't the sort of boy who put on airs. He'd been

afraid at first sight that was the kind he was, but now he guessed it

was all the high collar. The feeling was for low, in Miss de Lisle's

company, yet he didn't know but those stove pipe ones had a sort of

style about 'em.

Then he bounced off his tremulous cot (which had a patchwork quilt

somewhat the worse for contact with his boots and was the twin of

another little iron-framed bed in a far corner). He showed his room-mate

"the ropes"; in other words, which "bureau drawers" were at the

newcomer's disposition; where he had better keep his toothbrush, and so

on. He confided to Loveland the fact that he himself had not been long

in the company, but had come from a better one, which he would now

regret if the "one night" stands had not been too much for his strength.

"If your lungs are always playing you tricks, you have to put up with

barn-stormers, for at least they give you week stands, and most of the

hotels throw in fires free," he explained. "I can see that you've

stepped down in the world a bit, too, so we ought to have a fellow

feelin' for each other."

While Loveland made himself presentable for the early dinner, Ed Binney

went on to sketch the members of the "crowd," though in a manner very

different from the manager's sarcastic descriptive efforts. He said that

Jacobus was a tyrant and a bully, but that he could act; that everyone

except Miss Moon was afraid of "J. J.," and she wouldn't be afraid of an

Indian chief on the war path: that Miss de Lisle didn't dare say her

soul was her own, or that black was black, if old Jack remarked that it

wasn't; that Jacobus had done a very good thing for himself in getting

hold of Lillie as a star, although she had no money--for she was a

peach, a live wire, just the sort of little gal to be a "go" at towns

like this. "Folks are wild about her, she's as pretty and as dainty as

they make 'em, a whole haystack above what they generally see in these

barns," went on Ed. "But she needs managin'--and gee, Jack and his wife

do manage her. But the old girl's jealous. I don't know how long the

show will last, for if she says stop, Jack stops, you bet. He's as

scared of her as everybody else is of _him_. She runs the shebang, and

there's two of her sons by her first husband in it. They can't act, and

they can't look, but by gum, they're good to their mother!"

Into the midst of his discourse crashed a ferocious dinner-bell, and in

sheer self-defense they rushed downstairs, in the hope of stopping the

clamour by their presence.

The dining-room opened off the long passage on the ground floor, and

already other members of the company had assembled for the midday meal,

which must be eaten in haste before the rehearsal.

Mr. Jacobus was there, in the act of sitting down between two ladies at

the head of a long table; but seeing Loveland he condescended to summon

him with a gesture.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Bill's Star

Val could have laughed aloud as he imagined the old self of a few weeks

since--the young and popular officer-in-the-Guards self--obeying the

beckoning finger of such a man. But he walked towards it like a lamb,

and was introduced to Mrs. Jacobus (Miss Moon) and Miss de Lisle.

As Star of the company, Miss de Lisle ought of course to have come

first, but Miss Moon, the heavy lead ("heavy" in more senses than one)

was not a lady to submit to such distinctions.

She would probably have said that Lillie de Lisle was a star only

because it suited the convenience of Mr. and Mrs. Jacobus to head the

troupe, financed by their money, with a pretty enough little soubrette,

likely to take the popular fancy.

Miss Moon's first sweeping glance at the newcomer was one of

self-conscious, important condescension; but seeing that he was an

extremely handsome, well dressed young man, with an air and an

appearance widely different from the tenth-rate actors of her

acquaintance, past and present, her face and manner changed. Instead of

posing as the manager's wife, she set herself to vie with Lillie de

Lisle in youthful charm, as she sent forth a radiant, long-lashed look

to fascinate Mr. Perceval Gordon.

She was a big woman of forty-two or three, with the splendid ruin of

what had been a fine figure, an erectness of head which partly concealed

the existence of a double chin, a complexion spoiled by a love of rich

food and constant use of powder, singularly wide-open dark eyes fringed

with painted lashes, and a good deal of bright crimson hair edged with

rusty brown at the roots.

Beside Miss Moon, Bill's "little gal" looked like a tiny fishing boat

bobbing under the lee of a large schooner; but she was a pretty creature

whose curly hair was naturally almost as golden as it glittered,

grey-blue eyes which ought to have been mischievous and merry, but were

anxious, a clear, rather freckled white skin, and the piquant nose and

innocent smile of a child.

These ladies were not dressed as tidily as their best friends might have

wished, but Loveland had grown used to Isidora, and did not pick flaws

lightly. They were both very cordial to him, somewhat--it would have

seemed--to Mr. Jacobus's contemptuous annoyance; and then, at Miss

Moon's suggestion, Ed Binney introduced Mr. Gordon, across and down the

length of the table, to all the other members of the company.

There were a few non-theatrical diners in the room, commercial

travellers, apparently; but they were at the far end of the table, and

were not addressed, though they were on nodding acquaintance with

several of the actors and actresses.

The latter were two in number besides Miss de Lisle and Mrs. Jacobus.

Miss Ruby St. Clare, whose mission was to act small parts, and play the

piano, was of the startled fawn order of young female, evidently not

long out of amateurhood; and Mrs. Winter, who had passed the age when

it was necessary to preserve her maiden name for programmes. She was a

reserved and suspicious-looking woman, who watched her husband with

short, sidelong glances of anxiety either for his conduct or his health.

As for him, he was a thin, dejected, grey little man who suffered

apparently from a broken heart or a shattered digestion. His lips

worked, and the lids of his eyes, which winked almost continually, were

red-rimmed. He seemed acutely conscious of Mrs. Winter's constant

scrutiny.

The remaining male members of the company were Mrs. Jacobus's two sons,

Tom and Bob Eccles. They were between twenty and twenty-five, and like

their mother, though one was fat, with the lazy smile of a Buddha, and

the other, who through a cast in his eye just missed being handsome,

inclined to be truculent.

Loveland had intended to take a chair next his room-mate, but Miss Moon

made a place for him between herself and Buddha--smiling Bob. As

everybody except Jack Jacobus and the Winters talked and joked

continually, it was surprising how fast they ate. The corned beef and

cabbage, the onions, and the tinned American corn which, with other

eatables and uneatables, surrounded their plates in a wreath of little

earthenware dishes, disappeared as if by conjuring, to be swiftly

replaced by apple-pie and cheese that magically vanished from the face

of the table in their turn. Nearly everyone drank large cupfuls of milky

coffee with their dinner; and twenty minutes after beginning the meal,

all had finished, with the exception of Loveland, who was not accustomed

to giving his food such short shrift. He rose with the others, however,

and a few moments later the company was straggling in a procession to

the theatre.

But after all, it was not a theatre, and even courtesy gave it no more

high sounding name than "hall." It stood at the end of Main Street, its

brick front wall plastered with wonderful coloured posters representing

the most sensational scenes in the Human Flower's repertoire. To reach

the stage it was necessary to mount a long, mud-caked staircase, and to

pass through the auditorium. As for dressing rooms, they did not exist,

for it had been a second thought of some light-minded town council, to

turn the hall into a place where theatrical representations might

lawfully be produced: but a space on either side of the stage had been

curtained off with sheets, shawls and squares of canvas, ingeniously

coaxed to hold together. These screens reached unevenly from twenty-four

to twelve inches of the floor, and at worst an actor in dressing himself

could be seen no higher than the knees--unless, perhaps, a too bright

light behind the partition might reveal his whole person _en

silhouette_.

Loveland was anxious to talk with the Star about her old friend--if not

love--Bill Willing; and he had hoped on starting to walk by her side;

but Miss Moon, seeing his desire, had instantly frustrated it by calling

him and beginning to talk of the part he was about to rehearse. As old

"Dave Dreadnought," he was supposed to curse her with menaces, and he

felt that it would not be difficult to do so realistically, even in the

character of Loveland; but he contrived to listen politely, if coldly,

to the story of her first marriage at the early age of fifteen. "I'm not

quite sixteen years older than my eldest son, who is over twenty now,"

she said, and did not look pleased when the juvenile lead found no more

tactful comment than an absent-minded "Is it possible?"

