AT A NIGHT CLUB.
Victor Nevill called for his uncle at nine o'clock the next morning--it
was not often he rose so early--and after breakfasting together the two
went on to Lamb and Drummond's. Sir Lucius carried the unlucky picture
under his arm, and he thumped the Pall Mall flagstones viciously with
his stick; he walked like a reluctant martyr going to the stake.
Mr. Lamb had just arrived, and he led his visitors to his private
office. He listened with amazement and rapt interest to the story they
had come to tell him, which he did not once interrupt. When the canvas
was unrolled and spread on the table he bent over it eagerly, then drew
back and shook his head slightly.
"I was not aware of the robbery until my nephew informed me last night,"
explained Sir Lucius. "I have lost no time in restoring what I believe
to be your property. It is an unfortunate affair, and a most
disagreeable one to me, apart from any money considerations. But
it affords me much gratification, sir, to be the means of--"
"I am by no means certain, Sir Lucius," Mr. Lamb interrupted, "that this
_is_ my picture."
"There could not be two of them!" gasped Sir Lucius.
"As a matter of fact, there _are_ two," was the reply. "It is a curious
affair, Sir Lucius, but I can speedily make it clear to you."
Very concisely and briefly Mr. Lamb told all that he knew about the
duplicate Rembrandt, giving the gist of his interview months before with
Jack Vernon.
"Then you mean to say that this is the duplicate?" asked Nevill.
"No; I can't say that."
Sir Lucius brightened suddenly. The loss of his prize was a heavy blow,
but it would be far worse, he told himself, if he had been tricked into
buying a false copy. He hated to think of such a thing--it was a wound
to his pride, an insult to his judgment.
"I have reason to believe that the duplicate was a splendid replica of
the original, otherwise it would not have been worth the trouble of
stealing," Mr. Lamb went on. "Mr. Vernon assured me of that. So, under
the circumstances, I cannot be positive which picture lies here before
us. My eyesight is a little bad, and I prefer not to trust to it. Mr.
Drummond might recognize the canvas, but he is out of town. I am
disposed to doubt, however, that this is the original Rembrandt."
"You think it is more likely to be the duplicate?" inquired Sir Lucius.
"I do."
Sir Lucius swelled out with indignation, and his cheerfulness vanished.
"I am sorry to hear that" he said. "I can scarcely believe that I have
been imposed upon. I am somewhat of an authority on old masters, Mr.
Lamb."
The dealer smiled faintly; he had known Sir Lucius in a business way for
a number of years.
"The price you paid--eleven hundred pounds--favors my theory," he
replied. "Your Munich Jew, whom I happen to know by repute, is a very
clever scoundrel. It is most unlikely that he would have parted with a
real Rembrandt for such a sum. But I will gladly refund you the amount
if this proves to be the original."
"I don't want the money," growled Sir Lucius. "I dare say you are right,
sir; and if so, it is not to my discredit that I have been taken in by
such a perfect copy. Gad, it would have deceived Rembrandt himself! But
the question still remains to be settled. How can that be done, and as
quickly as possible?"
"Mr. Vernon, the artist, is the only person who can do that. He put a
private mark on the duplicate--"
"Vernon--John Vernon?" interrupted Sir Lucius. "Surely, Victor, I have
heard you mention that name?"
"Quite right, uncle," said Nevill. He made the admission promptly,
foreseeing that a denial might have awkward consequences in the future.
"I know Jack Vernon well," he added. "He is an old friend. But I am
sorry to inform you that he is not in England at present."
This was false, for Nevill had noted in the morning paper that Jack was
one of the passengers by the P. and O. steamship _Ismaila_, which had
docked on the previous day. Mr. Lamb, it appeared, was not aware of the
fact.
"Your nephew is correct, Sir Lucius," he said. "Mr. Vernon has been in
India for some months, acting as special war artist for the _Universe_.
But he is expected home very shortly--in the course of a week, I
believe."
"I shall not be here then," said Sir Lucius. "I am to leave London
to-day. What would you suggest?"
"Allow the canvas to remain in my hands--I will take the best of care
of it," replied Mr. Lamb. "I will write to you as soon as Mr. Vernon
returns, and will arrange that you shall meet him here."
"Very well, sir," assented Sir Lucius. "Let the matter rest at that.
When I hear from you I will run up to town."
He still hoped to learn that he had bought the original picture, and he
would have preferred an immediate solution of the question. He was in a
dejected mood when he left the shop with his nephew, but he cheered up
under the influence of a good lunch and a pint of port, and he was in
fairly good spirits when he took an afternoon train from Victoria to his
stately Sussex home.
"Hang the Rembrandt!" he said at parting. "I don't care how it turns
out. Run down for a few days at the end of the month, Victor--I can give
you some good shooting."
Glancing over a paper that evening, Mr. Lamb read of Jack Vernon's
return. But to find him proved to be a different matter, and at the end
of a week he was still unsuccessful. Then, meeting Victor Nevill on
Regent street, he induced him to join in the search for the missing
artist. The commission by no means pleased Nevill, but he did not see
his way to refuse.
