"You--" They closed on a gasp of rage, disappointment, despair and
impotent admiration. Had he dared, he would have gone on his knees to
her then and there, taken her in his arms and kissed her; but the
woman's indifference appalled him, and instead he gritted his teeth, dug
his nails into the palms of his hand. Then, for the first time, it
dawned on him that she had worn for Hargraves the gown that he,
Challoner, had selected for her--a gown white, immaculate, simple, which
followed religiously the lines of the superb figure, that left nothing
to be desired, of Letty Love, full-throated, full-bosomed, with her
jet-black hair that gave no sign of fastening, with her blue eyes and
dark eyebrows, with her milk-white flesh, which, artificial though it
were, concealed nothing, revealed nothing but the loveliness of the
woman.
The man's eyes shone with pride as he observed her finished appearance;
for was it not he who had taught her to gown herself like that, showed
her how to live, lifted her into the high places?
"And this is how she repays me!" he muttered to himself, and then aloud:
"What's the matter with you, Letty--is it because my money has given
out...."
This startled the woman into earnestness, and rising to her feet, she
drew herself to her full height, and pointing to the door declared with
an injured air:--
"No man can talk to me of money in this house!"
Challoner's face was a study, but he did not move.
"Especially when it's all gone!" he sneered, searching her countenance.
Never until now had he realised the monumental, stupendous power of
money. Now that he had none and the car of juggernaut was slowly
crushing him, he could understand that he belonged in the ditch with the
maimed, the lame, the dying. There was no necessity for a reply from
Letty. The woman's face revealed the contempt with which she regarded
him. What mattered it to her that the man had surrendered everything
that was worth while in life, that he had sacrificed himself at her
shrine! She was one who demanded the firstlings of the flock; he was
nothing save carrion for daws to peck at. The fruit was devoured; of
what value was the rind?
"You had better go," she said superciliously; "there is no need of
coming any more."
In a sort of daze Challoner was shambling toward the door when the
telephone-bell rang. Instantly it roused all the deviltry and cunning
that had oozed from him the moment before. Seizing the receiver, he
thrust it silently against his ear.
"Hello!" began the voice at the other end.
Challoner did not answer.
"Is that you, Letty?" the voice went on.
Still Challoner did not answer. Then, as the woman stepped forward, he
handed the receiver to her, at the same time placing his left hand over
the mouthpiece, and said:--
"It's Hargraves--tell him to come up, will you?"
She shook her head.
Again the voice at the other end of the wire sounded, but she could not
answer, for the thickness of Challoner's hand lay between her and
communication. The suspense was unbearable--getting on her nerves. There
was nothing to do but to comply with his wish; and upon her eyes
suddenly yielding to his, he released the mouthpiece, standing on guard
the while she obeyed him. Then he drove her, literally drove her into a
far corner of the room.
"Now, let him come! We'll see ..." he exclaimed, holding a revolver in
his right hand; and as he stood there watching her as a tiger does a
tigress, it was with a certain sense of gratification that he noted
written across her face the altogether new sensation of fear, terror,
and therefore respect for him. And he rejoiced in the knowledge that the
hand that could no longer count out banknotes to her or sign cheques was
a hand that held life and death within its grasp. Letty Love realised
this, too, as she stood there cowed, trembling, listening, watching the
door. Suddenly there flashed through her mind a way out of the
situation, and smiling, she said lightly:--
"Oh, pshaw, Lawrence, the heavy is not your line! Come--suppose we have
something to drink."
And without waiting for him to answer, she crossed the room and pressed
the button there. Somewhat sheepishly Challoner slipped the revolver
back into his pocket and dropped into a chair, while she ordered the
maid to fetch some Bengal--a cordial, a distilled delight that had come
down to her from a period so remote that the memory of man runneth not
to the contrary. In his lifetime Hiram Edgar Love had possessed gallons
of it; it had come to him in the night from the mysterious East, in the
teeth of the revenue guns. And Challoner knowing it for the thing it
was, his face flushed with the pleasure of anticipation. Letty took her
place beside a small table, and presently a silver-topped, cut-glass
decanter was in her hand, which she held over a glass, saying:--
"Will you help yourself or shall I ..."
Challoner nodded.
"Go ahead--fill it for me, Letty."
Challoner drank--drank. He forgot Hargraves, forgot everything but the
face of Letty Love, a kiss that he wanted, but that somehow he could not
get, an utterance in a thick voice, a momentary hand-to-hand struggle,
not with Hargraves, but with her, then, somehow, she eluded him and he
was left alone--alone in the darkness that the Bengal had cast upon him!
