or doubt. She was the girl whom he had found half frozen, perishing
from cold and hunger, without a roof to cover her--without a single
friend, apparently, in that whole vast city, save a stenographer in a
cheap West Side lodging house.
The look in her eyes, the curve of her half-smiling lips as she glanced
up into the face of her tall partner, the very sound of her laugh, drove
Lawrence almost mad. He hated the fellow with every atom of hatred in
his being; hated his graceful dancing, his polished manner, his air of
proprietorship; detested, above all, his dark, handsome face with its
expression of captivating melancholy. It was only a pose, he told
himself bitterly, to gain attention and sympathy.
But swiftly that feeling was displaced in the realization that his idol
had been shattered. The girl had deliberately deceived him from the
very first. She had never been friendless and homeless and desperate at
all. As to what reason she could have had for playing with him as she
did he had not the remotest conception, but the bitter, intolerable,
fact remained that she had made a fool of him.
How she must have laughed to herself when he fell into the trap, like a
great booby! How entertained she must have been in the restaurant, and
later, when he practically forced the money upon her. No doubt it had
been a merry play to her, over which she would probably laugh herself
weary whenever it came back into her mind. Very likely she had already
amused her friends by telling them of her little adventure, and what an
easy mark she had found.
Barry shivered at the thought. Then he laughed mirthlessly. The
trouble with him was that he had taken the jest with deadly seriousness.
It was up to him to think of some way to play up to her. She must never
know how much the thing had hurt him. He must make her think that he,
too, had been playing a part all the time, instead of being the goat.
Unfortunately such a thing was much more easily thought of than put into
execution. Barry was sore and hurt beyond measure, and not at all in
condition for playing a game of that sort. The lights and music, the
laughter and gayety, suddenly palled. He felt as if he wanted to get
away from it all, yet he did not want to go as long as she was here.
The result was that he kept his place behind the palms for fifteen or
twenty minutes, during which Miss Rives circled past him time after
time. The handsome, melancholy youth had disappeared, and given place
to a tawny-haired giant with a strong, pleasant face and infectious
laugh which Lawrence disliked unreasoningly. Then followed a slim,
graceful chap with a delicately penciled mustache, who showed an
inclination for the most sensational dances, and was evidently
restrained only by his partner's preference for the more sedate Boston.
To one and all of them Shirley Rives seemed equally pleasant and equally
fascinating. Instead of relieving Lawrence, as this should have done,
it simply aggravated him the more; and presently, unable longer to
contain himself, he left his corner, and made his way straight to the
retirement of the smoking room.
He had scarcely entered it, and was taking out his cigarette case, when
a tall, smooth-shaven fellow, very ruddy and very blond, sprang from a
chair in which he had been lounging, and, rushing forward, gripped
Barry's hand.
"By Jove, Oscar, old chap!" he exclaimed heartily. "Why, this is
ripping, don't you know! To think of seeing you in this bally place!"
Lawrence frowned, and withdrew his hand as soon as the other's fingers
relaxed their pressure. He was in no mood for talking to strangers, even
if they did labor under an innocent case of mistaken identity.
"I think you must have made a mistake," he returned coldly. "I don't
remember ever having seen you before."
The Englishman's face took on an expression of incredulous astonishment,
and he fumbled for the monocle depending from his neck by a broad black
ribbon.
"But, I say!" he objected, in a plaintive tone. He had screwed the glass
into his left eye, and was regarding Barry inquiringly. "You don't mean
you've really forgotten the ripping times we had at Cambridge? You're
just chaffing, old chap! You couldn't forget the bloomin' rackets we
used to pull off in your rooms--eh, what?"
"I really have," Barry retorted shortly. "You are evidently taking me
for some one else."
The other's jaw dropped, but the monocle remained firmly in its place.
"Fancy, now!" he gasped helplessly. "Extraordinary lapse of memory!"
He shrugged his shoulders, and went on, with heavy sarcasm: "I dare say,
then, you don't even remember Cambridge?"
"I remember Cambridge perfectly," Lawrence retorted sharply, goaded
beyond endurance; "but I have no recollection of you whatever."
Turning on his heel, he flung away his unlighted cigarette, and left the
room without giving the other a chance to speak.
