Wingate smiled as he read the flamboyant note from Caleb Boyle,
accepting his invitation to dinner. It concluded with a characteristic
flourish. "Trusting that our meeting may prove as agreeable to you, as
it is in anticipation to myself. Yours sincerely, C. Boyle."
It was a beautiful summer morning. His thoughts flew to his
well-beloved. What was she doing at this particular moment? He could
guess too well. Sitting, with that far-away look in her dear eyes,
brooding and lonely amid the ruins of her once happy home.
He did not usually call so early, but to-day must be an exception. A
brilliant idea had occurred to the fond young lover; he hastened to put
it into execution.
She sprang up when he entered, and the light in her beautiful eyes, the
faint flush on her cheek, told him that he was welcome. The soft lips
returned his fervent kiss.
"We are going to take a holiday, darling," he cried gaily. "This is a
perfect day; it's a shame to be stifled in London. We will run down by
train to Shepperton. I'll get a boat and pull you to Hampton Court.
We'll lunch there, and afterwards stroll round the gardens. Then I will
bring you back home, I wonder if you remember that day--it seems such a
little while ago--when we first met?"
"Shall I ever forget it?" she whispered softly. "I think, perhaps, I
fell a little bit in love with you then. And afterwards we met at
Hendon, and you came to call on us at Chesterfield Street. And my dear
father took a great fancy to you. And now--" she looked at him shyly,
and did not finish the sentence.
He took her in his arms and kissed her. "And now, my darling, we are
sweethearts for ever and ever."
A couple of hours later they were on the river. The beauty of the warm
summer day, the pleasurable excitement of the journey, the change of
scene, had momentarily lifted the shadows and induced forgetfulness.
For that brief space she was her old joyous self, a girl in the glorious
fulness of her youth, living and beloved.
Her thoughts were such as come to pure girls in such moments.
As they glided down the placid stream, the golden afternoon warm and
odorous with the mingled scents of the summer air, so would they journey
through life together. She remembered how her father had adored her
mother. Austin would be such another true lover to the end of his days.
They returned to Chesterfield Street. She was loth to part with him and
pressed him to stay to dinner. He pleaded a business engagement. He
could not break faith with Boyle, although he was sorely tempted to do
so.
"You will be sure to come to-morrow?" she said, as she kissed him
good-night. It cut him to the quick to leave her alone in that sad
house, but he had no choice. At all costs, he must keep Boyle away from
her.
"Quite sure, my darling. You love me a little?" he whispered as they
parted.
"Oh! so much," she answered with a sweet smile. "Didn't I tell you this
morning that I fell in love with you a long time ago? You have been so
kind, so patient, so good. I fear I am a very sad sweetheart, but I
know you understand. The ties between my dear father and myself were so
close. We were all the world to each other."
He hastened away, more firmly resolved than ever that Caleb Boyle should
never put his foot in Chesterfield Street. That trusting heart must
never be pierced by doubts of her father's rectitude.
Wingate was a few minutes late at the club that evening. He found Mr
Boyle awaiting him, in the full glory of evening attire. His host could
not help observing that the suit had seen good service, and that the
shirt was frayed and dingy as to colour. But Boyle's ready assurance
was not in the least dashed by these circumstances. He advanced with
outstretched hand, and greeted Wingate in his usual fulsome manner.
"I am sorry you troubled to dress, Mr Boyle. This is quite a Bohemian
club. I ought to have told you."
Boyle waved a deprecatory hand. And his self-satisfied manner seemed to
imply that, at this hour, evening attire was natural to him, and that he
would have assumed it in any case.
They went in to dinner. Boyle began talking at once. He admired the
dining-room, the service, the club and its arrangements generally.
"It is some years since I entered these portals," he remarked in his
pompous, affected manner. "I used to know some good fellows in the old
days."
He named Jimmy this, Dicky that, and Tommy the other. Wingate noted
that all the members with whom he boasted acquaintance had joined the
majority.
"I belonged to a lot of Bohemian clubs when I first started my London
career," he explained. "I was a member of the Garrick, and at the
Savage I believe I am still remembered. Ah! that those good old days
could come again."
He heaved a deep sigh, and for a few minutes applied himself to the very
excellent meal that was set before him. He ate heartily, consuming big
portions of each dish. His host had a shrewd notion that he had
economised in the matter of lunch.
When dinner was over, they passed to the smoking-room, where Mr Boyle
very speedily disposed of a few whiskies, taking two to the other's one.
It was here that Wingate touched lightly and delicately upon the visit
to Smeaton.
"I would like to impress upon you, Mr Boyle, that, under ordinary
circumstances. Miss Monkton would be delighted to receive any old
friend of her father's; but I fear such a visit at present would pain
her very much."
Boyle rose to the occasion. "It is I who am in fault. It was a
thoughtless suggestion on my part, made on the spur of the moment, and
prompted, I assure you, by the sincerest feelings of sympathy for her,
and esteem for my dear old friend."