* * * * *
For thirteen days Sir Lucius Chesney had been back at Priory Court,
happy among his horses and dogs, his short-horns and orchids; his
pictures rested temporarily under a cloud, and he was rarely to be found
in the spacious gallery. In London, Victor Nevill enjoyed life with as
much zest as his conscience would permit; Madge Foster dragged through
weary days and duller evenings at Strand-on-the-Green; and the editor of
the _Illustrated Universe_ wondered what had become of his bright young
war-artist since the one brief visit to the office.
At two o'clock on a drizzling, foggy morning a policeman, walking up
the Charing Cross Road, paused for a moment to listen to some remote
strains of music that came indistinctly from a distance; then he
shrugged his shoulders and went on--it was no business of his. The
sounds that attracted the policeman's attention had their source in a
cross street to the left--in one of those evil institutions known as a
"night club," which it seems impossible to eradicate from the fast life
of West End London.
It was a typical scene; there were many like it that night. The house
had two street doors, and behind the inner one, which was fitted with a
small grating and kept locked, squatted a vigilant keeper, equally ready
to open to a member or deny admittance to any one who had no business
there. On the first floor, up the dingy stairs, were two apartments. The
outer and smaller room had a bar at one side, presided over by a bright,
golden-haired young lady in _very_ conspicuous evening dress, whose
powers of _repartee_ afforded much amusement to her customers. These
were, many of them, in more or less advanced stages of intoxication, and
they comprised sporting men, persons from various unfashionable walks of
life, clerks who wanted to soar like eagles, and a few swell young men
who had dropped in to be amused. A sprinkling of women must be added.
Both apartments were hung with engravings and French prints and
decorated with tawdry curtains, and in the larger of the two dancing was
going on. Here the crowd was denser and of the same heterogeneous kind.
It was a festival of high jinks--a sway of riotous, unbridled merriment.
A performer at the piano, with a bottle of beer within easy reach,
rapped out the inspiriting chords of a popular melody. Couples glided
over the polished floor, some lightly, some galloping, and all reckless
of colliding with the onlookers. There was a touch of the _risque_ in
the dancing, suggesting the Moulin Rouge of a Casino de Paris carnival.
Occasionally, during a lull, songs were sung by music-hall _artistes_ of
past celebrity, who were now glad of the chance to earn a few shillings
before an uncritical audience. The atmosphere was charged with the scent
of rouge and powder, brandy and stale sherry. Coarse jest and laughter,
ringing on the night, mocked at go-to-bed London.
Two young men leaned against the wall of the dancing-room, close to
the door, both smoking cigars. They wore evening dress, considerably
rumpled, and their attitudes were careless. The elder of the two was
Tony Mostyn, a clever but dissipated artist of the decadent school, who
steered his life by the rule of indulgence and worked as little as
possible.
"It's rather dull," he said; "eh, old chap?"
"It gives one a bad taste," his companion replied. "I don't see why you
brought me here."
The second speaker was Jack Vernon. He looked bored and weary, but his
cheeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled; the women who glanced pertly
at him as they swung by inspired him merely with disgust. He had come to
the club with Mostyn, after a dozen turns at the Alhambra, followed by a
prolonged theater supper. He had drunk more than was good for him during
the course of the evening, but the effects had about worn off.
The story of the past two weeks--since Jack's return from India--was a
sad one. He tried his best to drown the bitter memories of Madge, of
what he had lost. He cut loose from Jimmie and other old friends, took
lodgings in an out-of-the-way quarter, and turned night into day. He had
plenty of money, and he had not been near the office of the _Universe_.
He found boon companions among the wildest acquaintances of his Paris
days, including Tony Mostyn and his set. But a fortnight had dispelled
the glamour, and life looked blacker to him than it had ever looked
before. Courage and manhood were at a low ebb. He laughed recklessly
as he wondered what the end would be.
"Let us go and get a drink," he said to his companion.
As he spoke a tumult broke out at the far end of the room. Scuffling
feet and men's angry voices mingled with cries of protest and women's
shrill screams. Then followed a heavy fall, a groan, and a rush of
people. The music had stopped and the dancers were still.
"There's been a row," exclaimed Mostyn. "It's bad for the club."
Idle curiosity led Jack to the spot, and Mostyn accompanied him.
They elbowed their way through, and saw a flashily-dressed man with
blue-black cheeks and a curling black mustache lying on the floor. He
was bleeding from an ugly wound on the forehead, where he had been
struck by a bottle. His assailant had slipped away, scared, and was
being smuggled out of the room and down stairs by his friends.
"What a shame!" ejaculated a terrified woman.
"It's no fair fighting," added another.
"Shut up, all of you!" angrily cried a harsh-voiced man--clearly one in
authority--as he elbowed his way to the front. "Do you want to bring the
police down on us?"
The warning had a prompt effect, and comparative silence ensued. The
injured man tried to rise, but his potations had weakened him more than
the loss of blood.
"Where's the bloke what hit me?" he feebly demanded.
His maudlin speech and woe-begone manner roused Jack's sympathy. He
knelt down beside him, and made a brief examination.
"It's nothing serious--the bottle glanced off," he said. "Fetch water
and a sponge, and I'll soon stop the bleeding. Who has a bit of
plaster?"
No sponge was to be had, but a basin of water was quickly produced. Jack
tore his handkerchief in two and wet part of it. He was about to begin
operations when a hand tapped him on the shoulder and a familiar voice
pronounced his name.