"Your aunt's?"
"The woman's. It was then that I began to suspect. How many women with
dull bronze hair does Edwin know?"
"Great Scott! Why ask me?"
I had got used to being treated as a sort of "Hey, Bill!" by Florence,
but I was darned if I was going to be expected to be an encyclopedia
as well.
"One," she said. "That appalling Darrell woman."
She drew a deep breath.
"Yesterday evening," she said, "I saw them together in a taximeter
cab. They were obviously on their way to some theatre."
She fixed me with her eye.
"Reginald," she said, "you must go and see her the first thing
to-morrow."
"What!" I cried. "Me? Why? Why me?"
"Because you are responsible for the whole affair. You introduced
Douglas to her. You suggested that he should bring her home. Go to her
to-morrow and ascertain her intentions."
"But----"
"The very first thing."
"But wouldn't it be better to have a talk with Edwin?"
"I have made every endeavour to see Edwin, but he deliberately avoids
me. His answers to my telegrams are willfully evasive."
There was no doubt that Edwin had effected a thorough bolt. He was
having quite a pleasant little vacation: Two Weeks in Sunny New York.
And from what I'd seen of him, he seemed to be thriving on it. I
didn't wonder Florence had got rather anxious. She'd have been more
anxious if she had seen him when I did. He'd got a sort of
"New-York-is-so-bracing" look about him, which meant a whole heap of
trouble before he trotted back to the fold.
Well, I started off to interview Mrs. Darrell, and, believe me, I
didn't like the prospect. I think they ought to train A. D. T.
messengers to do this sort of thing. I found her alone. The rush hour
of clients hadn't begun.
"How do you do, Mr. Pepper?" she said. "How nice of you to call."
Very friendly, and all that. It made the situation darned difficult
for a fellow, if you see what I mean.
"Say," I said. "What about it, don't you know?"
"I certainly don't," she said. "What ought I to know about what?"
"Well, about Edwin--Edwin Craye," I said.
She smiled.
"Oh! So you're an ambassador, Mr. Pepper?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, I did come to see if I could find out how
things were running. What's going to happen?"
"Are you consulting me professionally? If so, you must show me your
hand. Or perhaps you would rather I showed you mine?"
It was subtle, but I got on to it after a bit.
"Yes," I said, "I wish you would."
"Very well. Do you remember a conversation we had, Mr. Pepper, my last
afternoon at the Crayes'? We came to the conclusion that I was rather
a vindictive woman."
"By George! You're stringing old Edwin so as to put one over on
Florence?"
She flushed a little.
"How very direct you are, Mr. Pepper! How do you know I'm not very
fond of Mr. Craye? At any rate, I'm very sorry for him."
"He's such a chump."
"But he's improving every day. Have you seen him? You must notice the
difference?"
"There is a difference."
"He only wanted taking out of himself. I think he found his sister
Florence's influence a little oppressive sometimes."
"No, but see here," I said, "are you going to marry him?"
"I'm only a palmist. I don't pretend to be a clairvoyant. A marriage
may be indicated in Mr. Craye's hand, but I couldn't say without
looking at it."
"But I shall have to tell her something definite, or she won't give me
a moment's peace."
"Tell her her brother is of age. Surely that's definite enough?"
And I couldn't get any more out of her. I went back to Florence and
reported. She got pretty excited about it.
"Oh, if I were a man!" she said.
I didn't see how that would have helped. I said so.
"I'd go straight to Edwin and _drag_ him away. He is staying at
his club. If I were a man I could go in and find him----"
"Not if you weren't a member," I said.
"--And tell him what I thought of his conduct. As I'm only a woman, I
have to wait in the hall while a deceitful small boy pretends to go
and look for him."
It had never struck me before what a splendid institution a club was.
Only a few days back I'd been thinking that the subscription to mine
was a bit steep. But now I saw that the place earned every cent of the
money.
"Have you no influence with him, Reginald?"
I said I didn't think I had. She called me something. Invertebrate, or
something. I didn't catch it.
"Then there's only one thing to do. You must find my father and tell
him all. Perhaps you may rouse him to a sense of what is right. You
may make him remember that he has duties as a parent."
I thought it far more likely that I should make him remember that he
had a foot. I hadn't a very vivid recollection of old man Craye. I was
quite a kid when he made his great speech on the Egg Question and beat
it for Europe--but what I did recollect didn't encourage me to go and
chat with him about the duties of a parent.
