TEN MINUTES OF AGONY
"All I ask, Mister Harrowby, is that you consent to a short interview
with your brother."
Mr. Trimmer was speaking. The time was noon of the following day, and
Trimmer faced Lord Harrowby in the sitting-room of his lordship's hotel
suite. Also present--at Harrowby's invitation--were Martin Wall and
Mr. Minot.
His lordship turned his gray eyes on Trimmer's eager face. He could
make those eyes fishy when he liked--he made them so now.
"He is not my brother," he said coldly, "and I shall not see him. May
I ask you not to call me Mr. Harrowby?"
"You may ask till you're red in your noble face," replied Trimmer, firm
in his disrespect. "But I shall go on calling you 'Mister' just the
same. I call you that because I know the facts. Just as I call your
poor cheated brother, who was in this hotel last night between sandwich
boards, Lord Harrowby."
"Really," said his lordship, "I see no occasion for prolonging this
interview."
Mr. Trimmer leaned forward. He was a big man, but his face was
incongruously thin--almost ax-like. The very best sort of face to
thrust in anywhere--and Trimmer was the very man to do the thrusting
without batting an eye.
"Do you deny," he demanded with the air of a prosecutor, "that you had
an older brother by the name of George?"
"I certainly do not," answered Lord Harrowby. "George ran off to
America some twenty-two years ago. He died in a mining camp in Arizona
twelve years back. There is no question whatever about that. We had
it on the most reliable authority."
"A lot of lies," said Trimmer, "can be had on good authority. This
situation illustrates that. Do you think, Mr. Harrowby, that I'd be
wasting my time on this proposition if I wasn't dead sure of my facts.
Why, poor old George has the evidence in his possession.
Incontrovertible proofs. It wouldn't hurt you to see him and look over
what he has to offer."
"Your lordship," Minot suggested, "you know that I am your friend and
that my great desire is to see you happily married next week. In order
that nothing may happen to prevent, I think you ought to see--"
"This impostor," cut in his lordship haughtily. "No, I can not. This
is not the first time adventurers have questioned the Harrowby title.
The dignity of our family demands that I refuse to take any notice
whatsoever."
"Go on," sneered Trimmer. "Hide behind your dignity. When I get
through with you you won't have enough left to conceal your stick-pin."
"Trimmer," said Martin Wall, speaking for the first time, "how much
money do you want?"
Mr. Trimmer kept his temper admirably.
"Your society has not corrupted me, Mr. Wall," he said sweetly. "I am
not a blackmailer. I am simply a publicity man. I'm working on a
salary which Lord Harrowby--the real Lord Harrowby--is to pay me when
he comes into his own. I've handled successfully in publicity
campaigns prima donnas, pills, erasers, perfumes, holding companies,
race horses, soups and society leaders. It isn't likely that I shall
fall down on this proposition. For the last time, Mr. Allan Harrowby,
will you see your brother?"
"Lord Harrowby, if I were you--" Minot began.
"My dear fellow." His lordship raised one slim hand. "It is quite
impossible. Which, I take it, terminates our talk with Mr. Trimmer."
"Yes," said Mr. Trimmer, rising. "Except for one thing. Our young
friend here, when he urges you to grant my request, is giving a correct
imitation of a wise head on youthful shoulders. He's an American, and
he knows about me--about Henry Trimmer. I guess you never heard, Mr.
Harrowby, what I did for Cotrell's Ink Eraser--"
"Come on," said Mr. Wall militantly, "erase yourself."
"For the moment, I will," smiled Mr. Trimmer. "But I warn you, Mr.
Harrowby, you are going to be sorry. You aren't up against any piker
in publicity--no siree. That little sandwich-board stunt of mine last
night was just a starter. I'm going to take the public into
partnership. Put it up to the people--that's my motto."
"Good day, sir," snapped Lord Harrowby.
"Put it up to the people. And when I pull off the little trick I
thought of this morning, you're going to get down before me on your
noble knees, and beg off. I warn you. Good day, gentlemen. And may I
add one simple request on parting? Watch Trimmer!"
He went out, slamming the door behind him. Mr. Wall rose and walked
rapidly toward a decanter.
"Rather tough on you, Lord Harrowby," he remarked, pouring himself a
drink. "Especially just now. The fresh bounder! Ought to have been
kicked out of the room."
"An impostor," snorted Harrowby. "A rank impostor."
"Of course." Mr. Wall set down his glass. "But don't worry. If
Trimmer gets too obstreperous, I'll take care of him myself. I guess
I'll be going back to the yacht."
