It was a cold night in early spring, and the West End streets were
nearly deserted. The great shutters of the shops were being drawn down
with a dull rumble, and every moment the pavements grew more dreary
looking as the glories of the plate-glass windows were hidden.
Tired workers with haggard faces were making their way homeward; to them
the day was at an end. But to the occupants of the whirring taxis and
smart motors, as they sped westward, the round of their day was but
half-way through; for them, the great ones of the earth, the
all-important hour of dinner was at hand.
At the entrance of one of the most luxurious clubs in Pall Mall two men,
in immaculate evening dress, stood carelessly surveying the hurrying
throngs of people.
"Seven," said one, as the hour struck from the nearest church. "I
thought Standon said seven."
"Yes, and like a woman, meant half-past," returned the other, hiding a
yawn.
"Stan's too young to value his dinner properly, but Leroy ought to have
been punctual. Oh, here _is_ Stan!" as a slight, well-dressed man sprang
hastily from a smart motor and came towards them.
"Hello!" said the new-comer, shaking hands, "you two fellows first? I
hope I'm not late, Shelton."
"Of course you're late," growled Shelton, with characteristic pessimism.
"You always are, and Leroy is worse. Come along, we may as well wait
inside as in this beastly draught."
In the great dining-hall the snowy-covered tables were being taken
rapidly by members about to dine; silent-footed waiters were hurrying to
and fro, carrying out their various duties, while intermittently the
sound of opening champagne bottles mingled with the buzz of conversation
and the ripple of laughter.
The three men, Mortimer Shelton, Lord Standon and Frank Parselle, seated
themselves at a table in a comfortable recess and took stock of the
room, responding to numerous nods and smiles of recognition, while
grumbling at the unpunctuality of their friend.
"Ten past seven!" groaned Shelton, looking at his watch. "I might have
known that Leroy would be late. Shall we wait?"
"Oh, yes!" said Parselle; "Adrien might not like it, you know. It is a
bore, though! The soup will be as thick as mud!"
"By Jove! I'd forgotten," interrupted Standon suddenly. "I met Leroy
yesterday, and he asked me to tell you he might be late, as he was off
to Barminster Castle last night. We were not to wait. He gave me a note,
and--if I haven't left it in my other coat--" He fumbled in his pocket.
"No; here it is." He produced the note with an air of triumph, and
Shelton, with a muttered exclamation of disgust, ordered dinner to be
served before he opened it. As he did so and ran his eye over the
contents, he frowned.
"Just listen to this," he said irritably.
"'MY DEAR MORTIMER,
A letter from Jasper takes me down to the Castle. I will return in time
to join your little party and, with your leave, bring Jasper along too;
but don't wait on any account.
"'Yours,
"'ADRIEN LEROY.'"
"Jasper--always Jasper!" commented Standon. "I'd like to know by what
means Jasper Vermont has obtained such influence over Leroy."
"Ah, that's the mystery!" said Parselle, frowning.
"It's as plain as a pikestaff," growled Mortimer Shelton. "Leroy saved
Vermont's life years ago--at Oxford, I think. That's enough for Adrien.
If a cat or dog, or even a one-eyed monkey, placed itself under his
protection, Adrien Leroy would stick to it through thick and thin. You
know his little way; and this Vermont is no fool. He intends to make
full use of his friend."
"And yet Leroy is not easily taken in," remarked Parselle thoughtfully.
"Every man has his weak point," retorted Shelton with a shrug, "and
Jasper is Leroy's one vulnerable spot. He will believe nothing against
him."
"He's a lucky chap, Vermont," said Standon pensively. "No one really
knows what he is or where he springs from; yet he always seems to have
plenty of money, and apparently the whole of Leroy's passes through his
hands."
"Something near a million," put in Parselle enviously, "and with the run
of a castle like a palace. No, Vermont's no fool!"
Mortimer Shelton nodded.