On the stage he received the short MS. part of Dave Dreadnought, which

Mr. Jacobus had not after all been able to unearth before, and was

allowed to glance it over while the scene of his "dying curse" was being

set. He was too inexperienced to remember what in gay, amateur days he

had learned of stage directions, and Jacobus was inclined to be

sarcastic at his expense; but both Miss Moon and Miss de Lisle, as well

as Ed Binney, befriended him, whispering hurriedly what "down centre,"

"up left," "take the stage," or "wait on the prompt side" meant; and

thanks to their good nature he got on reasonably well. He was called

upon also to rehearse the ball scene, where he "walked on" as a young

man of fashion, and had the privilege of dancing with Miss Moon before

dwindling, in the last act, to a mere Dead Hand. All the "business" had

to be repeated again and again, until at last he was confident, and the

stage manager almost hopeful.

It was five o'clock by the time Jacobus snapped irritably: "You'll

_have_ to do, anyhow"; but as afternoon tea was not a custom in the

Human Flower Company, they missed little by absence from the hotel.

Still, Loveland had found no chance for a private word with Lillie, who

remained ignorant of his acquaintance with Bill Willing.

At six o'clock a meal, which called itself supper, was ready; and having

bolted a cold edition of dinner, eked out with tinned peaches and cups

of tea, actors and actresses marched forth in a body to begin the

evening's work.

The curtain did not rise until half past seven, but this was Saturday

night, and the town was eager for its entertainment. The young girls and

their escorts liked nothing better than to see the "show men and women"

walk past them up the hall, on the way to that thrilling region known as

"behind the scenes," therefore at least a score of persons were seated

in the dismal auditorium, munching apples or candy, and cracking

peanuts, when the Human Flower and her company filed in.

A few little boys on the cheap benches at the back whistled, clapped

their hands, stamped on the floor, and made "cat calls" as a greeting to

the players, but those saluted took no notice, and skurried by like

hunted things. Miss St. Clare hastened to her seat at the piano, near

which an elderly quadroon had already begun to tune a fiddle, and

melancholy Mr. Winter remained at the door to help the ticket seller,

until it should be time for him to "make up" as the heroine's

millionaire parent.

The gentlemen of the company (Loveland had already learned that they

never spoke of each other as mere "men") dressed behind one partition,

the ladies behind another, and the crowding could scarcely have been

worse in the Black Hole of Calcutta. Nevertheless, everyone was more or

less good natured. Costumes of a sort, and odds and ends of grease

paints were offered to Loveland who, to his own surprise, was shaking

and perspiring oddly with stage fright.

"What rot!" he roughly scolded himself. "As if an audience in a

tenth-rate country village mattered! What do I care whether or not I

know my part, or what they think of me?"

But the queer fact remained that he did care, and his heart thumped

faster than it had thumped when he was roused one dark night to fight

his first battle. As he saw what personable looking men his companions

became after manipulating a few bits of grease-paint, putting on wigs

and carefully-kept stage costumes, he began in spite of himself to take

this queer theatrical engagement of his more seriously. He wanted to act

well; he wanted to please Lillie de Lisle, and to satisfy Ed Binney, who

was wishing him luck; he wanted to make a good impression on the pretty

bright-eyed country girls who had stared at him with interest as he

passed through the auditorium.

There were not nearly enough local stage hands employed in the theatre,

and acting was not the only work the actors had to do. They helped place

the scenery, and change the settings; they flew about like distracted

demons, half dressed, with suspenders flying, turning a burglar's den

into a millionaire's drawing-room; and between the bewildering

alterations of scene, there was no rest for the sole of anyone's foot.

How they ever got themselves out of one costume into another in time,

how they ever remembered which of their many doublings came first, which

last, Loveland could not conceive; but, standing in the wings waiting

for his own dreaded turn, he was filled with an increasing respect for

the barn-stormers, male and female. They could act, too, most of them,

which seemed to him the strangest part of all, for he had not expected

to find the satellites of Bill's little Star twinkling with the light of

talent. As for his own performance, he realised before it had begun that

such histrionic efforts as had won him applause when an amateur in

London would not be good enough to gain him admiration as a professional

in Modunk. It was another thing when, as a handsome young soldier, Lord

Loveland had swaggered easily about the stage, pleased with himself and

pleasing everyone else, because everyone had come with the intention of

being pleased.

Here, in remote little Modunk, the audience was evidently far more

critical, and if it didn't like what it saw, it said so audibly with a

voice from the cheap seats, or at least indulged in a prolonged fit of

bored coughing. If Loveland could have gone on "as himself," as Jacobus

had said, he might have captured the fancy of the girls; but as old Dave

Dreadnought in a wild wig, and moth-eaten beard lent by "Pa" Winter, the

new addition to the company could conquer the audience only by sheer

force of acting.

Fortunately for Loveland, he was not obliged to walk onto the stage in

answer to a cue, or it seemed to him that he could not have moved. It

was bad enough to be "discovered," in the act of being murdered; and as

the moment came when he would have to make his first speech, his blood

was beating like a drum in his temples. His throat felt dry, and when

his cue to speak was given by Jacobus with meaning emphasis, he could

only swallow, and glare. Not a word of the carefully rehearsed part

could he remember, and involuntarily looking out in front (a thing Ed

Binney had warned him not to do) it seemed as if the rows of faces down

below the yellow footlights were leaping up at him like a wave.

If he had seen the mocking grins or heard the titters which his morbid

fears and exaggerated sensitiveness led him to expect, he would have

collapsed into gasping helplessness, and died without giving the famous

curse on which the rest of the play depended. But to his intense, almost

agonising relief, the eyes staring up at him were eager, excited. The

people were taking him in earnest! They were not laughing at him. He had

power over them; and suddenly he felt able to make use of it.

Just as Jacobus bent over him, frantically glaring, ready to prompt and

swear at the same time, Loveland's frozen hesitation melted into words

and gestures, the right words, the right gestures. Jacobus sighed a

great sigh of thanksgiving, and Val delivered his curse with a transport

of zeal. He was half frightened at his own explosiveness, but the

audience enjoyed it, and when the curtain went down upon his death there

was a round of applause from the audience.

"They liked it all right," said Miss Moon.

"Are they doing that for me?" Loveland asked, incredulously.

"Why, of course," she replied. "You were the star of the scene."

"It would have to be a mighty rotten Dave not to get a few hands on his

curse," said Jacobus. "Never saw one yet bad enough for that. It's the

scene, not the actor, they clap."

But even this cold douche did not depress Loveland. Though dead as Dave,

it was his business to rise again in the third act as a young man of

fashion--a youthful butterfly from an ancient chrysalis--and drunk with

the sweet draught of triumph, he made the change gaily, as happy for the

moment as if he were playing before an audience of kings and queens.

He had dressed, and was lurking in the wings again, watching with some

interest the arrest of the leading man for his (Loveland's) murder, on

false evidence snakily given by Ed Binney, when Miss de Lisle flitted

noiselessly up, very insufficiently disguised as a boy.

"I suppose you _do_ remember that you're a young English Lord?" she

whispered, anxiously.

Loveland started, and stared. Had she found him out?

"In your next scene," she explained.

"Oh," said Loveland, relieved. "Am I--er--a lord?"

"Yes. Didn't Jacobus tell you? But perhaps he thought it didn't matter."

"It doesn't seem to," retorted Val, smiling faintly at his own hidden

meaning.