*CHAPTER XIX.*
*PROTECTIVE MEASURES.*
"Fool!" muttered Lawrence, as he passed down the corridor toward the
ballroom. "If that was meant as a joke, it was a poor one."
Reaching one of the entrances to the ballroom, he hesitated. He had not
the faintest desire to return and take part in that scene of festivity.
He was tired of being pestered and having to talk and make himself
agreeable. He wanted to get away and be let alone, so very swiftly he
resolved to hunt up Mrs. Hamersley, and take his leave as gracefully as
he could.
He found the lady after some trouble, told her that he was not feeling
very fit--which was quite true--and said good night. Securing his
things in the coat room, he made haste to take the elevator downstairs.
But, once on the steps of the building, with the cold wind blowing
against his heated face, he paused, irresolute.
Where should he go? What could he find to take his mind from the
disappointment he seemed unable to shake off? It was scarcely half past
twelve, and he had never felt less sleepy. The idea of going back to his
rooms and tossing restlessly about for hours, with only his thoughts to
keep him company, was intolerable.
As he waited, undecided, the doors behind him were thrust suddenly open,
and two young fellows issued forth precipitately. One of them was
singing a popular song, to which the other beat time on the marble
pavement with his stick, laughing boisterously at frequent intervals.
As Lawrence drew aside to let them pass, the song ceased instantly, and
a pair of arms were flung about his neck with an unexpectedness and
force which made him stagger back a pace or two.
"Li'l' Barry!" exclaimed the youth, with maudlin joyousness. "M'
long-los' college chum! Lemme give you good hug!"
The flash of annoyance which Lawrence had felt at first gave place
instantly to a thrill of pleasure as he recognized Reggie Minturn, one
of his classmates, whom he had not seen in months.
"Hel-lo, Reg!" he cried, removing the arms gently, but firmly, from his
shoulders, and shaking the chap's hand heartily. "What in the world are
you up to, leaving the dance so early?"
Minturn, still gripping his hand, teetered gently back and forth on his
heels, regarding Lawrence with a wide stare of preternatural gravity.
"Child's play," he presently announced solemnly. "Jack 'n' I want some
'citement. You know Jack? No, course not. Jack, this's my
frien'--very dear frien'. Wantche know--Mister--er--Barry. Shake
han's."
The other individual, still chuckling inanely, took Barry's hand, and
shook it until Minturn forcibly intervened.
"That's 'nough," he said, linking his arm with Lawrence's. "You're
comin' with us, Barry. We goin' to have some 'citement. Dean's, you
know."
Barry started slightly, and a faint frown furrowed his forehead. Dean's
was one of the most select and high-class gambling houses in the city,
and he pictured to himself the alacrity with which these two helpless
chaps would be stripped of their last cent.
"What do you want to go there for?" he asked quietly. "Why don't you
come around to my place and have a game of poker? It's much nearer."
Minturn shook his head stubbornly. "Do' want poker," he announced.
"Wan' roulette. Come on!"
For a second Lawrence hesitated. Then, realizing his helplessness, he
gave a resigned shrug, and allowed himself to be dragged out to where a
taxi waited at the curb. If he could not keep the two away from the
gambling joint, at least he might prevent their losing very much.
They piled into the car, with much laughter, and, when Minturn had given
a certain address to the chauffeur, and settled down for a second, Barry
proceeded to put his plan into operation.
"Look here, Reggie," he said suddenly, "I can't go into Dean's without
any money."
"No money!" exclaimed the inebriated one jocosely. "Ha, ha! Tha'sh
easy. We'll lend you some--eh, Jack? Show your roll."
Still chuckling, he reached his pocket with some difficulty, and
produced a crumpled handful of yellowbacks which he thrust at Barry.
"Take all you want, ol' man," he announced. "Lot's more where that came
from, eh, Jack?"
That Barry could readily believe. The elder Minturn was almost sinfully
wealthy, and his only son had hitherto led an existence as carefree and
lacking in responsibility as the proverbial lily of the field. A swift
glance told Barry that there was close to seven hundred dollars in the
roll, mostly in fifties and twenties, with the single exception of one
five-hundred-dollar bill. Without hesitation Lawrence took the latter,
and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.
"This'll do for me," he said carelessly, handing the remainder back.