But in all this there was no Hargraves.
* * * * *
A few hours later when he awoke, he was still sitting at the table, but
he was alone. He rose hastily, even steadily, and scoured the other
rooms; there was no one there. He looked for the Bengal; but that, too,
had disappeared. All of a sudden the jewels that were on her
dressing-table--jewels that he had given her--caught his attention, and
for the moment the temptation was strong to take them for the money that
was in them. But even his dull wits soon recognised the folly of such a
proceeding, since it was for her that he needed the money, and somewhat
reluctantly he put them back in their case, muttering to himself as he
left the house:--
"Letty must believe in me--things are bound soon to come my way."
In a little while he was back again at Cradlebaugh's, wandering about
the rooms looking for Pemmican. Finally he saw him coming out of one of
the rooms and hailed him with:--
"Hargraves showed up yet?"
The unwholesome looking factotum shook his head; at the same time he
noted that Challoner was in a different mood than when he had talked
with him earlier in the evening. Pemmican wondered as he turned away;
but then it was not given to him to know that Challoner's experience
that night had served immeasurably to strengthen a desperate purpose.
True, that the joy that had been Challoner's--"his by rights," as he
told himself--had been wrested away from him, for he was satisfied that
Hargraves's absence from Cradlebaugh's meant that he was with Letty
Love. But little by little the agony of jealousy was becoming a
pleasurable sensation--a passion that obsessed him. So that far from
brooding, he felt as feels the man of destiny: Whatever was to happen
would happen. He would wait days, weeks, months, if necessary, for
Hargraves.
A day rolled round. Night again at Cradlebaugh's, and Challoner still at
his post of observation, waiting. It was past midnight when Colonel
Hargraves finally appeared. Challoner felt his presence even before he
stepped up to the buffet; and summoning to his aid all the suavity of
manner that he possessed, for he knew he must be careful, as the other,
doubtless, would be on his guard, he called out:--
"Colonel Hargraves!"
Hargraves turned quickly, and seeing it was Challoner, a flicker of a
self-congratulatory smile broke over his large, round face, as he
answered:--
"Why, hello, Challoner!"
The momentary gleam of triumph did not escape the other, and it required
a supreme effort to force back the blood that was rushing to his temple.
"I want a word with you, Colonel!" And with a wave of the hand: "Room
A--will that suit you?"
Colonel Hargraves hesitated for a moment; he moved a bit to one side and
stared hard; but the other bore his look of keen suspicion with perfect
serenity. The Colonel shrugged his shoulders. Finally he said:--
"Oh, very well, Challoner--that suits me."
To Room A they went; Pemmican followed with decanters. Possibly he
suspected, feared, realised that the air was charged with electricity.
In any event Pemmican was in charge of Cradlebaugh's; it was for
Pemmican to see and to know.
There was a table in Room A, with chairs about the table; and a stand
against the wall. There were also two large, heavy leather lounging
chairs with arms. Pemmican placed his burden upon the stand against the
wall, lingered for an instant, and then went softly out. Neither of the
men spoke until after he had left the room and closed the door. When
each had seated himself at the table, Challoner got down to business.
"Hargraves," he began with sinister familiarity, "you have ten thousand
dollars in your pocket, I believe?"
Colonel Hargraves repressed a movement of impatience with difficulty. He
nodded, and unconsciously took the attitude of the counterfeit
presentment in the apartment of Letty Love.
"Ten thousand dollars," repeated Challoner with provoking coolness, as
he likewise planted both elbows on the table, and added somewhat
ominously: "And I'm broke!"
There was a pause in which the men looked straight into each other's
eyes; then Challoner rose, walked over to the table, half filled two
glasses, and placing them on the table, leaned far over it, declaring:--
"And yet, Colonel Hargraves, you and I are going to sit in a ten
thousand dollar game to-night!"
Challoner drained his glass; his example, however, was not followed by
the Colonel. Instead, he put his arms akimbo, his fists resting on his
hips, and tilting back his head, he said with an air of contempt:--
"Indeed! What with?"
"With your ten thousand!" It was well said. Challoner's cool,
passionless voice gave to the declaration the character of
infallibility.
"And you--" Hargraves muttered in a puzzled way.
"Not a dollar," admitted Challoner.
Colonel Hargraves rose; he threw into his glance all his knowledge of
Challoner's past.
"You must take me for a fool!" he burst out, and started for the door.
But he had gone only a few steps when he felt Challoner's clutch;
turning, he felt the power of Challoner's eyes; and presently under
their compelling influence he found himself once more taking his seat.
