CHAIN LIGHTNING'S COLLAR
The Villa Jasmine, Mrs. Bruce's winter home, stood in a park of palms
and shrubbery some two blocks from the Hotel de la Pax. Mr. Minot
walked thither that evening in the resplendent company of Jack Paddock.
"You'll enjoy Mrs. Bruce to-night," Paddock confided. "I've done her
some rather good lines, if I do say it as shouldn't."
"On what topics?" asked Minot, with a smile.
"International marriage--jewels--by the way, I don't suppose you know
that Miss Cynthia Meyrick is to appear for the first time wearing the
famous Harrowby necklace?"
"I didn't even know there was a necklace," Minot returned.
"Ah, such ignorance. But then, you don't wander much in feminine
society, do you? Mrs. Bruce told me about it this morning. Chain
Lightning's Collar."
"Chain Lightning's what?"
"Ah, my boy--" Mr. Paddock lighted a cigarette. "You should go round
more in royal circles. List, commoner, while I relate. It seems that
the Earl of Raybrook is a giddy old sport with a gambling streak a yard
wide. In his young days he loved the Lady Evelyn Hollowway. Lady
Evelyn had a horse entered in a derby about that time--name, Chain
Lightning. And the Earl of Raybrook wagered a diamond necklace against
a kiss that Chain Lightning would lose."
"Wasn't that giving big odds?" inquired Minot.
"Not if you believe the stories of Lady Evelyn's beauty. Well, it
happened before Tammany politicians began avenging Ireland on Derby
Day. Chain Lightning won. And the earl came across with the necklace.
Afterward he married Lady Evelyn--"
"To get back the necklace?"
"Cynic. And being a rather racy old boy, he referred to the necklace
thereafter as Chain Lightning's Collar. It got to be pretty well known
in England by that name. I believe it is considered a rather neat
piece of jewelry among the English nobility--whose sparklers aren't
what they were before the steel business in Pittsburgh turned out a
good thing."
"Chain Lightning's Collar," mused Minot. "I presume Lady Evelyn was
the mother of the present Lord Harrowby?"
"So 'tis rumored," smiled Paddock. "Though I take it his lordship
favors his father in looks."
They walked along for a moment in silence. The story of this necklace
of diamonds could bring but one thing to Minot's thoughts--Martin Wall
drooping on the steps of the Manhattan Club while old Stacy roared with
joy. He considered. Should he tell Mr. Paddock? No, he decided he
would wait.
"As I said," Paddock ran on, "you'll enjoy Mrs. Bruce to-night. Her
lines are good, but somehow--it's really a great problem to me--she
doesn't sound human and natural when she gets them off. I looked up
her beauty doctor and asked him if he couldn't put a witty gleam in her
eye, but he told me he didn't care to go that far in correcting Mrs.
Bruce's Maker."
They had reached the Villa Jasmine now, a great white palace in a
flowery setting more like a dream than a reality. The evening breeze
murmured whisperingly through the palms, a hundred gorgeous colors
shone in the moonlight, fountains splashed coolly amid the greenery.
"Act Two," muttered Minot. "The grounds surrounding the castle of the
fairy princess."
"You have to come down here, don't you," replied Paddock, "to realize
that old Mother Nature has a little on Belasco, after all?"
The whir of a motor behind them caused the two young men to turn. Then
Mr. Minot saw her coming up the path toward him--coming up that
fantastic avenue of palms--tall, fair, white, a lovely figure in a
lovely setting--
Ah, yes--Lord Harrowby! He walked at her side, nonchalant,
distinguished, almost as tall as a popular illustrator thinks a man in
evening clothes should be. Truly, they made a handsome couple. They
were to wed. Mr. Minot himself had sworn they were to wed.
He kept the bitterness from his tone as he greeted them there amid the
soft magic of the Florida night. Together they went inside. In the
center of a magnificent hallway they found Mrs. Bruce standing, like
stout Cortez on his Darien peak, triumphant amid the glory of her gold.
Mr. Minot thought Mrs. Bruce's manner of greeting somewhat harried and
oppressed. Poor lady, every function was a first night for her. Would
the glare of the footlights frighten her? Would she falter in her
lines--forget them completely? Only her sisters of the stage could
sympathize with her understandingly now.