"You're supposed to be the son of the Duke of Highgate. Pa Winter's the

Duke, you know. Of course, though, you haven't seen the whole play

yet--only your own scenes, so you can't keep track of everything. You

only have to walk on; or rather _waltz_ on with Miss Moon, you know; and

when she goes off, and I come on in girl's clothes again, you must say,

"The next is mine, I believe," with an English drawl. But the part's

down on the program as 'Lord William Vane.'"

"By Jove, I know Willy Vane. He's in the Black Wa----" began Loveland,

but he bit his lip and broke off abruptly.

The Human Flower laughed. "I don't suppose _your_ friend's a lord,

though!"

Loveland did not reply, as the choice lay between a fib and an

affirmative.

"You ought to know how lords behave, more than any of us," went on the

girl, "as you're an Englishman. I suppose you've seen some?"

"Yes, a few," said Val cautiously.

"Did you ever get a chance to speak to one?"

"Now and then."

"Were they very haughty?"

"Not all of them."

"Well, as you've seen them you'll know just how to act, and you _look_

real swell. This is an exciting play, ain't it? And my! how it does

makes us all work. This is my only quiet time, and I guess you're tired.

Perhaps you'd rather watch Jack Jacobus's big scene than talk to me? I

have to go on, anyhow, in about four minutes."

"I'd rather talk to you than watch, if you'll let me," said Val.

"Well, as long as you don't make yourself too interesting, so I miss my

cue! J. J. will be cross if he sees us whispering here, but he's too

taken up with himself and his wife in this scene to notice much."

"That's lucky, because I have a message for you from an old friend of

yours, that I've been wanting to tell you all day," Loveland began

hastily, not to waste one of the four minutes. "I wonder if you remember

him? Bill Willing?"

"Bill Willing!--a friend of _yours_?" the girl spoke sharply, in her

surprise.

"Then you haven't forgotten him."

"Forgotten him? I never will, to my dying day."

Her voice quivered a little, for, like most actresses of her type, her

emotions were as easily played upon as harp-strings.

"Those are almost the words he used about you," said Loveland,

interested in Lillie's part of the broken love melody, as he had been in

Bill's. "Only--his were stronger."

"What were they--exactly?"

"Shall I tell you, really?"

"Yes, quick--quick."

"He said he always _had_ loved you, and always would love you till his

dying day."

"Oh!" Lillie de Lisle gulped down a small sob. "I thought he'd forgotten

all about me--long, long ago. He never wrote."

"No. He told me he didn't dare, or something like that, but he couldn't

resist sending a message by me."

"If you _knew_ what it is to me to hear from him again! How in the world

did you meet him?"

But that was a long story, and before Loveland could begin to sketch it,

the Human Flower heard her cue. With professional instinct she darted

out of the entrance on to the stage, and took up her part, as if she had

thought of nothing else since she laid it down.

It was not until the end of the third act that there was the smallest

chance to continue the talk so suddenly broken short. Loveland had to

change back again into the beard, wig, and bloodstained clothes of

murdered Dave Dreadnought in order to appear as a ghost, and wave his

Dead Hand under the remorseful villain's nose. But this act of

retribution was reserved for the end of the play; therefore, encouraged

by Lillie, Val stood half concealed in the shadow of some disused

scenery, talking of Bill to Bill's Star.

He told her of Bill's dog, Shakespeare, the tiny creature "who made up a

bit for the lost 'little gal.'" He told her how Bill generally

contrived to put aside a dime each week, to buy a stage paper, solely in

the hope of finding news of her. He described Bill's delight at hearing

that she had become a "Star," with her own company, and explained how it

was by Bill's wish and advice that he had written to ask for his present

engagement.

"If only it _was_ my company, really," sighed the poor little Star,

"wouldn't I just send for Bill to come out? But I haven't got any more

say than the property man, and J. J. used to hate Bill, because--because

he was jealous. You see, that was before Jacobus married. Oh, since

you're a friend of Bill's and he told you he cared about me, I can talk

to you as if I'd known you for ever. If Bill had asked me to marry him,

I would, in a minute. But he never did. I wasn't sure he ever really

cared, till what you said tonight. He was the best man I ever knew."

"I'm not sure he isn't the best I ever knew, too," said Loveland.

"I'd have sooner _begged_ with him than be a queen with a crown on my

head, if he wasn't the king!" sighed Miss de Lisle. "Don't _you_ feel

that way, too, about love?"

"Yes," Loveland answered. "I didn't always: but then I used not to

understand."

"It's too late now," Bill's Star went on. "We shall never see each other

again."

The words echoed in Loveland's head. "Too late now; we shall never see

each other again."

The Human Flower's thoughts were far away with Bill Willing. But at

least she knew where he was, and was sure that he loved her, while Val

did not even know the name of the place near Louisville where Lesley

Dearmer lived, and he was sure that she did not love him. Yes, he was

sure of that, though perhaps there was a time, he told himself, when he

might have made her care.

Instead of trying to win her when he had the chance, he had asked her

advice about the best way of making love to other girls. Oh, he deserved

all he had got, he thought with sudden fury--all--even to being a waiter

at Alexander's, and a leading juvenile under the management of "J. J."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

A Mysterious Disappearance

"Gordon, come to our room directly after dinner. I want to talk to you,"

said Miss Moon. "Not a word to anyone, mind."

She spoke in a low voice, with an air of mystery, stopping Loveland on

the stairs, and then passing with a significant look and a finger on her

lips, as a door shut sharply somewhere above.

Of course she took it for granted that he would accept the Royal

invitation which was a command, and did not need an answer. Equally of

course Loveland knew that he would be knocking at the door, at the

moment desired, though he was puzzled by the request and the secretive

way in which it was made.

It was only a week that day since he had joined the company, but the

longest week of his life, save one. Already the time when he had not

been a barn-storming country actor seemed distant. He was "old man" or

"dear boy," with all the men except Jacobus, and "Gordon" with the

actresses. He had heard the life-story of almost everyone among his

comrades, male and female; knew why, by evil fate or mere fluke, they

had lost splendid and well-deserved chances of gracing Metropolitan

theatres; had grown to look upon them all, even Buddha, as fellow

beings, and was doing his worried, wearied best with seven new parts

committed to memory in as many days.

If Lesley Dearmer were an actress, and it were her company instead of

Lillie de Lisle's, he said to himself, how happy he could be in spite of

all hardships; for the longing to see Lesley was never absent. He

regretted her desperately, and the chance he might have had with

her--the chance he had thrown away. He dreamed of her at night, instead

of living his troubles over again, and in involved fancies often saw her

acting with him on the stage, in the place of Bill's "little gal."

Always she seemed near; always she was in his thoughts; but perhaps this

was partly because someone had mentioned incidentally that

Ashville--where the company was playing now--lay only about thirty miles

from Louisville.

Somewhere near Louisville she lived, and if he were Lord Loveland, with

money in his pocket--even a little money--instead of being just a

strolling actor named Gordon, with two suits of clothes to his back, he

would have tried his hardest to find her. He no longer regretted the

hopelessness of finding favour in the eyes of American heiresses,

because he was homesick for the light in Lesley's sweet eyes, the only

woman's eyes that had ever mattered seriously to him--except his

mother's. Nothing had happened, really, to make money of less importance

to him; rather the other way, yet money did not seem as important as it

had, and he told himself that he was well punished for not asking Lesley

to marry him. But now he had let her learn to despise him. And being

Gordon, the barn-stormer, instead of Lord Loveland, he would have

avoided a meeting with the girl if it had come in his way. He could not

have endured to be seen by her as he was now, and even should his luck

change--as it must before long--with news from home--there would still

remain between them as a barrier Lesley's scorn of him which he had

taught her to feel, and her knowledge of all his ridiculous adventures.