He made no attempt to analyse his sensations, but he realised that
Challoner had made a new impression. In all the eventualities he had
foreseen, he calculated on Challoner's being a weakling, a wreck. But to
his astonishment he saw within those eyes nothing but success. Challoner
had become a man not to be disregarded--a man of strength.
"My proposition is a perfectly fair one," went on Challoner. "You put up
ten thousand cash----"
"And then--go on----"
Challoner lifted his arm and pointed silently in the direction of the
"Drelincourt."
Incredulity shone in the eyes of Hargraves; his scorn found vent in an
attempt at levity.
"Rather like putting up something that doesn't belong to you, eh,
Challoner?"
Challoner was not feazed; it was the answer he expected.
"It looks that way, Hargraves," and suddenly thrusting himself forward,
"but I can make it uncommonly disagreeable for the other claimant. You
don't know me--I'm an uncertain quantity--and women are blamed queer. If
I win, I keep the ten thousand--and my chances."
"And if you don't win?" a bit breathlessly.
"If you win," went on Challoner, "you keep your ten thousand, and--I'll
quit without a murmur."
In the pause Hargraves thought hard--never in his life had he thought
harder. The more he studied Challoner, the better he liked the
proposition. The moment was fraught with something new and significant.
In more ways than one he feared Challoner, for he was by no means
certain of his own place in the woman's affections. And then in his mind
there was one certainty--Hargraves knew that the game was already his;
knew that Challoner, steady though he seemed, was unquestionably drunk.
Never was victory more certain than at the present time.
"If I win," at last he said with great earnestness, "you will swear to
leave me--you will leave _us_ alone?"
Challoner nodded.
Hargraves seized his glass and extended it to bind the bargain.
Challoner seized his, but found it empty. He left his seat and came back
with it filled.
"It's a go!" he said, and pressed a button.
With the same sense of responsibility upon him, Pemmican responded; and
on Challoner's order he went out and returned with ten new packs of
cards, tossing them on the table with their wrappers unbroken.
"Cold hands," announced Challoner, "five hundred a throw."
Hargraves pulled forth his roll of bills and placed it on the table;
then, placing a hand on the arm of Challoner, he exclaimed vehemently,
so that the other should not forget it:--
"It's understood now, Challoner, that if I win you're to leave us
alone--sure?"
Pemmican left the room and closed the door behind him. Challoner smiled
across the table, and a new, strange expression crossed his features
that Hargraves did not, could not understand.
"Sure," repeated Challoner, placing the decanter upon the table. Then
they started in to play.
* * * * *
Twenty minutes later Pemmican rushed pell-mell into Room A.
"There's a big row on," he said to himself; "a row over a lady and a
game of cards."
And so it proved.
There was a row on between the men who occupied Room A, and but for the
isolation of the room it was a row that might well have roused the
house.
"You've lost, I tell you!" one of the men exclaimed; the other laughed
boisterously, defiantly, victoriously.
"If I've lost, so have you!" he answered.
What followed happened in an instant and before Pemmican had been in
Room A thirty seconds. For suddenly one of the men there had whipped
from his coat-pocket a weapon that glinted in the white light; as
suddenly he had taken aim, and then came a flash, a report, a cloud of
smoke.
Pemmican looked on, speechless.
Presently one of the men crossed the room and sank into a chair in a
dazed sort of fashion, his head lolling across the upholstered arm;
while the other glanced about him for an instant, looked at Pemmican,
looked at the figure lying on the chair, and then started suddenly
toward the door.
Three minutes later Pemmican switched off the lights and plunged the
room in darkness.
"A row over a lady," he murmured breathlessly, "a row over a lady and a
game of cards."
At two o'clock that morning, Officer Keogh of the night squad,
patrolling a dimly lighted thoroughfare in the rear of Cradlebaugh's,
stumbled over an object lying in deep shadow.
"Good Lord! It's a man!" said Keogh, stooping down suddenly and as
suddenly drawing back. He drew himself together, bent down again, felt
cautiously about, wiped his hands and shuddered, and drew back once
again, as he whispered to himself:--
"A dead man--shot to death!"
He rapped wildly with his night-stick--the wild, irregular tattoo that
makes the slumberer rise suddenly in bed and tremble, and then crouch
between the bed-clothes shivering--and pending the arrival of assistance
he stooped once more and fumbled in the pockets of the dead man.
Presently from the breast-pocket of the coat he drew forth a yellow
pigskin wallet, and upon its corner in glaring gold, that even in the
dim light glittered garishly, appeared the letters, "R. H."
In this wise the body of Colonel Richard Hargraves, man-about-town, was
found lying in the gloom at two o'clock that morning.