"So you are to carry Cynthia away?" Minot heard her saying to Lord
Harrowby. "Such a lot of my friends have married into the peerage.
Indeed, I have sometimes thought you English have no other pastime save
that of slipping engagement rings on hands across the sea."
A soft voice spoke in Minot's ear.
"Mine," Mr. Paddock was saying. "Not bad, eh? But look at that
Englishman. Why should I have sat up all last night writing lines to
try on him? Can you tell me that?"
Lord Harrowby, indeed, seemed oblivious of Mrs. Bruce's little bon mot.
He hemmed and hawed, and said he was a lucky man. But he did not mean
that he was a lucky man because he had the privilege of hearing Mrs.
Bruce.
Mr. Bruce slipped out of the shadows into the weariness of another
formal dinner. Mrs. Bruce glittered, and he wrote the checks. He was
a scraggly little man who sometimes sat for hours at a time in silence.
There were those unkind enough to say that he sought back, trying to
recall the reason that had led him to marry Mrs. Bruce.
When he beheld Miss Cynthia Meyrick, and knew that he was to take her
in to dinner, Mr. Bruce brightened perceptibly. None save a blind and
deaf man could have failed to. Cocktails consumed, the party turned
toward the dining-room. Except for the Meyricks, Martin Wall, Lord
Harrowby and Paddock, Dick Minot knew none of them. There were a
couple of colorless men from New York who, when they died, would be
referred to as "prominent club men," a horsy girl from Westchester, an
ex-ambassador's wife and daughter, a number of names from Boston and
Philadelphia with their respective bearers. And last but not least the
two Bond girls from Omaha--blond, lovely, but inclined to be snobbish
even in that company, for their mother was a Van Reypan, and Van
Reypans are rare birds in Omaha and elsewhere.
Mr. Minot took in the elder of the Bond girls, and found that Cynthia
Meyrick sat on his left. He glanced at her throat as they sat down.
It was bare of ornament. And then he beheld, sparkling in her lovely
hair, the perfect diamonds of Chain Lightning's Collar. As he turned
back to the table he caught the eye of Mr. Martin Wall. Mr. Wall's eye
happened to be coming away from the same locality.
The girl from Omaha gossiped of plays and players, like a dramatic page
from some old Sunday newspaper.
"I'm mad about the stage," she confided. "Of course, we get all the
best shows in Omaha. Why, Maxine Elliott and Nat Goodwin come there
every year."
Mr. Minot, New Yorker, shuddered. Should he tell her of the many and
active years in the lives of these two since they visited any town
together? No. What use? On the other side of him a sweet voice spoke:
"I presume you know, Mr. Minot, that Mrs. Bruce has the reputation of
being the wittiest hostess in San Marco?"
"I have heard as much." Minot smiled into Cynthia Meyrick's eyes.
"When does her act go on?"
Mrs. Bruce was wondering the same thing. She knew her lines; she was
ready. True, she understood few of those lines. Wit was not her
specialty. Until Mr. Paddock took charge of her, she had thought
colored newspaper supplements humorous in the extreme. However, the
lines Mr. Paddock taught her seemed to go well, and she continued to
patronize the old stand.
She looked up now from her conversation with her dinner partner, and
silence fell as at a curtain ascending.
"I was just saying to Lord Harrowby," Mrs. Bruce began, smiling about
her, "how picturesque our business streets are here. What with the
Greek merchants in their native costumes--"
"Bandits, every one of them," growled Mr. Bruce, bravely interrupting.
His wife frowned.
"Only the other day," she continued, "I bought a rug from a man who
claimed to be a Persian prince. He said it was a prayer-rug, and I
think it must have been, for ever since I got it I've been praying it's
genuine."
A little ripple of amusement ran about the table. The redoubtable Mrs.
Bruce was under way. People spoke to one another in undertones--little
conversational nudges of anticipation.
"By the way, Cynthia," the hostess inquired, "have you heard from Helen
Arden lately?"
"Not for some time," responded Miss Meyrick, "although I have her
promise that she and the duke will be here--next Tuesday."
"Splendid." Mrs. Bruce turned to his lordship. "I think of Helen,
Lord Harrowby, because she, too, married into your nobility. Her
father made his money in sausage in the Middle West. In his youth he'd
had trouble in finding a pair of ready-made trousers, but as soon as
the money began to roll in, Helen started to look him up a coat of
arms. And a family motto. I remember suggesting at the time, in view
of the sausage: 'A family is no stronger than its weakest link.'"
