THE STREAK ON THE CUFF
Hugh Gifford did not stay very long at the dance. He took a mouthful of
supper, and then told Kelson that he had a headache and was going to walk
back to the _Golden Lion_.
Kelson was distressed. "My dear fellow, coming so late and going so
early, it's too bad. This is the best time of the night. I hope the old
place with its memories hasn't distressed you."
"Oh, no," was the answer. "But something has upset me. I'll get back and
turn in. By the way, I don't see that man Henshaw."
"No," Kelson replied casually; "I haven't seen him lately. But then I've
had something better to think about than that ineffable bounder. He was
here all right in the early part of the evening. One couldn't see
anything else."
"Dancing?"
"More or less. Well, if you will go, old fellow, do make yourself
comfortable at the _Lion_ and call for anything you fancy. I'm dancing
this waltz."
Gifford left the dance and went back to the hotel. He seemed perplexed
and worried, so much so that for some time he paced his room restlessly
and then, instead of turning in, he went back to the sitting-room,
lighted a pipe, and settled himself there to await his friend's return.
It was nearly three o'clock when Kelson came in.
"Why, Hugh!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Still up?"
"I didn't feel like sleeping," Gifford answered, "and if I'm to keep
awake I'd rather stay up."
Kelson looked at him curiously. "I hope the visit to your old home hasn't
been too much for you," he remarked with the limited sympathy of a strong
man whose nerves are not easily affected.
"Oh, no," Gifford assured him. "Although somehow I did feel rather out
of it. I have had rather a teasing day, but I shall be all right in the
morning, and am looking forward to a run round the scenes of my
childhood."
"Good," Kelson responded, relieved to think his friend's visit was not
after all going to be as dismal as he had begun to fear. "Well, Hugh," he
added gaily. "I have a piece of news for you."
"Not that you are engaged?"
Something, an almost apprehensive touch, in Gifford's tone rather took
his friend aback.
"Why not?"
"To Miss--the girl you were dancing with?"
Again Gifford's tone gave a check to Kelson's enthusiasm.
It was with a more serious face that he replied, "Muriel Tredworth, the
best girl in England. I hope, my dear Hugh, you are not going to say you
don't think so."
"Certainly not," Gifford answered promptly. "I never saw or heard of her
before to-night."
Kelson laughed uncomfortably. A man in love and in the flush of
acceptance wants something more than a lukewarm reception of the news.
"I'm glad to hear it," he responded dryly. "From your tone one might
almost imagine that you knew something against Muriel."
"Heaven forbid!" Gifford ejaculated fervently.
"You don't congratulate me," his friend returned with a touch of
suspicion.
Gifford forced a laugh. "My dear Harry, you have taken my breath away.
You deserve the best wife in the kingdom, and I sincerely hope you have
got her," he said, not very convincingly.
His half-heartedness, not too successfully masked, evidently struck
Kelson. "One would hardly suppose you thought so," he said in a hurt
tone. "I wish," he added warmly, "if there is anything at the back of
your words you would speak out. I should hope we are old friends enough
for that."
Gifford glanced at the worried face of the big, simple-minded sportsman,
more or less a child in his knowledge of the subtleties of human nature,
and as he did so his heart smote him.
"We are, and I hope we always shall be," he declared, grasping his hand.
"You are making too much of my unfortunate manner to-night, and I'm
sorry. With all my heart I congratulate you, and wish you every blessing
and all happiness."
There was an unmistakable ring of sincerity in his speech now, and,
without going aside to question its motive, as a more penetrating
mind might have done, Kelson accepted his friend's congratulations
without question.
"Thanks, old fellow," he responded, brightening as he returned the grasp
of Gifford's hand. "I was sure of your good wishes. You need not fear I
have made a mistake. Muriel is a thorough good sort, and we shall suit
each other down to the ground. We've every chance of happiness."
Before Gifford could reply there came a knock at the door. The
landlord entered.
"Beg your pardon, captain," he said, "I'm sorry to trouble you, but could
you tell me whether they are keeping up the Hunt Ball very late?"
"No, Mr. Dipper," Kelson answered. "It was all over long ago. I was one
of the last to come away. We left to the strains of the National Anthem."
Mr. Dipper's face assumed a perplexed expression.
"Thank you, captain," he said. "My reason for asking the question is that
Mr. Henshaw, who has a room here, has not come in."
"Not come in?" Kelson repeated. "Too bad to keep you up, Mr. Dipper."
"Well, captain," said the landlord, "you see it is getting on for four
o'clock, and we want to lock up. Of course if the ball was going on we
should be prepared to keep open all night if necessary. But my drivers
told me an hour ago it was over."
"So it was. I wonder"--Kelson turned to Gifford--"what can have become of
the egregious Henshaw. I don't think, as I told you in the ball-room, I
have seen him since ten o'clock."
Gifford shrugged. "Unless he has come across friends and gone off
with them."
"He couldn't well do that without calling here for his things,"
Kelson objected. "I suppose he did not do that, unknown to you?" he
asked the landlord.
"No, captain. His things are all laid out in his room, and the fire kept
up as he ordered."
"Then I don't know what has become of him," Kelson returned, manifestly
not interested in the subject. "I certainly should not keep open any
longer. If Mr. Henshaw turns up at an unreasonable hour, let him wait and
get in when he can. Don't you think so, Hugh?"
Gifford nodded. "I think, considering the hour, Mr. Dipper will be quite
justified in locking up," he answered.
"Thank you, gentlemen; I will. Goodnight," and the landlord departed.
Kelson turned to a side table and poured out a drink.
"Decent fellow, Dipper, and uniformly obliging," he said. "I certainly
don't see why he should be inconvenienced and kept out of his bed by that
swanker, who has probably gone off with some pal and hasn't had the
decency to leave word to that effect. Bad style of man altogether. Hullo!
What's this?"
"What's the matter?"
Gifford crossed to Kelson, who was looking at his shirt-cuff.
"What's this?"
A dark red streak was on the white linen.
"Hanged if it doesn't look like blood," Kelson said, holding it to
the light.
Gifford caught his arm and scrutinized the stain.
"It is blood," he said positively.