"The Castle's all right," he said curtly. "You can trust the Leroys to
have the best of everything. They treat money like dirt, and bow before
nothing but Royalty and women. Yet, with it all, there's no stauncher
friend than a Leroy."
"As Vermont knows only too well," muttered Standon dryly. "By the way, I
saw Ada Lester in the Park this morning. Jove! Such furs!"
"In that quarter Adrien certainly treats his money like dust," said
Parselle, with a short laugh. "I can't think what he sees in her; to me
she seems an insatiate animal--and about as difficult to satisfy. It's a
jolly good job for Leroy that, thanks to his father's generosity, his
income runs into five figures--nothing else would stand the strain."
"Do you know, some one told me at the Casket the other night that Leroy
had made the theatre over to Ada entirely, and settled a thousand a year
on her into the bargain," said Standon, leaning forward.
"I daresay," Mortimer commented dryly. "He's fool enough for anything.
The place runs him into eight thousand a year as it is--not including
Ada Lester, the lady manager--so he might just as well hand it over to
her altogether. I wish to goodness the wretched building would burn
down! 'Pon my word, I shall set it alight myself one fine night----"
"Hush! Here he is," said Lord Standon; adding quickly, "with Vermont, of
course."
The others looked round towards the new-comers. One was a dark-haired
man of about forty years of age. His face was pale, with an almost
unhealthy pallor, from which his small dark eyes glittered restlessly;
his thin lips, tightly closed, were set in an almost straight line.
Clean-shaven, sleek of hair, he wore an expression of cautious slyness
that implied a mental attitude ever on guard against some sudden
exposure of his real feelings. Such was Jasper Vermont.
His companion was of a different calibre. Still apparently in the early
thirties, tall, and with clear-cut aristocratic features, he was
decidedly good to look upon. His face, fair as that of a woman, was
perhaps slightly marred by the expression of weakness which lurked round
the finely-moulded lips; but for all that it was stamped with the latent
nobility which characterised his race.
The Hon. Adrien Leroy, only son of Baron Barminster, was one of the most
noted figures in fashionable society. His father, who since the death of
Lady Barminster had lived almost as a recluse, spent the days in the old
Castle, and had practically abdicated in favour of his son. So that the
colossal income accruing from the coal mines of Wales, the rentals of
the Leroy estates in the Southern Counties, and the ground rents of a
considerable acreage in one of the most fashionable parts of London, all
passed through the hands of Adrien, who, in his turn, spent it like
water, leaving Jasper Vermont--his one-time college friend and now his
confidential steward--to watch over his affairs.
Leroy, with a genial smile of greeting for all, but a grave, almost
weary expression in his blue eyes, parried the numerous questions and
invitations that beset him on all sides, and, taking Vermont's arm, drew
him towards the table where his three friends awaited him.
"I'm sorry we're late," he said in a pleasant voice, which was clear and
unaffected, in strong contrast to the chatter which buzzed round him at
their entry. "Blame Jasper, who, if he is as hungry as I am, is punished
already."
His good-humoured laugh as he seated himself drew echoes from his
friends; Leroy's popularity was never more apparent than in a gathering
of this sort, composed exclusively of his own sex.
"So, have just come up from Barminster," said Shelton presently, "How is
the Castle looking?"
Adrien, busily satisfying a vigorous appetite, merely nodded and smiled
in reply; but Jasper Vermont answered for him.
"Beautiful!" he said, with a smile which showed his white, even teeth.
"Beautiful! It's a charming view; but we saw little of it this visit.
Ah, Shelton, you are really an epicure! We don't get clear turtle like
this at the Pallodeon--eh, Adrien?"
"No," replied the young man, looking up. "We ought to have Shelton on
the committee. No wonder they love you here, Shelton! And so the colt
has lost the steeplechase? I saw the news as I came along."
"And you have lost, how much--two thousand?" queried Parselle.
"Five," said Vermont, not quickly, but just before Adrien could speak.