Mrs. Bruce knew when to pause. She paused now. The ripple became an
outright laugh. Mr. Paddock sipped languorously from his wine-glass.
He saw that his lines "got over."
"Went into society head foremost, Helen did," Mrs. Bruce continued.
"Thought herself a clever amateur actress. Used to act often for
charity--though I don't recall that she ever got it."
"The beauty of Mrs. Bruce's wit," said Miss Meyrick in Mr. Minot's ear,
"is that it is so unconscious. She doesn't appear to realize when she
has said a good thing."
"There's just a chance that she doesn't realize it," suggested Minot.
"Then Helen met the Duke of Lismore," Mrs. Bruce was speaking once
more. "Perhaps you know him, Lord Harrowby?"
"No--er--sorry to say I don't--"
"A charming chap. In some ways. Helen was a Shavian in considering
marriage the chief pursuit of women. She pursued. Followed Lismore to
Italy, where he proposed. I presume he thought that being in Rome, he
must do as the Romeos do."
"But, my dear lady," said Harrowby in a daze, "isn't it the Romans?"
"Isn't what the Romans?" asked Mrs. Bruce blankly.
"Your lordship is correct," said Mr. Paddock hastily. "Mrs. Bruce
misquoted purposely--in jest, you know. Jibe--japery."
"Oh--er--pardon me," returned his lordship.
"I saw Helen in London last spring," Mrs. Bruce went on. "She confided
to me that she considers her husband a genius. And if genius really be
nothing but an infinite capacity for taking champagnes, I am sure the
poor child is right."
Little murmurs of joy, and the dinner proceeded. The guests bent over
their food, shipped to Mrs. Bruce in a refrigerating car from New York,
and very little wearied by its long trip. Here and there two talked
together. It was like an intermission between the acts.
Mr. Minot turned to the Omaha girl. Even though she was two wives
behind on Mr. Nat Goodwin's career, one must be polite.
It was at the close of the dinner that Mrs. Bruce scored her most
telling point. She and Lord Harrowby were conversing about a famous
English author, and when she was sure she had the attention of the
table, she remarked:
"Yes, we met his wife at the Masonbys'. But I have always felt that
the wife of a celebrity is like the coupon on one's railway ticket."
"How's that, Mrs. Bruce?" Minot inquired. After all, Paddock had been
kind to him.
"Not good if detached," said Mrs. Bruce.
She stood. Her guests followed suit. It was by this bon mot that she
chose to have her dinner live in the gossip of San Marco. Hence with
it she closed the ceremony.
"Witty woman, your wife," said one of the colorless New Yorkers to Mr.
Bruce, when the men were left alone.
Mr. Bruce only grunted, but Mr. Paddock answered brightly:
"Do you really think so?"
"Yes. Don't you?"
"Why--er--really--" Mr. Paddock blushed. Modest author, he.
A servant appeared to say that Lord Harrowby was wanted at once
outside, and excusing himself, Harrowby departed. He found his valet,
a plump, round-faced, serious man, waiting in the shadows on the
veranda. For a time they talked together in low tones. When Harrowby
returned to the dining-room, his never cheerful face was even gloomier
than usual.
Spencer Meyrick and Bruce, exiles both of them, talked joyously of
business and the rush of the day's work for which both longed. The New
York man and a sapling from Boston conversed of chamber music. Martin
Wall sat silent, contemplative. Perhaps had he spoken his thoughts
they would have been of a rich jewel shop at noon--deserted.
A half-hour later Mrs. Bruce's dinner-party was scattered among the
palms and flowers of her gorgeous lawn. Mr. Minot had fallen again to
the elder girl from Omaha, and blithely for her he was displaying his
Broadway ignorance of horticulture. Suddenly out of the night came a
scream. Instantly when he heard it, Mr. Minot knew who had uttered it.
Unceremoniously he parted from the Omaha beauty and sped over the lawn.
But quick as he was, Lord Harrowby was quicker. For when Minot came
up, he saw Harrowby bending over Miss Meyrick, who sat upon a wicker
bench.
"Cynthia--what is it?" Harrowby was saying.
Cynthia Meyrick felt wildly of her shining hair.