From the other youth's generously extended bill case he extracted two
one-hundred-dollar yellowbacks, leaving less than half that amount.
After that he settled back, much more relieved. Of course, it was really
none of his business, but he hated to see them simply throwing all that
money away, even if they could afford it.
On a cross street, not far from Park Avenue, the chauffeur drew up
before an unpretentious-looking brownstone front, and the party rolled
out of the taxi. While his two companions were fumbling in their
pockets, Lawrence paid the man, who drove off at once.
There was an instant expostulation, which Barry silenced,
good-naturedly, following with a last attempt to dissuade the other two
from their purpose. As he expected, it was quite useless. Both were
fixed in their resolve to have some excitement, and Minturn led the way
up the steps with firm, but somewhat swaying, gravity.
After a considerable delay, and a very careful inspection of them by an
attendant, they were admitted to the lower hallway, which differed not a
whit from the hall of any ordinary private house. Here Minturn and his
companion were recognized, and, both vouching for Lawrence, they were
allowed to proceed upstairs.
The second floor consisted of two large rooms furnished with great taste
and luxury, and provided with all sorts of gambling paraphernalia. They
were both fairly well filled with men, mostly in evening clothes; and,
as he followed his companions into the one containing the roulette
wheels, Barry smiled a little at the realization of how completely his
mind was being distracted.
In spite of Minturn's insistence that he chance his money with them,
Lawrence managed to put it off by saying that he preferred _rouge et
noir_. He waited until they were well started at the wheel, and quite
oblivious to everything save the excitement of betting, then he strolled
off into the other room.
Here quite a crowd was gathered about the board. Evidently the playing
was of a sort to attract unusual attention, and Barry made his way
forward to a place from which he had a fair view of the table.
Half a dozen men were sitting there, betting at irregular intervals, but
the attention of the onlookers seemed given entirely to one individual,
whom Lawrence could not quite see from where he stood. A bit of smooth
black hair, a portion of a low forehead, and now and again a hand
stretching out to place his bets, was all that came within the Harvard
fellow's vision.
It was enough, however, to show him very swiftly that the man, whoever
he was, was plunging heavily. He was also having a spell of the most
persistent ill luck, for in the few minutes that Barry stood there he
saw something like six hundred dollars swept in by the expressionless
dealer.
"Wonder who he is?" Lawrence thought. "Some millionaire, I suppose,
throwing away his car fare."
Then, more because he had nothing else to do than from any real
curiosity on the subject, he strolled around to the other side of the
table, and glanced over another man's shoulder.
In a second he had stiffened slightly, and his features seemed suddenly
to become tense and alert and eager. The individual who was betting as
if a hundred-dollar bill was so much trash to be thrown away without a
qualm, was no millionaire, or anything like it.
He was the man who, more than any other, had been active in bringing
disgrace upon Barry Lawrence--Julian Farr, the cashier of the Beekman
Trust Company.
*CHAPTER XX.*
*THE MAN WHO LOST.*
For a second Barry stood with eyes riveted on the florid face, with its
blue-black shadow of heavy beard darkening the clean-shaven cheeks and
chin. Then he stepped swiftly back out of sight, and, turning,
pretended to examine a painting hanging on the wall near by.
He scarcely saw the wonderful Corot landscape, however, for his brain
was fairly seething with the discovery he had just made, the
significance of which he realized in a flash.
Julian Farr received, to his positive knowledge, a salary of ten
thousand dollars a year, and the manner in which he lived must use up
every penny of it. Yet here he was gambling recklessly in a place like
Dean's.
In an instant Lawrence knew where those missing funds had gone as surely
as if the proof in every smallest detail lay before him.
Farr had stolen them! He was the thief who had so cleverly foisted the
blame upon an innocent man's shoulders.
For a moment Barry was furiously angry. He wanted to catch the fellow
by the scruff of his neck and thrash him within an inch of his miserable
life. It was impossible, of course, and Barry knew it; but he wanted
terribly to do it, just the same.
A passing wonder came into his mind as to how Farr could have had the
nerve to show himself in such a place. Of course, Dean's was patronized
mostly by the very wealthy members of the younger sporting set, and the
Beekman Trust Company had a clientele made up almost altogether of
shopkeepers, proprietors of lofts and the like, on the lower East Side.