As I remember him, he was a rather large man with elephantiasis of the
temper. I distinctly recalled one occasion when I was spending a
school vacation at his home, and he found me trying to shave old
Duggie, then a kid of fourteen, with his razor.
"I shouldn't be able to find him," I said.
"You can get his address from his lawyers."
"He may be at the North Pole."
"Then you must go to the North Pole."
"But say----!"
"Reginald!"
"Oh, all right."
I knew just what would happen. Parbury and Stevens, the lawyers,
simply looked at me as if I had been caught snatching bags. At least,
Stevens did. And Parbury would have done it, too, only he had been
dead a good time. Finally, after drinking me in for about a quarter of
an hour, Stevens said that if I desired to address a communication to
his client, care of this office, it would be duly forwarded. Good
morning. Good morning. Anything further? No, thanks. Good morning.
Good morning.
I handed the glad news on to Florence and left her to do what she
liked about it. She went down and interviewed Stevens. I suppose he'd
had experience of her. At any rate, he didn't argue. He yielded up the
address in level time. Old man Craye was living in Paris, but was to
arrive in New York that night, and would doubtless be at his club.
It was the same club where Edwin was hiding from Florence. I pointed
this out to her.
"There's no need for me to butt in after all," I said. "He'll meet
Edwin there, and they can fight it out in the smoking room. You've
only to drop him a line explaining the facts."
"I shall certainly communicate with him in writing, but, nevertheless,
you must see him. I cannot explain everything in a letter."
"But doesn't it strike you that he may think it pretty bad
gall--impertinence, don't you know, for a comparative stranger like me
to be tackling a delicate family affair like this?"
"You will explain that you are acting for me."
"It wouldn't be better if old Duggie went along instead?"
"I wish you to go, Reginald."
Well, of course, it was all right, don't you know, but I was losing
several pounds a day over the business. I was getting so light that I
felt that, when the old man kicked me, I should just soar up to the
ceiling like an air balloon.
The club was one of those large clubs that look like prisons. I used
to go there to lunch with my uncle, the one who left me his money, and
I always hated the place. It was one of those clubs that are all red
leather and hushed whispers.
I'm bound to say, though, there wasn't much hushed whispering when I
started my interview with old man Craye. His voice was one of my
childhood's recollections.
He was most extraordinarily like Florence. He had just the same eyes.
I felt boneless from the start.
"Good morning," I said.
"What?" he said. "Speak up. Don't mumble."
I hadn't known he was deaf. The last time we'd had any
conversation--on the subject of razors--he had done all the talking.
This seemed to me to put the lid on it.
"I only said 'Good morning,'" I shouted.
"Good what? Speak up. I believe you're sucking candy. Oh, good
morning? I remember you now. You're the boy who spoiled my razor."
I didn't half like this reopening of old wounds. I hurried on.
"I came about Edwin," I said.
"Who?"
"Edwin. Your son."
"What about him?"
"Florence told me to see you."
"Who?"
"Florence. Your daughter."
"What about her?"
All this vaudeville team business, mind you, as if we were bellowing
at each other across the street. All round the room you could see old
gentlemen shooting out of their chairs like rockets and dashing off at
a gallop to write to the governing board about it. Thousands of
waiters had appeared from nowhere, and were hanging about, dusting
table legs. If ever a business wanted to be discussed privately, this
seemed to me to be it. And it was just about as private as a
conversation through megaphones in Longacre Square.
"Didn't she write to you?"
"I got a letter from her. I tore it up. I didn't read it."
Pleasant, was it not? It was not. I began to understand what a
shipwrecked sailor must feel when he finds there's something gone
wrong with the life belt.
I thought I might as well get to the point and get it over.
"Edwin's going to marry a palmist," I said.
"Who the devil's Harry?"
"Not Harry. Marry. He's going to marry a palmist."
About four hundred waiters noticed a speck of dust on an ash tray at
the table next to ours, and swooped down on it.
"Edwin is going to marry a palmist?"
"Yes."
"She must be mad. Hasn't she seen Edwin?"
And just then who should stroll in but Edwin himself. I sighted him
and gave him a hail.
He curveted up to us. It was amazing the way the fellow had altered.
He looked like a two-year-old. Flower in his button-hole and a
six-inch grin, and all that. The old man seemed surprised, too. I
didn't wonder. The Edwin he remembered was a pretty different kind of
a fellow.