What a contrast to the pictures he had painted for her of his reception

in America! With her impish sense of fun, the humorous side of his

welcome by New Yorkers must have appealed to her intensely, he was sure,

and he did not think that even when he ceased to be P. Gordon, Lesley

Dearmer would ever care to think of him seriously again.

She had been very frank that last morning on the _Mauretania_; and many

times since, he had recalled every word she had said to him as they

leaned on the rail watching the ship draw into the New York dock. Lesley

would feel, as he began to, but even more, that everything which had

happened "served him right." He could almost hear her pronouncing

sentence, smiling, yet in earnest. How she must have laughed at his

fallen pride, and the wildly farcical things such merry humourists as

Tony Kidd had doubtless put into the papers! He had become a mere figure

of fun for America, and therefore, for Lesley Dearmer, who had never

been a respecter of persons; and the fear that the Human Flower's

Company might play at Louisville had been hot in his mind, until Ed

Binney reassured him. Louisville was not for the "likes of them," and

they would never get nearer such an important town than they were now.

Soon, they would be out of Kentucky, and in Missouri: indeed, the "date"

following Ashville, was in the latter state, and Loveland had been

advised that his forthcoming address would be Bonnerstown. Only the day

before his meeting with Miss Moon on the stairs he had written to Bill

Willing, asking him to send on any mail to Bonnerstown, Missouri; and

now the lady's mysterious summons gave him an uneasy moment.

He had supposed that his acting was satisfactory, and had worked hard

over the learning and rehearsing of his parts, seldom getting to sleep

before five in the morning, then dropping off with a MS. in his hand as

well as in his head. But what if Miss Moon meant to break the news that

"J. J." thought he could not act well enough, and that he must expect

his discharge?

Loveland had little appetite for dinner, though the hotel at Ashville

was better than at Modunk, and the cooking was good Southern cooking.

Immediately after the meal he went upstairs and knocked at the door of

Mr. and Mrs. Jacobus's room, with no feeling of strangeness in doing so,

because he had learned, since joining Miss de Lisle's company, that for

"pros" bedroom was another word for parlour.

The stage manager and his wife were both there, Jacobus smoking, in

sulky silence which he broke only with a grunt by way of greeting for

the "juvenile lead." But Miss Moon made up in cordiality for her

husband's coldness.

"Mr. Jacobus is cross with me," she announced coquettishly, "about you."

"About me?" Loveland repeated, puzzled and vaguely uncomfortable.

"Yes. There's an idea of mine I want to talk to you about, and he says

you'll blab it to the others. But _I_ say you won't if you promise you

won't. That's so, isn't it?"

"Of course," answered Loveland.

"And you do promise, don't you--and that you won't say a word to a

living soul, if I tell you a thing in strict confidence?"

"I promise," Loveland returned imprudently, impressed with the idea that

he was to hear some comment on his own acting.

"There! That's all right, then, I trust you. Yes, I just _will_, J. J.,

so there! I guess I have a right to my say in this show, haven't I?"

J. J. answered by a shrug of the shoulders, but it was a shrug of

resentful acquiescence, and showed that he acknowledged his wife's

supremacy--the eternal supremacy of the Golden Calf.

"Sit down, and make yourself at home," went on Miss Moon, smiling on the

handsome young man, who was not much older than her sons. "Full Moon"

was her nickname in the company, and Loveland thought, as she cordially

indicated a chair by the stove, that her figure merited the _sobriquet_.

"I know you're a great friend of _Lillie's_," the lady slily began again,

when she and Loveland were seated near the fire, and J. J. had drowned

himself in a theatrical paper. "But all the same, you must admit that

her acting gets worse every day. She's so awful careless! And she's

failed to go down with audiences here. We've done rotten business."

"The house has seemed good every night," said Loveland.

"Ah, it's _seemed_ all right; but it's been half paper. It's mighty

discouragin', for me and Mr. Jacobus, I can tell you, after the money

_I've_ put into the show, and the work _he's_ put in. The fact is, it's

so discouragin' we're thinkin' of makin' a change; breakin' up the

company, in a way, and then startin' again, with only the ones we

_really_ want in a new crowd. Would you like to join?"

Loveland looked her straight in the face, with almost brutally frank

disapproval on his. The extra touches she had given to her hair, and

eyelashes, and complexion for his benefit, were all in vain. She might

have been a block of painted wood, for any admiration in his eyes.

"You mean, you're going to send Miss de Lisle away?" he asked.

"We're going to send ourselves away from _her_," Miss Moon corrected

him.

"Leaving her in the lurch!" exclaimed Loveland; with that uncompromising

truthfulness of his which was a virtue or a vice, according as one had

reason to regard it.

The big woman flushed darkly through her powder. "There's no 'lurch'

about it!" she defended herself with a new sharpness in her tone. "I

don't intend to shell out any more of my good money carting Lillie de

Lisle around the country as a star, that's all. I suppose I have a right

to do as I choose with my own? _You_ oughtn't to complain. I'm offering

you a chance that lots of real actors would grab. You can go with the

new company, and have better parts, and better pay, than what you're

getting now. But you'll have to choose, right away, between me--between

us and Lillie de Lisle. Well, what do you say?"

"I say that I choose Miss de Lisle," said Loveland.

Miss Moon burst out laughing, hysterically.

"There, I told you what you'd get!" ejaculated her husband. But she

shook her shoulders angrily, seeming to transfer to him all the

resentment Loveland had roused.

"Let things alone, can't you?" she snapped. "Gordon's only guying, ain't

you, Gordon? Or anyhow, you don't understand. When I said 'choose

between us' there's nothing _to_ choose, for Lillie de Lisle hasn't got

a thing to offer you, and we have a lot. We can bust her up and when

she's bust, she is bust. Why, she hasn't a dime to bless herself with, I

shouldn't think. She ain't the savin' kind, and she won't even have any

advertisin' paper to go along with, if she wanted to go along on her

own. Her name ain't printed on any of the posters; I took care of that,

starting out. The slips with 'Lillie de Lisle' are all separate, joined

on to the posters with paste--and as for her litho, she's welcome to

_that_. She looks a fright, bad enough to scare crows. The pictorial

paper's _ours_, every sheet of it, and we can start another show inside

two days. All we've got to do, is to wire a Chicago agent for a new

star, if I don't choose to do the starring myself, and as many folks as

we want. Now, you see how things stand, don't you?"

"I think I do," said Loveland.

"Well, what do you decide?"

"The same that I decided before."

"Oh, you do, do you? Ain't you silly! You won't take a good thing when

it's offered you?"

"I won't take the thing you've offered me."

She bounced up from her chair, her large face flaming. "Very well, then,

all I've got left to say is, I wish you joy of your choice, and--_good_

afternoon!"

"Good afternoon," said Loveland, rising, and walking towards the door.

"Wait a minute!" exclaimed Miss Moon, stopping him as he turned the

handle. "See here, if you please. You're no gentleman if you play the

sneak, and tell."

"I've given you my word not to do that," Loveland assured her.

"Mind you keep it! I wash my hands of you," cried the angry woman, and

thinking that he might as well take this as his cue for exit, Loveland

left the room.

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," he heard her husband quoting

with a vicious laugh, before there had been time to shut the door.

Loveland went up to his own room, more than a little troubled. He had

learned to like Lillie de Lisle, not only for Bill's sake, but for her

own. She was a sweet, bright little creature, a lady by nature, though

not by birth or education; and if she had a chance, might even yet--in

spite of bad training--become a charming actress. The Moon woman was

jealous of the star's youth and prettiness, of course; and now she meant

to play her rival a shameful trick, yet he might not warn the poor girl

because of that stupid promise he had given.