Two such extremes were scarcely ever likely to come together, but there
was always a chance of discovery, as had been proved in this very
instance.
But Barry did not waste much thought on how his enemy happened to be
here. His presence in the rouge et noir game was the important thing,
and Lawrence instantly began to cudgel his brains as to how he might
take advantage of this discovery.
His own unsupported word as to Farr's doings would not be enough to
convince Tappin or any of the directors. He must have a witness wholly
above the charge of bias.
Barry glanced swiftly around at the men near the table, and his heart
sank. He did not know a single one of them, and without a previous
acquaintance it would be time wasted to ask any of them to do such a
favor.
His eyes ranged over the faces for the second time, and stopped at a
tall, lean, slightly dissipated-looking chap who sat opposite Farr,
watching him with a languid interest, between whiles placing a bet
himself of no small amount.
"By Jove!" Lawrence said to himself. "I'll be hanged if that isn't
Charlie Biddle. It is!" he went on positively, after a careful
scrutiny. "I wonder if he wouldn't help me out?"
Biddle was a man of means, with extremely rapid tendencies, and a type
of mind which caused his photograph to blaze forth frequently in the
metropolitan papers, while columns were devoted to his divertingly
eccentric escapades. He was a thoroughgoing, out-and-out sport, however,
and it struck Barry that he might possibly consent to become the very
desirable witness in the present case. At all events, he was the young
man's only hope.
Having reached this conclusion, Lawrence went back to the other room,
eager to get away. He did not wish to have Farr see him.
The matter proved easier than he expected. Minturn greeted him with a
pathetic wail that he was busted, and so was Jack, and begged for a
loan. Barry managed to put him off by intimating that he also had been
cleaned out, and, after a somewhat prolonged argument, succeeded in
persuading the two fellows to depart with him.
Suppressing their tendencies to play tricks with the officer on the
corner, Lawrence managed at length to find a taxi, into which they
piled, and started for the Minturn mansion. His companions pleaded for
a "joy ride" through Central Park, and were moved to tears when he said
it was too cold for an early-morning plunge in the reservoir. There was
almost a fight at the Minturn house, but, with the unexpected and
welcome assistance of a footman who had been waiting up, Barry managed
to get them both inside, having first slipped the borrowed money into
their waistcoat pockets.
It was just four o'clock when Barry reached the St. Albans, and he was
feeling tired and sleepy. Reaching his rooms, he lost no time in
flinging off his clothes and diving into bed.
In the interest and excitement of the past few days he had almost
forgotten that in less than a week he would be free to live his own life
as he chose. He had been going about in a sort of dream, but the sight
of Julian Farr's face that night, bent over the gaming table, and the
realization of everything it might mean to him, had awakened him
effectually. To-morrow he would seek out Charlie Biddle, and enlist his
cooeperation.
After that--well, he had an idea that things would be doing.
*CHAPTER XXI.*
*IN THE NEXT COMPARTMENT.*
Lawrence intended to be up early, but it was late in the morning before
he was awakened with a start by the tinkle of the room telephone.
Leaping out of bed, he hastened into the sitting room, and, unhooking
the receiver, recognized Jock Hamersley's booming voice at the other end
of the wire.
"You're a deuce of a fellow, you are! What in thunder did you go and
quit last night for?"
"I wasn't feeling a bit fit, Jock," Barry explained, "so I lit out
before supper. I'll bet you didn't notice I was gone till it came time
to go home. Say, can't you meet me in the Belmont cafe about five this
afternoon? I want to talk to you about something."
"I'm going to be mighty busy. Why not lunch together?"
"Can't. I've got a date for luncheon."
Hamersley's snort made the wires buzz. "Hang you and your dates!" he
exploded. "That's what you said yesterday. You're such a popular guy I
s'pose you've got every lunch and dinner taken for a week ahead."
Lawrence's lips twitched at the unconscious closeness with which his
friend came to the truth, but he only laughed.
"Sure, I have!" he returned lightly.
"Well," retorted Hamersley sarcastically, "seeing you're such an
unaccommodating grouch, I'll meet you at the Belmont, only just blame
yourself if you cool your heels for half an hour."