"Hullo, dad," he said. "Fancy meeting you here. Have a cigarette?"
He shoved out his case. Old man Craye helped himself in a sort of
dazed way.
"You _are_ Edwin?" he said slowly.
I began to sidle out. They didn't notice me. They had moved to a
settee, and Edwin seemed to be telling his father a funny story.
At least, he was talking and grinning, and the old man was making a
noise like distant thunder, which I supposed was his way of chuckling.
I slid out and left them.
Some days later Duggie called on me. The old boy was looking scared.
"Reggie," he said, "what do doctors call it when you think you see
things when you don't? Hal-something. I've got it, whatever it is.
It's sometimes caused by overwork. But it can't be that with me,
because I've not been doing any work. You don't think my brain's going
or anything like that, do you?"
"What do you mean? What's been happening?"
"It's like being haunted. I read a story somewhere of a fellow who
kept thinking he saw a battleship bearing down on him. I've got it,
too. Four times in the last three days I could have sworn I saw my
father and Edwin. I saw them as plainly as I see you. And, of course,
Edwin's at home and father's in Europe somewhere. Do you think it's
some sort of a warning? Do you think I'm going to die?"
"It's all right, old top," I said. "As a matter of fact, they are both
in New York just now."
"You don't mean that? Great Scot, what a relief! But, Reggie, old fox,
it couldn't have been them really. The last time was at Louis
Martin's, and the fellow I mistook for Edwin was dancing all by
himself in the middle of the floor."
I admitted it was pretty queer.
I was away for a few days after that in the country. When I got back I
found a pile of telegrams waiting for me. They were all from Florence,
and they all wanted me to go to Madison Avenue. The last of the batch,
which had arrived that morning, was so peremptory that I felt as if
something had bitten me when I read it.
For a moment I admit I hung back. Then I rallied. There are times in a
man's life when he has got to show a flash of the old bulldog pluck,
don't you know, if he wants to preserve his self-respect. I did then.
My grip was still unpacked. I told my man to put it on a cab. And in
about two ticks I was bowling off to the club. I left for England next
day by the _Lusitania_.
About three weeks later I fetched up at Nice. You can't walk far at
Nice without bumping into a casino. The one I hit my first evening was
the Casino Municipale in the Place Massena. It looked more or less of
a Home From Home, so I strolled in.
There was quite a crowd round the boule tables, and I squashed in. And
when I'd worked through into the front rank I happened to look down
the table, and there was Edwin, with a green Tyrolese hat hanging over
one ear, clutching out for a lot of five-franc pieces which the
croupier was steering toward him at the end of a rake.
I was feeling lonesome, for I knew no one in the place, so I edged
round in his direction.
Halfway there I heard my name called, and there was Mrs. Darrell.
I saw the whole thing in a flash. Old man Craye hadn't done a thing to
prevent it--apart from being eccentric, he was probably glad that
Edwin had had the sense to pick out anybody half as good a sort--and
the marriage had taken place. And here they were on their honeymoon.
I wondered what Florence was thinking of it.
"Well, well, well, here we all are," I said. "I've just seen Edwin. He
seems to be winning."
"Dear boy!" she said. "He does enjoy it so. I think he gets so much
more out of life than he used to, don't you?"
"Sure thing. May I wish you happiness? Why didn't you let me know and
collect the silver fish-slice?"
"Thank you so much, Mr. Pepper. I did write to you, but I suppose you
never got the letter."
"Mr. Craye didn't make any objections, then?"
"On the contrary. He was more in favor of the marriage than anyone."
"And I'll tell you why," I said. "I'm rather a chump, you know, but I
observe things. I bet he was most frightfully grateful to you for
taking Edwin in hand and making him human."
"Why, you're wonderful, Mr. Pepper. That is exactly what he said
himself. It was that that first made us friends."
"And--er--Florence?"
She sighed.
"I'm afraid Florence has taken the thing a little badly. But I hope to
win her over in time. I want all my children to love me."
"All your what?"
"I think of them as my children, you see, Mr. Pepper. I adopted them
as my own when I married their father. Did you think I had married
Edwin? What a funny mistake. I am very fond of Edwin, but not in that
way. No, I married Mr. Craye. We left him at our villa tonight, as he
had some letters to get off. You must come and see us, Mr. Pepper. I
always feel that it was you who brought us together, you know. I
wonder if you will be seeing Florence when you get back? Will you give
her my very best love?"