If his motives been of the nature suggested by Smeaton, he was certainly
taking it very well. Wingate pressed on him another whisky-and-soda.
The offer was accepted with his usual alacrity. His powers of
absorption appeared to be unbounded.
Wingate proposed a change of scene. "What do you say to an hour or two
at the Empire? We'll stroll round and get a couple of stalls."
Mr Boyle was delighted at the suggestion. "Excellent," he cried, with
the glee of a schoolboy. "Dear old Empire, dear old mad and sad Empire,
what visions it conjures up! Let us go at once. I will tread again the
merry lounge, forget all gnawing care, and summon back the
light-heartedness of youth."
He revelled in it all so much that it was eleven o'clock before Wingate
could get him away. And then he had not exhausted his capacity for
enjoyment.
"Let us make a night of it," he cried cheerfully. "You don't know what
a delight it is to mix for a few hours with a man of my own world, like
yourself. We had an excellent dinner, but I am sure we could do a
little supper together."
Wingate would have preferred to decline, but, if he did so, Boyle might
be offended. And it was, above all things, necessary to keep him in
good humour.
"Good man," cried Mr Boyle, with one of his sweeping gestures. "The
night is young. A few paces from here is a snug little restaurant,
presided over by my old and excellent friend, Luigi. You will be my
guest."
Wingate started at the name. It was the little house in Soho where
Monkton had dined with the bearded Russian on the night of his
disappearance.
The smiling proprietor welcomed Boyle with extreme cordiality. They
were very well acquainted.
They had a light supper, and at the conclusion Boyle drew aside the
waiter, and whispered something in his ear. Wingate caught the words:
"Put it down. I'll call and pay to-morrow."
The gentleman in the worn evening suit and the dingy shirt was evidently
short of cash. Wingate took advantage of the opportunity. Smeaton had
taken a dislike to the man, but what the poor broken-down creature had
told him might be of service.
"Pardon me, Boyle," he said, dropping the formal prefix, "but I could
not help overhearing. If you have come out without money, please let me
be your banker for the time being."
There was a long pause. Boyle seized the tumbler of whisky-and-soda
that stood at his elbow, and drained it at a draught. For a few seconds
he seemed struggling with some hidden emotion. Then his usual
flamboyancy returned. He hailed the waiter in a loud voice, and ordered
more refreshment.
Then he laid his long, lean hand on the other's shoulder, and spoke in
his deep, rolling tones.
"Why should I play the hypocrite to a good fellow like yourself,
Wingate. I'm as poor as a church-rat--you can guess that from my
clothes. I asked you to supper on the spur of the moment with
eighteenpence in my pocket, knowing that my old friend Luigi would give
me credit. I have a roof over my head for the rest of the week. Next
week I may not have that. But I don't moan and whine; I set my teeth
and smile, as I am smiling now. Whatever men may think of me, they
shall never say that Caleb Boyle showed the white feather."
He took another deep draught as he finished the pathetic outburst.
Wingate felt in his pockets.
"I haven't much with me, only a couple of sovereigns. But you can
square the bill with that. I have a cheque-book with me, and I shall be
delighted to tide you over immediate difficulties, if you will name a
sum."
"Would ten pounds be too much?" asked Boyle, in a strangely hesitating
voice. For the moment, his assurance seemed to have forsaken him; he
seemed to realise to what he had fallen.
"Not at all." The cheque was written and handed to the poor derelict,
together with the two pounds in cash.
For once, the usual flow of words did not come. It was a quiet and
subdued Boyle who called the waiter, and bade him bring the bill.
"I cannot find words to thank you," he told his benefactor, "I can only
say, God bless you. I have done the same to many a poor devil myself,
in olden days, but never in a more kindly and generous fashion. I
should like, if I may, to tell you a little bit of history."
Wingate nodded. He could not but feel sorry for the poor broken-down
creature, who tried to hide his sorrows under this brave and pompous
front.
"I was ruined by a devil whom I first met here, before Luigi took the
place. He called himself Bellamy, but that was not his real name. He
was a foreign fraudulent company promoter by profession. I was young
and gullible. He dazzled me with his swindling schemes, until he had
stripped me of every penny."
Wingate murmured his sympathy. He surmised that Boyle was exaggerating
when he accused the foreigner of having been the sole cause of his ruin.
There was no doubt he had contributed pretty considerably towards his
own downfall. But was there ever a spendthrift yet who would admit as
much?
"But thank Heaven, he was trapped at last. He went a step too far, and
was beggared by a lawsuit brought against him by the shareholders of a
company he had promoted, and which never paid a dividend. Our old
friend Monkton led against him, and trounced him thoroughly, I can tell
you. Every penny he possessed was seized, and he fled the country for
fear of arrest."
Wingate pricked up his ears.
"You say this man was a foreigner. Would you recognise his handwriting,
if you saw it?"
"Certainly. I have more than a dozen of his letters in my possession.
If you would care to come round to my rooms, I will show you them
to-night."