After Wall's departure, Minot and Harrowby sat staring at each other
for a long moment.
"See here, your lordship," said Minot at last. "You know why I'm in
San Marco. That wedding next Tuesday must take place without fail.
And I can't say that I approve of your action just now--"
"My dear boy," Harrowby interrupted soothingly, "I appreciate your
position. But there was nothing to be gained by seeing Mr. Trimmer's
friend. The Meyricks were distressed, naturally, by that ridiculous
sandwich-board affair last evening, but they have made no move to call
off the wedding on account of it. The best thing to do, I'm sure, is
to let matters take their course. I might be able to prove that chap's
claims false--and then again I mightn't, even if I knew they were
false. And--there is a third possibility."
"What is that?"
"He might really be--George."
"But you said your brother died, twelve years ago."
"That is what we heard. But--one can not be sure. And, delighted as I
should be to know that George is alive, naturally I should prefer to
know it after next Tuesday."
Anger surged into Minot's heart.
"Is that fair to the young lady who--"
"Who is to become my wife?" Lord Harrowby waved his hand. "It is.
Miss Meyrick is not marrying me for my title. As for her father and
aunt, I can not be so sure. I want no disturbance. You want none. I
am sure it is better to let things take their course."
"All right," said Minot. "Only I intend to do every thing in my power
to put this wedding through."
"My dear chap--your cause is mine," answered his lordship.
Minot returned to the narrow confines of his room. On the bureau,
where he had thrown it earlier in the day, lay an invitation to dine
that night with Mrs. Bruce. Thus was Jack Paddock's hand shown. The
dinner was to be in Miss Meyrick's honor, and Mr. Minot was not sorry
he was to go. He took up the invitation and reread it smilingly. So
he was to hear Mrs. Bruce at her own table--the wittiest hostess in San
Marco--bar none.
The drowsiness of a Florida midday was in the air. Mr. Minot lay down
on his bed. A hundred thoughts were his: the brown of Miss Meyrick's
eyes, the sincerity of Mr. Trimmer's voice when he spoke of his
proposition, the fishy look of Lord Harrowby refusing to meet his long
lost brother. Things grew hazy. Mr. Minot slept.
On leaving Lord Harrowby's rooms, Mr. Martin Wall did not immediately
set out for the _Lileth_, on which he lived in preference to the hotel.
Instead he took a brisk turn about the spacious lobby of the De la Pax.
People turned to look at him as he passed. They noted that his large,
placid, rather jovial face was lighted by an eye sharp and queer, and a
bit out of place amid its surroundings. Mr. Wall considered himself
the true cosmopolite, and his history rather bore out the boast. Many
and odd were the lands that had known him. He had loaned money to a
prince of Algiers (on excellent security), broken bread with a sultan,
organized a baseball nine in Cuba, and coming home from the East via
the Indian ports, had flirted on shipboard with the wife of a Russian
grand duke. As he passed through that cool lobby it was not to be
wondered at that middle west merchants and their wives found him worthy
of a second glance.
The courtyard of the Hotel de la Pax was fringed by a series of modish
shops, with doors opening both on the courtyard and on the narrow
street outside. Among these, occupying a corner room was the very
smart jewel shop of Ostby and Blake. Occasionally in the winter
resorts of the South one may find jewelry shops whose stock would bear
favorably competition with Fifth Avenue. Ostby and Blake conducted
such an establishment.
For a moment before the show-window of this shop Mr. Wall paused, and
with the eye of a connoisseur studied the brilliant display within.
His whole manner changed. The air of boredom with which he had
surveyed his fellow travelers of the lobby disappeared; on the instant
he was alert, alive, almost eager. Jauntily he strolled into the store.
One clerk only--a tall thin man with a sallow complexion and hair the
color of a lemon--was in charge. Mr. Wall asked to be shown the stock
of unset diamonds.
The trays that the man set before him caused the eyes of Mr. Wall to
brighten still more. With a manner almost reverent he stooped over and
passed his fingers lovingly over the stones. For an instant the tall
man glanced outside, and smiled a sallow smile. A little girl in a
pink dress was crossing the street, and it was at her that he smiled.
"There's a flaw in that stone," said Mr. Wall, in a voice of sorrow.
"See--"
From outside came the shrill scream of a child, interrupting. The tall
man turned quickly to the window.
"My God--" he moaned.
"What is it?" Mr. Wall sought to look over his shoulder.
"Automobile--"
"My little girl," cried the clerk in agony. He turned to Martin Wall,
hesitating. His sallow face was white now, his lips trembled.