"Is it five?" asked Leroy indifferently. "I thought I'd backed 'Venus'
for more."
"I backed her myself for a couple of hundred," put in Lord Standon
ruefully. "She's a beautiful creature, though, and I'd like to buy her."
"You can have her, my dear Stan, for a mere song," said Leroy cordially.
"I'm afraid that's impossible," interposed Jasper with suavity. "She's
sold."
Adrien looked up in surprise.
"Sold! To whom?" he asked.
"To the knacker," was the calm reply. "Don't you remember, Adrien, that
she threw Fording and broke her leg over the last hurdle?"
Leroy's race resumed its usual air of bored indifference.
"Ah, yes, so you told me. My dear Stan, I'm awfully sorry! I had
completely forgotten." He looked round the table. "Any of you seen the
papers?" he inquired. "Last night was the first of the new comedy at the
Casket--how did it go?"
Frank Parselle laughed. "I was there," he admitted. "Ada played finely,
but they hissed once or twice."
"Lost on my horse and on my new play. That is bad luck!" exclaimed
Adrien, looking, however, very little disturbed by the news. "It must be
withdrawn."
"Certainly," agreed Vermont amiably. "Certainly."
"By Jove! what did you tell me the mounting cost?" asked Parselle,
addressing Vermont, but glancing significantly at the others.
"Three thousand pounds," answered Vermont glibly, while Adrien ate his
fish with the most consummate indifference.
"Three thousand for four nights, that's about it. The public ought to be
grateful to you," said Shelton with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice, as
he nodded across at Leroy.
Adrien laughed.
"Or I to them," he said cheerfully. "It's no light thing to sit through
a bad play. But how is that, Jasper? You said it would run."
"I?" protested Vermont, with a pleasant smile. "No, Adrien, not so
certainly as that. I said I thought the play well written, and that in
my opinion it ought to run well--a very different thing. Eh, Shelton?"
"Ah!" replied Shelton, who had been watching him keenly. "So you were
out in your reckoning for once. It is to be hoped you didn't make the
same mistake with the colt. I think you were also favourably inclined to
that, weren't you?"
"Yes," admitted Vermont, leaning back with an admirable air of content.
"I laid my usual little bet, and lost--of course."
"You should have hedged," said Shelton, who knew as a positive fact that
Vermont had done so.
"I have no judgement," Vermont responded deprecatingly. "I am a man of
no ideas, and I admit it. Now Adrien is all acuteness; without him I
should soon go astray. I am supposed to look after his interests; but,
by Jove! it is he who supplies the brains and I the hands. I am the
machine--a mere machine, and he turns the handle!" He laughed gently at
his own joke, and held up his glass for replenishment.
"A pretty division of labour," commented Shelton, with a faint sneer.
"Now _we_ give _you_ the credit for all the tact and business capacity."
"Ah, what a mistake!" replied Vermont, spreading out his fat hands with
a gesture of amusement. "Well, since you give me credit, I will assume
the virtue, though I have it not."
He changed the subject adroitly to one of general interest; and as the
wine came and disappeared with greater rapidity, the talk ran on with
more wit and laughter, Vermont always handling the ball of conversation
deftly, and giving it an additional fillip when it seemed to slacken.
Adrien Leroy spoke little; though when he did make a remark, the rest
listened with an evident desire to hear his opinion.
At length Vermont rose, with a lazy look round.
"Well, I must be off," he said smoothly. "Good-night, Adrien. I shall be
with you to-morrow at twelve."
Having bade the rest of the company a hasty adieu, he turned once more
to his host.
"Good-night, Shelton," he said smilingly. "Thanks for the excellent
dinner. Rome would not have perished had you lived with the last of
Cæsars."
"And Adrien Leroy would not go to the dogs so quickly, if you did not
show him the way," murmured Shelton inaudibly, as Vermont departed, with
the bland smile still hovering round his thin lips.