It was a new thing for Loveland to trouble himself about the affairs of

his acquaintances; but he knew too well now what it was like to be

deserted by friends, cold-shouldered by the world, not to have learned

how to feel for others. He was genuinely uncomfortable about Lillie, but

he could only make up his mind to stand by the deposed star whatever

happened to her, and to himself. For the present, he did not see what

else he could do, bound as he was to silence. But there was one

comfort, he consoled himself: a new company could not be formed in a

minute. This was Saturday. They would all go on to Bonnerstown next day,

no doubt; perhaps Mrs. Jacobus would reconsider the spiteful decision to

which her henpecked husband agreed with evident reluctance. In any case,

there were a few days in which to plan. Loveland hoped that he might

hear from England in another week; and at worst, salaries were payable

on Saturdays. He would be the possessor of ten hard earned dollars that

night.

Dinner had been at twelve, because of the matinée which would begin at

two o'clock. Now it was already after one, and everybody had started for

the theatre, except himself, the Jacobuses, and Ed Binney, who was ill

with a racking cough, and keeping his room till the last minute.

Loveland went upstairs to see how Ed was feeling, found him ready though

coughing hard, and they walked to the Ashville Opera House together.

After all, salaries were not paid that night. J. J. informed the

expectant members of the company that business hadn't "run to it." They

must wait for their money till next week. Bonnerstown was a bigger place

than Ashville, and there was every prospect of better things for the

future. Two or three of the actors and actresses wheedled a few dollars

out of the manager, to "go on" with; but they were "old fakirs," as they

would have said themselves, and knew how to manage such matters.

Loveland, however, took the news quietly, as he had begun to take the

various blows which fortune successively dealt him.

In these small towns, the hotel breakfast was from seven till eight, or

until eight-thirty by favour; and on Sundays, if one were a quarter of

an hour later in coming down, nothing actively unpleasant was said

aloud, though there might be mumblings and dark looks. On this Sunday

morning Loveland availed himself of the last amount of grace, hurrying

down at a quarter to nine lest he should be told, grumpily, that

breakfast was cleared away.

Ed Binney was in bed, for his room-mate had volunteered to carry

something up, but Lillie de Lisle, "Pa and Ma Winter," and Miss St.

Clare were still at the table.

"Have the others finished and gone already?" asked Loveland, for the two

Eccles were usually the last to appear, unless it were "J. J.," who

invariably took his wife's breakfast upstairs before beginning his own.

"No. It's queer, none of them have been down yet," replied Mrs. Winter.

"They wrote cards on their doors, saying they weren't to be disturbed or

their fires to be made, and didn't want breakfast. The cards are up yet.

It's the first time they've ever done such a thing since I knew 'em; and

that's two years."

"I do hope they haven't committed suicide," whispered Miss St. Clare,

who battened on detective stories.

Loveland did not offer any opinion, but he flushed slightly on hearing

the news, and went on eating his lukewarm breakfast, with eyebrows drawn

together in an anxious frown. Could there be any connection between this

mysterious and unprecedented conduct on the part of the manager, his

wife, and his wife's family, and the secret proposal made yesterday to

the juvenile lead?

Loveland had told himself then that the threatening storm would not

break until the following week at earliest, but now a disquieting idea

had jumped into his head. So disquieting was it, that when he had

finished his breakfast he paused before the door of the room occupied by

the Eccles brothers, and disregarding the card conspicuously pinned on

the panel, knocked very hard.

No answer came, and he knocked again, still harder. Then a third time,

so violently that no natural sleep could have resisted the clamour.

By this time the landlord, the landlord's son, the landlord's wife and

niece, and several commercial travellers were in the passage or on the

stairs.

"They're dead drunk, or else they've hooked it," suggested one of the

latter.

"Scott! Jacobus ain't paid for his week yet!" exclaimed the landlord,

his thin yellow face turning a shade yellower. He rushed to the closed

door on the floor below, and pounded furiously with no result.

"The snides! I'm hanged if they ain't gallivanted with my money, and

made me the expense of bustin' in my doors and gettin' 'em mended!"

wailed the proprietor of the hotel.

Luckily for his feeling and pocket, one of the commercial travellers was

an amateur locksmith, and the door, which hid the secret of the Jacobus

family, was soon opened. The bed had not been slept in. The room was

clear of all Jacobus's belongings; and the landlord reproached himself

for not being "fly enough" to suspect treachery earlier. He had actually

seen, with his own eyes, Mr. and Mrs. Jacobus carrying bundles to the

theatre, when starting for the matinée, and again before the evening

performance, but had thought nothing of it, because his acquaintance

with Jacobus had extended over several years.

"I was a crazy loon to think he was all right," the defrauded man

groaned. "And then, business was A 1 the whole week, so I wasn't keepin'

my eyes peeled for any larks. I'm big enough, and old enough, and ought

to o' known better. But the rest o' ye ain't goin' to take a shine out

o' me like that. I keep your hotel luggage till you hand over every red

cent of your board, and I wish to goodness the law wasn't too cranky to

give me holt o' your theatre trunks, too."

"I can't believe they've really gone and left us like this," pleaded the

little Star, wide-eyed and pale, though unnaturally composed. "Let's

wait and see, before we think the worst. Somebody'd better run over to

the Opera House and find out if their things are there. If they've

sneaked them away in the night, why--then I'll _have_ to believe; but I

won't before."

"I guess my son's there and half-way back by this time," growled the

landlord. "Meanwhile, I'll just have a go at t' other lock."

He had the go, and by the time the opening door had revealed emptiness,

bad news had come back from the theatre. The worst had happened. With

incredible stealth and cunning, the manager and his family had slipped

away in the night, leaving nothing behind them but a stranded, broken,

and penniless company.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Marooned

After consultation in the room of the Star, it appeared that the funds

of the deserted six amounted to exactly six dollars, or, if equally

divided, one dollar apiece.

Lillie, who had been--more or less regularly--in the enjoyment of

thirteen dollars a week, was in the habit of sending all she could spare

out of her salary to a bedridden sister in a semi-charitable

institution. Pa and Mrs. Winter were suspected of having "something up

their sleeves," but they produced only two dollars to match Lillie's

two--and after all, their joint earnings were but ten dollars a week. As

for Ed Binney, he supported parents, one of whom was almost blind, the

other nearly crippled with rheumatism. Besides this regular call upon

his purse, he was obliged reluctantly, from time to time, to buy a tonic

which might keep his delicate chest in working order. Miss St. Clare was

chronically penniless; and everybody knew that Gordon had received no

salary yet.

The landlord, disappointed at finding very little of value in the rooms

of the actors (with whom it was a cautious habit to safeguard their most

cherished possessions in their theatre trunks), had threatened in the

first outburst of anger to turn them all into the street; but Loveland

and Lillie de Lisle argued that he would lose nothing by waiting an

hour or two, until matters had been discussed and something of advantage

to everybody perhaps arranged.

But, at the end of a long and gloomy talk, nobody had found anything

brilliant to suggest. There was too little money to be of any use, said

Pa Winter, who was by nature a pessimist; and for his part he didn't see

what was to become of them all, unless they went to the poor-house, and

waited for something to turn up, or induced the town authorities to

organise a subscription.

"I won't go to the poor-house, and I won't be an object of charity,"

exclaimed Lillie, pluckily. "I've been in bad scrapes before, and got

out of 'em somehow, and I bet we all have, unless it's Gordon--so I

guess we can again."

Relieved by Mr. Jacobus's treachery, of his obligation to be silent, Val

repeated his conversation with Mrs. Jacobus yesterday, adding that he

had been very far from suspecting her real intention.