"Your necklace," she gasped. "Chain Lightning's Collar. He took it!
He took it!"
"Who?"
"I don't know. A man!"
"A man!" Reverent repetition by feminine voices out of the excited
group.
"He leaped out at me there--by that tree--pinioned my arms--snatched
the necklace. I couldn't see his face. It happened in the shadow."
"No matter," Harrowby replied. "Don't give it another thought, my
child."
"But how can I help--"
"I shall telephone the police at once," announced Spencer Meyrick.
"I beg you'll do nothing of the sort," expostulated Lord Harrowby. "It
would be a great inconvenience--the thing wasn't worth the publicity
that would result. I insist that the police be kept out of this."
Argument--loud on Mr. Meyrick's part--ensued. Suggestions galore were
offered by the guests. But in the end Lord Harrowby had his way. It
was agreed not to call in the police.
Mr. Minot, looking up, saw a sneering smile on the face of Martin Wall.
In a flash he knew the truth.
With Aunt Mary calling loudly for smelling salts, and the whole party
more or less in confusion, the return to the house started. Mr.
Paddock walked at Minot's side.
"Rather looks as though Chain Lightning's Collar had choked off our
gaiety," he mumbled. "Serves her right for wearing the thing in her
hair. She spoiled two corking lines for me by not wearing it where
you'd naturally expect a necklace to be worn."
Minot maneuvered so as to intercept Lord Harrowby under the portico.
"May I speak with you a moment?" he inquired. Harrowby bowed, and they
stepped into the shadows of the drive.
"Lord Harrowby," said Minot, trying to keep the excitement from his
voice, "I have certain information about one of the guests here this
evening that I believe would interest you. Your lordship has been
badly buffaloed. One of our fellow diners at Mrs. Bruce's table holds
the title of the ablest jewel thief in America!"
He watched keenly to catch Lord Harrowby's start of surprise. Alas, he
caught nothing of the sort.
"Nonsense," said his lordship nonchalantly. "You mustn't let your
imagination carry you away, dear chap."
"Imagination nothing! I know what I'm talking about." And then Minot
added sarcastically: "Sorry to bore you with this."
His lordship laughed.
"Right-o, old fellow. I'm not interested."
"But haven't you just lost--"
"A diamond necklace? Yes." They had reached a particularly dark and
secluded spot beneath the canopy of palm leaves. Harrowby turned
suddenly and put his hands on Minot's shoulders. "Mr. Minot," he said,
"you are here to see that nothing interferes with my marriage to Miss
Meyrick. I trust you are determined to do your duty to your employers?"
"Absolutely. That is why--"
"Then," replied Harrowby quickly, "I am going to ask you to take charge
of this for me."
Suddenly Minot felt something cold and glassy in his hand. Startled,
he looked down. Even in the dark, Chain Lightning's Collar sparkled
like the famous toy that it was.
"Your lordship!--"
"I can not explain now. I can only tell you it is quite necessary that
you help me at this time. If you wish to do your full duty by Mr.
Jephson."
"Who took this necklace from Miss Meyrick's hair?" asked Minot hotly.
"I did. I assure you it was the only way to prevent our plans from
going awry. Please keep it until I ask you for it."
And turning, Lord Harrowby walked rapidly toward the house.
"The brute!" Angrily Mr. Minot stood turning the necklace over in his
hand. "So he frightened the girl he is to marry--the girl he is
supposed to love--"
What should he do? Go to her, and tell her of Harrowby's amiable
eccentricities? He could hardly do that--Harrowby had taken him into
his confidence--and besides there was Jephson of the great bald head,
the Peter Pan eyes. Nothing to do but wait.
Returning to the hotel from Mrs. Bruce's villa, he found awaiting him a
cable from Jephson. The cable assured him that beyond any question the
man in San Marco was Allan Harrowby and, like Cæsar's wife, above
suspicion.
Yet even as he read, Lord Harrowby walked through the lobby, and at his
side was Mr. James O'Malley, house detective of the Hotel de la Pax.
They came from the manager's office, where they had evidently been
closeted.
With the cablegram in his hand, Minot entered the elevator and ascended
to his room. The other hand was in the pocket of his top coat, closed
tightly upon Chain Lightning's Collar--the bauble that the Earl of
Raybrook had once wagered against a kiss.