Barry hung up the receiver, chuckling. Then his face grew suddenly
serious, and he reached for the telephone directory. Having found the
number of Biddle's apartment, he called it without delay, and a man's
voice answered.
"No, sir, this is not Mr. Biddle," came in response to Barry's swift
question. "Mr. Biddle has gone to Baltimore, and will not be back till
Sunday afternoon. Do you wish to leave any message, sir?"
"No; I'll call again."
Barry clicked the receiver into place with an impatient movement, and
sat frowning for a moment on the arm of his chair. Presently his face
relaxed. Sunday afternoon was not so very far away, and nothing changed
the fact that he had Julian Farr in an exceedingly awkward position.
He dressed leisurely, and it was after twelve when he left his room.
Breakfast and luncheon were combined that day in one, and he took the
meal at the Ritz-Carlton, enjoying the music, entertained by the crowd,
and altogether in a more peaceful mood than he had been for some time.
Now and again the thought of Shirley Rives--if that were really her
name--returned to torment him and make him unhappy, but he did his best
to thrust the recollection from his mind, and fancied he had succeeded.
He could not help pondering, however, on the one apparently inexplicable
feature of the affair. If she were not in the desperate straits she had
pretended to be, how was it that she had known anything of Sally Barton?
It was possible, of course, that she had taken the name of another
person with whom the black-haired stenographer had once been on friendly
terms; but still the matter puzzled Barry until he finally gave up
thinking of it, and turned his attention to the question of whether or
not it would be wise to confide his affairs to Jock Hamersley.
He had reached a point where he longed desperately to talk things over
with some one, and Jock had seemed, that morning, the only person
available. But now, in the light of second thoughts, he began to have
grave doubts as to the wisdom of such a step.
The Yale man was good nature personified, and had a heart as large as
his big body. He had also a total absence of tact in his make-up, and
the more Lawrence considered the matter, the more he became certain that
he had better keep the nature of Julian Farr's behavior to himself.
This made it necessary, of course, to hit upon something else to take
its place, but that was not difficult. After his friend's kindness of
the night before, Barry felt that it was decidedly up to him to do
something in return; and, with dinner out of the question, a theater
party, with supper afterward, seemed the only alternative.
Having come to this decision, Lawrence finished his luncheon slowly, and
left the restaurant. He had been too occupied the night before to
notice whether the mysterious men had continued to trail him after he
left Sherry's, but they were certainly on the job to-day, and the fact
began presently to wear a little on his nerves. A person may be ever so
innocent, and still become exasperated when a persistent taxi or an
equally persistent man dogs his every movement.
Having nothing special to do between two and five, Barry decided to pit
his wits against those of the two pursuers. The little game was
interesting, not to say exciting, and consumed considerable time, the
maneuvers taking Lawrence from the Battery to Fifty-ninth Street. It
ended, however, with comparative satisfaction, and a few minutes before
five Barry entered the Belmont on Forty-second Street with the pleasant
conviction that he was unobserved for the first time in over twenty-four
hours.
The cafe was rather full as he entered it, but one or two of the
cushioned wall seats were empty, and Lawrence promptly settled down
comfortably, and proceeded to take things easily until his friend's
arrival.
Instinctively he noticed that on his left was a party of three men,
talking over the cloak-and-suit industry with an interest which left no
room for any other thought in their minds. The compartment on the other
side was occupied by a typical broker, absorbed in the financial page of
an evening paper.
Jock arrived about ten minutes late, and thumped down beside Lawrence
with a force which shook the seat, and made the broker start nervously.
"Hope you've got something to talk about that'll pay for the way I tore
over here," he grunted. "Never worked so hard in my life as I did this
afternoon."
"You don't know what work is, you old bluffer," Barry laughed, as he
tapped the bell. "What'll you take?"
Hamersley gave his order, and by the time it arrived Lawrence had
broached the subject of the theater party.
"Suits me fine," the big chap returned. "Better get seats for 'The Blue
Moon,' if you can. First night, you know, and that's always more fun."
"I'll phone for seats as soon as I get back to the hotel," Barry agreed.
"Suppose I ask Reggie Minturn and that chap he had with him? That makes
a good number."
"Good!", chuckled Hamersley. "Reckon Reg has sobered up by now. He was
pie-eyed last night, though. See him?"