"That's because you're an amatoor, dear boy," said Binney, coughing

harshly. "If they'd let out as much to one of _us_--but they'd have had

too much gumption. If only you could have put us wise we'd o' been on

the watch; but don't think we're blamin' you, for we ain't. You did the

straight thing, accordin' to your lights. Full Moon was always green

jealous of Miss de Lisle, but after you joined the show, if she'd been a

cat with four legs instead of two, she'd o' spit and scratched. As it

was, she did the next best thing--tried to take you away under her arm,

and spite Lillie. For the rest of us she didn't care a tinker's dash,

one way or another. Then, when you turned on her, and blurted out just

what you thought of her and her schemes, and how you meant to stand by

Miss de Lisle, she was as sour on you as she had been sweet. I bet she's

chucklin' this minute, thinkin' of our plight. It'll be nuts to her."

"Can't we get at them and punish them somehow?" Loveland wanted to know.

"Takes money to do that sort of thing, even if we could. It would cost

the boss of the hotel more than Jacobus owes him for us all, to go to

law, now they've vamoosed, out of the state, too. As for us, we're not

_in_ it--except the soup. They had plenty of money, too, the beasts, for

Full Moon's a regular oof bird, with 'most a thousand dollars of her own

over and above what J. J. has 'blowed,' and the Ashville business _has_

been jolly good, I don't care how they tried to stuff you up. They must

have lit out with a pretty penny--to say nothing of all the company's

scenery, paper, and MS. plays. We're stripped clear of everything but

our theatre trunks, and they'd have taken them if they'd dared."

But Loveland had not even a theatre trunk.

"If we could get up some kind of a benefit performance, those that are

left of us," he suggested, after thinking very hard for a few heavy

minutes, "we might make enough to go--somewhere."

"Good idea, if we had a play," said Eddy. "But we--no, by Jinks, we

_have_ got one!"

"What one?" asked Lillie de Lisle, clasping her hands.

"Sidney Cremer's 'Lord Bob.' Old J. J. gave me the MS. to copy into

parts only three days ago, and I was too seedy to hustle much with it.

He said if the parts were ready to distribute Monday it would do, and I

was going to finish by then, sure. I suppose he dasn't ask me for the

MS. back, for fear I'd smell a rat--or else he forgot. Anyhow, I've got

the play, and half the parts are done."

"A new play by Sidney Cremer ought to be a draw even here," said Lillie,

"and 'Lord Bob' is _bran_ new--as new as tomorrow's bread."

"Lord Bob," by Sidney Cremer: Loveland remembered seeing the posters up

in New York, and for the last year or two the young American

playwright's name had been well known even in London. This piece

Loveland believed had been produced for the very first time on his first

night in New York. Yet these barn-stormers had got hold of it!

He made some remark that showed surprise, and Lillie, laughing rather

sadly, replied that a New York man with whom J. J. was in touch had

offered to give him the play cheap. "We don't pay the author anything,"

she said. "Seems mean, doesn't it?--and I suppose it's a kind of

stealing. But I've been brought up to it, ever since I was a 'pro'; and

we don't hurt the playwright much by producing his pieces in places like

our week stands. No company that pays author's fees comes here once in a

blue moon. The question is, could we put the play on, and could we get

the Opera House for any nights this week? It was Jacobus who knew all

those things, not me. I was in his hands, and I just let myself drift."

"There are only three women--two girls, and an old lady in the play.

That would suit all right," said Eddy, eagerly. "As for the men, it

isn't quite so easy--never is; but there are only five. One's a servant,

another a policeman; and there's no scenery to speak of. I guess we

could fake. I don't feel very grand, but I'll try and write out the

rest of the parts by tonight, in case we can get the theatre, and bring

the stunt off."

"I'll write out the parts you haven't done," said Loveland. "I'll find

the manager of the alleged Opera House, too, and have a talk with him."

"Do. A real heart to heart talk," urged Lillie. "Tell him we mean

sharing terms, of course. If it really can be fixed up, it's pretty sure

the landlord'll keep us all on spec."

Loveland, who was now the only able-bodied young man of the party, and

whose idea it had been to get up the entertainment, went out at once,

luckily catching the local manager of the grandiloquently named Opera

House, just as he was virtuously setting forth to church.

Jacobus, it seemed, had "settled up all right" with him the night

before, and he was surprised to hear of the flight. But he had his

bride--a third bride--with him, and feared that she would not consider

it decorous to discuss theatrical business in the street, on Sunday, on

the way to church. He would have sent the "show man" away rather

cavalierly without any definite answer if the bride, who, like an

intelligent baby, was already beginning to "take notice," had not put in

a word for the handsome young Englishman.

"I don't care if we are five minutes late," said she, conscious of a hat

which would receive the more appreciation if all the other hats were

already in their pews.

So the manager relented, and admitted to Loveland that the "house" was

"open" for three nights. After that, the Dandy Lady Minstrels were

coming to finish out the week. Their advance agent would arrive on

Monday, without doubt, and "bill the town," so that a makeshift show

wouldn't stand much chance. As the Opera House was free, however, the

marooned actors might have their chance, but it was a "spec" for

him--the manager--and ordinary sharing terms weren't good enough. He

stipulated for two thirds of the profits, if any, above expenses, and

would not unbend, though the bride motioned her compassion for the

actors, with lifted eyebrows.

All the rest of the day, Loveland was busy. He finished copying the

parts, which must be learned and rehearsed, so that the play might be

produced tomorrow night.

There was a newspaper in Ashville, which came out once a week; and the

company decided, after a stormy debate, to spend one of the six dollars

in buying from the office large sheets or rolls of the coarse white

paper on which this weekly publication was printed. Having secured a

good supply, and obtained black paint and a big brush from a sympathetic

sign-painter, who was a customer of the hotel, Loveland set to work,

with Binney's aid and direction, to manufacture some crude posters.

He announced in black letters, so gigantic as to be almost convincing,

that the principal members of the Little Human Flower's All Star Company

had been persuaded to remain for a special three nights' engagement, in

order to produce the sparkling comedy, "Lord Bob," New York's Latest and

Biggest Success, by the popular playwright, Sidney Cremer.

At least a dozen duplicates of this announcement he produced, after

hours of painstaking labour, which cost him a cramp in his right hand,

if not in his temper.

It really was nervous work for an amateur, drawing out and spacing the

huge letters with pencil, then filling them in with thick splashes of

black paint--especially as the paper was thin, sometimes letting the big

brush break through, and costing another sheet, another hour's toil. But

it was extraordinary how much interest Loveland took in his

self-appointed task, how easily controlled was his impulse to be cross

when Ed Binney or "Pa" Winter interrupted him with a suggestion.

He felt that the company's present plight had been brought about partly

by him; through his friendship with Lillie (how could Miss Moon guess it

was for Bill's sake?) and his thoughtless promise of secrecy. Therefore

he was inclined to do his best to atone; and the _blasé_ young soldier

who once had thought all work and most pleasures a bore, toiled like a

slave through a whole day and half a night to save Ed Binney fatigue.

After midnight, when the impromptu posters were ready, Loveland and "Pa"

Winter went out together with big rolls of paper under their arms, and a

huge pot of flour paste, stirred up (for the sake of Gordon's _beaux

yeux_) by the hand of the landlord's niece, over the kitchen fire.

They had no right to "grab spaces," Pa Winter pointed out; and if they

put up the new paper on top of the old the agent of the "Dandy Lady

Minstrels" would ruthlessly cause it to be covered over with his own

bills. Still, despite these pessimistic prophecies, Loveland distributed

the advertisements of "Lord Bob" as well as he could, hoping for the

mercy or the negligence of the coming rival.

What remained of the night he spent in committing to memory the part of

"Lord Bob," for which, without a dissenting voice, the five other

members of the company had cast him.

It was a part which a London or New York leading man would have studied

for two weeks, rehearsed for three, and finally played with joy mingled

with misgiving. But Loveland could not afford artistic scruples. The

play was the thing, and the acting must take care of itself.

They went out to rehearsal early next morning, and were thankful that

there had been neither rain nor snow to destroy the fragile posters. In

front of one which Loveland had put up on the face of the Opera House,

stood a girl and an old man, talking in low voices.

