There was a black-edged card on the bulletin board. That means a vacancy
in the club membership until some one of the waiting-list steps into the
dead man's shoes.
The card bore the inscription:
JOHN FURMAN DELAFIELD.
December 30, 1898.
Jack Delafield had been no chum of mine, but I never thought the
Governors did right by him, and I was glad to remember my partisanship
in the days when his mere name was sufficient to provoke instant debate
among the Thespians. I liked him then for some of the enemies he made,
and perhaps my enthusiasm was always more for the cause than the man.
However, I was sorry--very sorry, to see his name on that card, and I
said as much to the group of men among whom I took my accustomed seat
in the club corner.
"Well, I'm sorry he's gone, but I never knew him at all," remarked
Chandler.
"I never met him either," said Paddock.
Hepburn had never heard of him, neither had Joline, and Grafton knew him
not.
I looked at the speakers. Was it possible I was as old as they seemed to
intimate?
"Delafield hasn't been regular at the club for many a long day," I
said--clinging to a straw. "I doubt if he's been inside the door for
five years--so it isn't very strange you haven't met. But you all know
of him. He was the Delafield of the Hawkins-Delafield affair."
The blank look on the faces of my companions surprised and, I admit,
shocked me. It was ridiculous, but Osborne's laugh grated, and I
welcomed Chandler's interrupting question, even though it pronounced
sentence on my senility.
"Yes--I'll tell you the story," I answered, "but after retailing to
members of this club something that was absolutely discussed to death
here, and labelling it a 'story,' I shall never address you again except
as 'my sons.'"
"Father, may I have a cigar?" asked Chandler, as he rang the bell.