Doubtfully he gazed into the frank open countenance of Martin Wall.
And then--
"I leave you in charge," he shouted, and fled past Mr. Wall to the
street.
For a moment Martin Wall stood, frozen to the spot. His eyes were
unbelieving; his little Cupid's bow mouth was wide open.
"Here--come back--" he shouted, when he could find his voice.
No one heeded. No one heard. Outside in the street a crowd had
gathered. Martin Wall wet his dry lips with his tongue. An
unaccountable shudder swept his huge frame.
"My God--" he cried in a voice of terror, "I'm alone!"
For the first time he dared to move. His elbow bumped a hundred
thousand dollars' worth of unset diamonds. Frightened, he drew back.
He collided with a show-case rich in emeralds, rubies and aquamarines.
He put out a plump hand to steady himself. It rested on a display case
of French, Russian and Dutch silver.
Mr. Wall's knees grew weak. He felt a strange prickly sensation all
over him. He took a step--and was staring at the finest display of
black pearls south of Maiden Lane, New York.
Quickly he turned away. His eyes fell upon the door of a huge safety
vault. It was swinging open!
Little beads of perspiration began to pop out on the forehead of Martin
Wall. His heart was hammering like that of a youth who sees after a
long separation his lady love. His eyes grew glassy.
He took out a silk handkerchief and passed it slowly across his damp
forehead.
Staggering slightly, he stepped again to the trays of unset stones.
The glassy eyes had grown greedy now. He put out one huge hand as the
lover aforesaid might reach toward his lady's hair.
Then Mr. Wall shut his lips firmly, and thrust both of his hands deep
into his trousers pockets. He stood there in the middle of that
gorgeous room--a fat figure of a man suffering a cruel inhuman agony.
He was still standing thus when the tall man came running back.
Apprehension clouded that sallow face.
"It was very kind of you." The small eyes of the clerk darted
everywhere; then came back to Martin Wall. "I'm obliged--why, what's
the matter, sir?"
Martin Wall passed his hand across his eyes, as a man banishing a
terrible dream.
"The little girl?" he asked.
"Hardly a scratch," said the clerk, pointing to the smiling child at
his side. "It was lucky, wasn't it?" He was behind the counter now,
studying the trays unprotected on the show-case.
"Very lucky." Martin Wall still had to steady himself. "Perhaps you'd
like to look about a bit before I go--"
"Oh, no, sir. Everything's all right, I'm sure. You were looking at
these stones--"
"Some other time," said Wall weakly. "I only wanted an idea of what
you had."
"Good day, sir. And thank you very much."
"Not at all." And the limp ex-guardian passed unsteadily from the
store into the glare of the street.
Mr. Tom Stacy, of the Manhattan Club, half dozing on the veranda of his
establishment, was rejoiced to see his old friend Martin Wall crossing
the pavement toward him.
"Well, Martin--" he began. And then a look of concern came into his
face. "Good lord, man--what ails you?"
Mr. Wall sank like a wet rag to the steps.
"Tom," he said, "a terrible thing has just happened. I was left alone
in Ostby and Blake's jewelry shop."
"Alone?" cried Mr. Stacy. "You--alone?"
"Absolutely alone."
Mr. Stacy leaned over.
"Are you leaving town--in a hurry?" he asked.
Gloomily Mr. Wall shook his head.
"He put me on my honor," he complained. "Left me in charge of the
shop. Can you beat it? Of course after that, I--well--you know,
somehow I couldn't do it. I tried, but I couldn't."
Mr. Stacy threw back his head, and his raucous laughter smote the lazy
summer afternoon.
"I can't help it," he gasped. "The funniest thing I ever--you--the
best stone thief in America alone in charge of three million dollars'
worth of the stuff!"
"Good heavens, man," whispered Wall. "Not so loud!" And well might he
protest, for Mr. Stacy's indiscreet and mirthful tone carried far. It
carried, for example, to Mr. Richard Minot, standing hidden behind the
curtains of his little room overhead.
"Come inside, Martin," said Stacy. "Come inside and have a bracer.
You sure must need it, after that."
"I do," replied Mr. Wall, in heartfelt tones. He rose and followed Tom
Stacy.
Cheeks burning, eyes popping, Mr. Minot watched them disappear into the
Manhattan Club.
Here was news indeed. Lord Harrowby's boon companion the ablest jewel
thief in America! Just what did that mean?
Putting on coat and hat, he hurried to the hotel office and there wrote
a cablegram:
"Situation suspicious are you dead certain H. is on the level?"
An hour later, in his London office, Mr. Jephson read this message
carefully three times.