"They're reading about the play and making up their minds to come,"

muttered Loveland to Lillie de Lisle, with whom he had walked to the

theatre. As he spoke, the pair turned and stared sharply for an instant

at the actor and actress. Loveland was disappointed. After all, they did

not look like the sort of persons who would care to attend a performance

given by barn-stormers. The girl was a lady, the man a gentleman. They

were well dressed, their faces had a cultivated expression,

indescribable yet unmistakable. Altogether, they were of a different

order from the people who had composed the audiences at the Opera House

during the past week.

"I shall certainly write and tell them what's going on," remarked the

girl to her companion, who was probably her father. "It's a shame.

Something ought to be done."

"We might telegraph, if you think it would be worth while," replied the

old man.

Loveland heard the words, spoken as the pair turned away to walk down

the street, towards the residence part of the town, but he attached no

importance to the disjointed sentences. The affairs of the Human Flower

Company were occupying his mind for the moment, to the exclusion of all

else. He was not even thinking of lost Lesley Dearmer, or wondering

whether there would be a letter from his mother forwarded by Bill to

Bonnerstown this week.

Everybody was in deadly earnest, and the rehearsal went off very well,

considering all its disadvantages. They had another in the afternoon;

and by that time, they learned joyfully, a few seats had actually been

booked in advance.

Ed Binney's cough had not improved, but he was kept up on strong, hot

coffee, and they got through the performance that night, two men short,

almost without a hitch. Nevertheless, though "Lord Bob" was a great New

York success, as Sidney Cremer's comedies always were, and bristled with

brilliant scenes and bright dialogue, it was a little above the heads of

an average Ashville audience.

A few well, though plainly, dressed ladies and gentlemen were in the

front seats, and all seemed to know each other, laughing and talking

together between the acts; and among them, through a peephole in the

curtain, Loveland recognised the nice-looking girl and old man he had

seen staring at his home-made poster in the morning. The rest of the

audience, however, were of the usual sort, and preferred wild melodrama

to sparkling light comedy.

The profits of the first performance, and the next, were not what Val

had expected, though the acting of the company improved; but on the last

night Loveland tried to hope that Ashville would turn out in full force.

Having set the first scene himself, in default of a stage manager or

competent stage hands, he applied an anxious eye to a small "spy-hole"

in the curtain, and peeped out.

His heart sank. The house was half empty. But it was early still. There

was hope yet. People were coming in. There was the old gentleman and the

girl he had seen before, finding their way once more to the front seats.

Someone was with them; they were bringing guests. That looked

encouraging!

Val lingered at the "spy-hole."

The girl and her father sat down.

With them were Lesley Dearmer and her aunt, Mrs. Loveland.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Pirates!

For an instant Val thought of nothing but the heavenly surprise of

seeing the girl he loved.

Recognition brought a shock of joy, and a wave of love which had been

held in check for a time by the weight of misfortune, as the waters of a

stormy river in flood are held back by the shut gates of a lock. He had

known that he loved her, too well for peace of mind, more passionately

and purely than he had thought it was in him to love. But until he saw

her face looking up, as if at him, yet unconscious of his gaze--the

dear, charming face he had longed for through all his miseries, scarcely

dreaming ever to see her again--he had not realised how utterly precious

it was, how entirely indispensable in his life.

A wild impulse rushed over him to call her name--"Lesley--Lesley!" and

spring from behind the curtain, as if they two were alone together in a

world of their own. But after the first luminous instant, the joy of her

presence was blotted out in darkness.

He remembered everything; remembered that he was Perceval Gordon, an

actor of the submerged tenth, a wretched, penniless barn-stormer, who

for the moment came near to being an object of charity.

When he had bidden Lesley goodbye, he was a splendid being who looked

down from his heights, and, though loving her, saw her impossible as a

wife. Their friendship had begun by being somewhat of a condescension on

his part--from his own point of view, at least; and she, half amused,

half angry, had seen that point of view quite clearly, nor had she ever

attempted to change it, to the last.

At the thought that the curtain would ring up and show him as he was

now, to the astonished eyes of Lesley Dearmer, he could have run away,

out of the theatre, anywhere--it mattered not where--if only she need

not see him, need not know that the magnificent Lord Loveland and the

miserable P. Gordon were one.

His blood surged up to his head, throbbing in his temples, and tingling

in his ears, but through the confusion of his senses penetrated the

knowledge that he could not go.

This trial of endurance--it seemed to him the hardest of all the ordeals

he had been forced to face during that fortnight which was a decade--he

would have to go through, as he had gone through the others; because, to

evade it, he must be worse than a coward. He would be coward and traitor

as well; and under all his faults there was something which would not

let him be traitor or coward.

Selfish he had been, but the shell of his selfishness had been broken by

many hard knocks, and the real self, once so comfortably housed within,

was finding itself, though all a-shiver still with the cold.

Let him suffer as he might and must, he couldn't desert these people

whom he had undertaken to help out of the trouble in which by his

inexperience he had landed them.

He was responsible for putting on "Lord Bob," and his was the principal

part. Crudely as he knew that he played it, the performance could not go

on without him. If he refused to act the curtain could not ring up, and

the money in the theatre would have to be refunded to the disappointed

audience. There were not many dollars there--at all events not many

would remain for the company after the local manager had taken out his

share, but there would be enough with what had come in on the two

previous nights, to pay the ever-growing bill at the hotel.

Loveland felt that it would have been almost easier to shoot himself

than to give the signal for the curtain to ring up; yet the moment came

when he could delay no longer. He was not actor enough to forget in his

acting the world beyond the stage. He did not lose his lines; but,

conscious of Lesley's eyes upon him, he felt as stiff, as jerky in every

movement, as a mechanical doll.

It was worse between acts than when he was on the stage, for he pictured

Lesley's head and her aunt's bent near to one another, while he and his

affairs were discussed in whispers, perhaps with stifled laughter. It

seemed to him that the evening would never end; but at last the curtain

went down on the third act, and Loveland was making a "bolt" for his

dressing room when one of the stage hands intercepted him, holding out

an envelope.

"Say, you're the manager of this show, ain't you?" asked the man.

"I suppose I am at present," said Loveland, not attempting to evade

responsibility.

"Well, then, this is for you," and the letter was in his hand.

"To the Manager of the Company producing 'Lord Bob,'" was the address

pencilled in an attractive handwriting, which might be that of a man or

a woman.

Val hesitated for an instant, and then tore open the envelope. On a

sheet of the Ashville theatre paper were written the words, "A friend

and agent of Sidney Cremer will be obliged by a few words with the

Manager of the Company, in the private room of the Manager of the Opera

House, kindly lent for the occasion."

Loveland read the communication, and handed it to Ed Binney, who was

passing. Ed gave a long, low whistle, which set him coughing again, and

said, "Whew! This is the last straw, isn't it?"

"Why?" asked Loveland.

"Don't you see? Someone's put the author on to us. You know we're

pirates--regular play-snatchers, don't you?"

"Yes," replied Val. "Jacobus initiated me into the mysteries. But what

can they do to us?"

"There's a big fine for the offence."

Loveland laughed. "I wish Mr. Cremer joy of it."

"Oh, that's all very well, but if he cuts up rough, he can make us a lot

of trouble, I'm afraid, though I don't know much about such things. I

only know we were always running the risk; but in these small towns

there ain't much danger, as the shows don't get noticed by the dramatic

papers. I believe Jacobus was never caught. But we're copped this time,

sure enough. I wouldn't go into the lion's den, if I was you. Let the

lion come to us, at the hotel--if he doesn't find out beforehand that we

wouldn't make a meal worth eating."

