As they departed, Farrell again admonished me to think it over.
“And look me up at Dun's and Bradstreet's,” he advised. “Ask 'em about
me at the Waldorf. Ask the head waiters and bellhops if I look twice at
a five spot!”
It seemed an odd way to select a father, but I promised.
I escorted them even to the sidewalk, and not without envy watched them
sweep toward the Waldorf in the High Flyer, 1915 model. I caught myself
deciding, were it mine, I would paint it gray.
I was lunching at the Ritz with Curtis Spencer, and I looked forward to
the delight he would take in my story of the Farrells. He would probably
want to write it. He was my junior, but my great friend; and as a
novelist his popularity was where five years earlier mine had been. But
he belonged to the new school. His novels smelled like a beauty parlor;
and his heroines, while always beautiful, were, on occasions, virtuous,
but only when they thought it would pay.
Spencer himself was as modern as his novels, and I was confident his
view of my adventure would be that of the great world which he described
so accurately.
But to my amazement when I had finished he savagely attacked me.
“You idiot!” he roared. “Are you trying to tell me you refused five
million dollars--just because you didn't like the people who wanted to
force it on you? Where,” he demanded, “is Cape May? We'll follow them
now! We'll close this deal before they can change their minds. I'll make
you sign to-night. And, then,” he continued eagerly, “we'll take their
yacht and escape to Newport, and you'll lend me five thousand dollars,
and pay my debts, and give me back the ten you borrowed. And you might
buy me a touring-car and some polo ponies and--and--oh, lots of things.
I'll think of them as we go along. Meanwhile, I can't afford to give
luncheons to millionaires, so you sign for this one; and then we'll
start for Cape May.”
“Are you mad?” I demanded; “do you think I'd sell my honor!”
“For five million dollars?” cried Spencer. “Don't make me laugh! If they
want a REAL novelist for a son they can adopt me!”
I replied with dignity that I would not disgrace the memory of my
parents.
“You have disgraced them!” retorted Spencer, “with your Musketeer novels
for infants. You need money. To get it you may be tempted to write more
novels. Here's your chance! Stop robbing the public, and lead an honest
life. Think of all the money you could give to the poor, think of all
the money you and I could lose at Monte Carlo!”
When he found I would not charter an auto-mobile and at once pursue the
Farrells he changed his tactics. If I would not go to Cape May, then, he
begged, I would go to Fairharbor. He asked that I would, at least, find
out what I was refusing. Before making their offer, for six months, the
Farrells had had me “looked up,” but, without knowing anything of them,
after a talk of ten minutes I had turned them down. “Was that,” he
asked, “intelligent? Was it fair to the Farrells?” He continued to tempt
me.
“They told you to think it over,” he persisted. “Very well, then, think
it over at Fairharbor! For the next three weeks the Farrells will be at
Cape May. The coast is clear. Go to Fairharbor as somebody else and be
your own detective. Find out if what they tell you is true. Get inside
information. Get inside Harbor Castle. Count the eighteen bedrooms and
try the beds. Never mind the art gallery, but make sure there is a wine
cellar. You can't start too soon, and I WILL GO WITH YOU!”