A TOAST.
Absorbed in his own disturbed thoughts, Rowton never knew that he was
followed. Simpkins saw him enter the little hotel off the Strand which
has been mentioned in an earlier part of this story.
At an early hour on the following morning, as Rowton was having breakfast
in the coffee room, Scrivener was announced. The landlord brought in the
information.
“There’s a man of the name of Dawson outside,” he said to Rowton, “he’ll
be glad to speak to you for a minute.”
“Show him in,” said Rowton, nodding.
The next moment Scrivener stood before him.
“Ah, Dawson,” said Rowton, taking his cue immediately, “what may your
business be?”
“Nothing much,” replied Scrivener. “I have come here with a message from
the club.”
“Well, sit down and have a cup of coffee. I’ll walk out with you
presently.”
Scrivener, otherwise Dawson, complied. The two men drank coffee together.
Then Rowton rose from his seat.
“We can take a turn on the Embankment,” he said.
A moment later the men were seen walking side by side on the Thames
Embankment. The morning was a fine one, and a fresh breeze from the river
blew on their faces. A man with a smooth face and a perfectly innocent
expression passed them slowly. He looked full at Rowton, who nodded to
him.
“That is my servant, Jacob,” he said, turning to Scrivener. “What is he
doing here?”
“Mischief,” muttered Scrivener. “We had best not be seen in such an open
place as this. Let us turn up this by-street into the Strand.”
The men did so. From the Strand they passed into a narrow court. In the
court was a public-house. They entered it, asked for a private room, and
sat down by the fire. Scrivener took out his pipe and lighted it, but
Rowton did not smoke.
“Now,” said Rowton, “your business, and quickly.”
“The boss is sorry you parted from him in anger,” said Scrivener.
“There’s a wine party at our club to-night, and I was to bring you a
special invitation. Long John has sent it to you himself. Matters may be
smoothed over. Long John naturally does not want to get into your black
books. Will you come, or will you not? That is the question.”
“When I left the club yesterday evening,” said Rowton, “I said I would
never darken its doors again.”
“That is likely enough. I don’t wonder you took some of the words the
chief said rather hard; but if matters are spliced up between us, you
won’t forsake your own School, will you, mate?”
“If the boy is given back to me I’ll not forsake the School,” said Rowton
after a pause.
“I believe that will be done,” said Scrivener. “Anyhow you are bidden to
come to-night to talk over the matter.”
“Are you square with me?” asked Rowton, looking full into Scrivener’s
face.
“As square as daylight,” replied the man.
Rowton turned away with a suppressed sigh.
“I’ll be there,” he said; “not that I believe matters will be smoothed
over. This will doubtless be my last visit.”
“No, mate,” answered Scrivener, “we cannot do without a jolly dog like
you.”
“I’ll be there; that is enough,” answered Rowton.
“One last word before I go, mate,” said Scrivener. “You had best keep
dark to-day. The police have got wind of your identity and are after you.”
“How do you know?” asked Rowton.
“Long John had a warning last night. Spider is in town, and is prying
round as usual. It is true, I tell you. You may thank your stars that you
have not been arrested before this. It is all the doings of that footman
of yours.”
“My footman! Do you mean Jacob Short?”
“I mean Jacob Short. He is a spy from Scotland Yard. Now you know enough,
and I dare not breathe another word.”
Scrivener went away, but Rowton sat on by the fire in the back room of
the public-house. His thoughts and sensations were known to himself
alone. After a time he got up, paid for the use of the room, and by a
circuitous route got back again to the hotel in the Strand. As he was
going in he came face to face with Jacob standing near the door of the
hotel.
“What are you doing here?” asked Rowton.
“I came up for a holiday, sir. I hope to return to my duties to-morrow
night.”
“See you do. I don’t wish my servants to come to town without my special
permission.”
Rowton spoke in his chuffiest and most forbidding tones. Jacob’s face
flushed. Rowton ran quickly upstairs to his room. It was at the top of
the house. On the landing outside a ladder was placed which communicated
with a skylight. Rowton packed a few things in a black bag, and a moment
afterwards, had anyone looked, might have been seen crossing the leads of
the house to another at some distance off. Jacob did not catch sight of
Rowton again that day, although he kicked his heels for a long time at
the door of the hotel.
Punctually at the appointed hour the men met at the smoking club in
Chelsea. Their full number was present. Long John looked at his best.
At such moments he could be delightful. He was gracious now, unbending;
there was not a shadow of care on his brow; his great eyes glowed with
the softest and sweetest expression, his lips unbent in genial smiles.
There are times when even men of the Silver School can relax, and, to all
appearance, forget their cares. The present seemed to be one.
“Welcome back,” said Long John to Rowton. He went down the room to meet
his guest, shaking hands with him warmly.
“You know the condition on which I have come,” answered Rowton.
“Yes,” replied Long John, “but we won’t discuss unpleasantnesses until
after supper. Now, men, let us gather round and enjoy ourselves.”
The men sat round a table and began to smoke and drink. The wine was of
the best. Under its influence they all soon became convivial and merry.
Even Rowton lost his sense of depression; he filled his glass several
times. Soon toasts of different kinds were proposed. The men talked in
metaphor, and slang terms were freely used.
“To the success of our next meeting,” said Long John, rising from his
seat, and raising a glassful of wine high into the air drained it off at
a bumper.
“To a short life and a merry one,” said Rowton, rising also in his turn.
“To the sale of the black diamond,” cried Scrivener.
Scrivener was seated next to Rowton. At this moment Long John gave him an
almost imperceptible signal. Taking up a wine bottle which stood near he
filled Rowton’s glass to the brim.
“To the sale of the black diamond,” he repeated.
All the men, in a spirit of high bravado, drained off their glasses.
A moment later they sat down. Other toasts followed. The party grew
wilder and more merry. Each man capped his neighbour’s story. The room
was clouded with smoke, and echoed from end to end with the sound of
boisterous mirth. Suddenly, in the midst of a very wild and daring tale,
Rowton staggered to his feet. He made a step or two forward in the
chief’s direction.
“You scoundrel, you have poisoned me!” he cried.