"Meanwhile, perhaps, he'll have the police 'attach' the luggage or

something," argued Loveland. "Heaven knows, I haven't got much; but the

rest of you have, and you can't afford to lose it. No, I'll go and face

the music. Perhaps when Cremer's agent understands the fix we're in,

he'll let us down easy."

"Well, maybe you're right," Binney agreed. "But it seems a shame you

should have to stand up and be shot at alone."

Loveland laughed dubiously. "I'm riddled with bullets already. I'll wipe

the paint off my face, and go tell the fellow to aim straight and have

done with it."

"I'd see you through, if I wasn't such a crock," said poor Ed, coughing.

"Go and tell the others what's up," Val advised him. "They may be able

to strike camp and get away with the supply wagons while I engage the

enemy."

Three minutes later, Loveland was at the door of the local manager's

room. He opened it, and found himself face to face with Lesley Dearmer,

who was standing there, alone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The Whole Truth

"Miss Dearmer!" he stammered.

"Mr. Gordon, I believe?" she said primly.

She wore a simple grey dress, which he remembered to have seen and liked

on the ship. How sweet, how dear she was, with her soft, bright eyes,

and long curled eyelashes!

Involuntarily he put out his hand, but she seemed not to see the

gesture, and the hand dropped.

"I used the name. I--thought it was better," he explained, trying to

keep his head.

"Yes. No doubt it was better," she answered.

"And it really _is_ my name," he went on. "One of my names."

"You have so many?"

"My sponsors in baptism----"

"The newspapers accused you of being your own sponsor."

"The newspapers accused me--what do you mean?"

"Surely you know. I told you I should read about you, but I expected to

read very different things. However, we won't talk of that now----"

"But we must." For a moment he was the old, masterful Loveland. "We

must. I want to know what you mean."

"That can wait awhile. I came to ask what _you_ mean. Though I did read

the newspapers, I was surprised to find you here. I'm acting for my

friend, Sidney Cremer. A cousin of Sidney's and mine, who lives a few

miles out of Ashville, saw 'Lord Bob' advertised for performance, and

telegraphed. Sidney couldn't come, but my aunt brought me tonight, as

Sidney Cremer's interests and mine are rather closely allied. And you

know, nobody has a right to produce the play without the author's

permission."

"Yes, I know," answered Loveland dejectedly. But his depression arose,

not so much from the consciousness of wrongdoing, as from the suspicion

engendered by the girl's tone in speaking of Sidney Cremer. Cremer's

interests and hers were "closely allied"! She had blushed and even

faltered a little, as she made the statement, and Val sprang instantly

to the conclusion that she was engaged to marry Cremer.

It had never occurred to him, when they played at platonic friendship on

board the _Mauretania_, that Lesley Dearmer might be engaged. She had

never said in so many words that she was not, but she hadn't at all the

manner of a girl who had disposed of her future. In any case, however,

whether the affair were new or of old standing, Loveland felt miserably

certain that she was engaged now. And he stood convicted of defrauding

the man whom she intended to marry. Was there any depth of wretchedness

or of humiliation which the thirteenth Marquis of Loveland had not

plumbed at last?

"You admit that you knew, and yet you produced and played in the piece?"

"I did. But----" he hesitated. Should he attempt to excuse himself, to

disclaim responsibility, or would that only seem cowardly in her eyes?

"But--what? You see, I'm bound to report to my friend."

"Your friend!" broke out Loveland, losing his head. "You are going to

marry him!"

"Sidney Cremer?"

"Yes. You don't deny it."

She laughed gently. "Why should I deny it--to you? Have you any right to

question me, or bring me to book--about anything, Mr. Gordon?"

"I know I have no right," he admitted. "Forgive me." He guessed that her

emphasis, and her frequent repetition of the name "Gordon" meant that

she wished him to understand the change in their relationship. To her he

was now only Gordon the actor, who had stolen Sidney Cremer's play. The

past was to be forgotten.

"I must remind you again," Lesley went on, in a cool, businesslike

manner, though her eyes were starry, "that I have come twenty miles to

question you. And my aunt is waiting for you with the cousins who

telegraphed about 'Lord Bob.' You know, you mustn't go on using Sidney

Cremer's play."

"We have no intention of doing so," said Loveland. And then, in as few

words as possible, without any attempt at defending himself for his part

in the transaction, he explained baldly that the manager had deserted

the company, and that they had only one piece, "Lord Bob." They had

produced it for three nights, in the hope of making money enough to get

away, but the result had proved disappointing.

"My affairs are rather in a muddle just now," Loveland finished; "but as

soon as I get them straightened out again, which I expect to do shortly,

I will myself pay Mr. Cremer's fee for these performances, if you'll let

me know what they are."

"Oh, Sidney wouldn't want you to do that," the girl explained.

"I--neither of us knew that the company was in trouble. My cousins here

didn't tell us that--I suppose they didn't know, either. We thought it

was simply an ordinary case of piracy. But I can answer for Sidney, as

if it were for myself. He wouldn't want fees, and he wouldn't take any

severe measures in such a case as this. If only you give me your word,

Lord Lo--, I mean, Mr. Gordon, that these people won't go about the

country playing this piece, I'll ask nothing more."

"You may set Mr. Cremer's mind at rest about that," Loveland answered

bitterly. "They aren't likely to go about the country playing any

piece."

"You mean, they--you--are stranded here?" enquired Lesley.

"Oh, I'm all right," Loveland said hurriedly, far from wishing to pose

as an object of pity. "It's the others I'm thinking of."

She gave him a quick, clear look. "Would you go away and leave them

here, in trouble?" she asked.

"No, I won't do that," replied Val. "I mean to do something for them."

"What can you do, if your affairs are in such a muddle as you say?"

"I don't know yet. I'm trying hard to think."

"Won't there be money enough from these three performances of 'Lord

Bob' to pay their railway fares somewhere?"

"I'm afraid not. Hardly enough to settle with the landlord and get him

to release their luggage, which he's keeping till last week's board

bills are paid."

"Your luggage, too?"

Loveland grew red. "I haven't any."

"Oh!" the colour flew to her cheeks, as if in sympathy with the flush

she could not help seeing on his. "No trunks?"

"You say you read the newspapers," said Loveland. "If you did, you

perhaps saw that the hotel people in New York treated me rather

curiously. I didn't read the stuff myself. I really couldn't bring

myself to do it. But I gathered from hints given me here and there that

the journalists had a pretty rough game with me."

"You had a game with them, to begin with," said Lesley.

"I shut my door in the face of one, on my first day in New York,"

Loveland admitted. "Next day I hadn't a door to shut. America hasn't

been very hospitable to me."

"What could you expect?" asked Lesley, defending her countrymen. Her

face was grave, but there was an odd sparkle in her eyes. "Americans

don't like having tricks played on them."

"I played no trick."

"You played a part--the part of Lord Loveland."

Val stared. "How can a man play that he's himself?"

"Do you deny the newspaper accusations, then?"

"What accusations? I did knock a man down in the street, and he gave his

own version of the story."

"Oh, I don't mean that story, but quite another. The story he said you

knocked him down for alluding to--when----"

"We're talking at cross purposes," broke in Loveland, bewildered. "For

the sake of any friendship you may ever have had for me--though I'm not

asking you to continue it in future--explain what you mean."

"But, do _you_ mean that you read nothing, heard nothing, of what they

were saying about you in New York?"

"I told you I wouldn't look at the papers. What I heard I of course took

for granted was in connection with the hotel affair and the row in the

street."

Lesley thought for a minute, with an expression on her face which

Loveland could not understand, though he did not take his eyes from her

fallen lashes, the beautiful lashes which had fascinated him at first

sight of her on the _Mauretania_.

Presently an idea seemed to commend itself to the girl. On her arm, a

little gold and platinum bag hung from its chain. Loveland had often