I followed the direction of Pierce’s outstretched arm and on the deck
of the _Wanderer_ made out the stiff, precise figure of Chanler’s man,
Simmons, waiting in exactly the same pose with which he admitted one
to his master’s bachelor apartments in Central Park West. It was
Simmons who welcomed me on board, and he did it ill, for it irked his
serving-man’s soul to countenance his master’s friendship with persons
of no wealth.
“Mr. Chanler is in his room, sir. You are to come there at once. This
way, if you please, sir.”
He led the way in his stiffest manner to a stateroom in the forward
part of the yacht and knocked diffidently on the door.
“Go away! Please go away!” came the petulant response.
“Mr. Pitt, sir,” said Simmons.
“Oh!” There was the sound of a desk being closed. “Show him in. Hello,
Gardy! Glad to see you! I’m fairly dying for somebody to talk to!”
Chanler was sprawled gracefully over a chair before a writing-desk
built into the forward wall of the stateroom. He was wearing a mauve
dressing-gown of padded silk and smoking one of his phenomenally long
cigarets in a phenomenally long amber holder. It had been long since I
had seen him and he had changed deplorably; but so rapid and eager was
his greeting that I had no time to note just where the change had
come.
“You’re a good fellow to come, Gardy,” said he with a genuine note of
gratitude in his tones. “I knew you’d help me, though. Simmons—bring a
couple of green ones, please.”
“Not for me,” I hastened to interpose. “You know I never touch
anything before dinner.”
“That’s so; I forgot. You’ve got yourself disciplined. Well, bring one
green one, Simmons. I don’t usually do this sort of thing so early,
either,” he continued as Simmons vanished, “but I sat up late with
Captain Brack last night, and I’m a little off. Wonderful chap, the
captain; head on him like a piece of steel. Well, Gardy, what do you
think of the trip?”
“When you have told me something about it I may have an opinion,” I
replied. “You know all the knowledge of it that I have was what came
in your message.”
“That’s so. Well, what did you think when you got the wire? You must
have thought something; you think about everything. What did you think
when you heard that I was planning a stunt like this—something useful,
you know? Eh?”
“Well, it was something of a shock,” I admitted.
Chanler smiled. But it was not the likable, indolent, boyish smile of
old which admitted:
“Quite so. Came as a shock to hear that I was planning to be something
besides a loafer spending the money my governor made. I knew it would.
You never expected anything like this of me, Gardy?”
“No, I can’t say that I did.”
“Neither did I. Never dreamed of it until three months ago, and
then—then I discovered that I had to do—come in, Simmons,” he
interrupted himself as the valet knocked.
While he was swallowing his little drink of absinth I studied him more
closely.
There had always been something of the young Greek god about George
Chanler, an indolent, likable, self-satisfied young god with a long,
elegant body and a small curl-wrapped head. Now I saw how he had
changed. The fine body and head had grown flabby from too much
self-indulgence and too little use. There was a new look about the
lazy eyes which hinted at a worry, the sort of worry which troubles a
man awake or sleeping. Something had happened to George Chanler,
something that had shaken him out of the armor of indolent
self-sufficiency which Chanler money had grown around him. The boyish
lines about his mouth were gone. It was not a likable face now; it was
cynical, almost brutal.
“That’s all, Simmons,” he said, allowing Simmons to take the empty
glass from his hand. “What was I saying, Gardy, when I stopped?”
“That you discovered that you had to do——”
“Oh, yes.” He paused a while. “Didn’t you wonder why I was doing this
sort of thing when you got my wire, Gardy?”
“Naturally, I did.”
“And you haven’t got any idea, or that sort of thing, about why I’m
doing it?”
“You say that your purpose is to explore——”
“I mean, what started me on the trip?”