Graham came out of the telephone box in the drug store. Dr. Harding was
unable, he said, to leave his office for an hour and a half, when he
would drive to Nellie Pope's address and meet Graham in her apartment.
But as he was hurrying back to Peter's bedside, Graham drew up suddenly.
The rage that had entered into his soul when he had gathered that Kenyon
was responsible for his brother's condition broke into a blaze. Almost
before he knew what he was doing or what he was going to do when he got
there, he hailed a passing taxi and told the man to drive to Kenyon's
apartment. He remembered that the liner was not due to leave until
two-thirty. Kenyon would therefore be at home for some time yet. He told
himself that he _must_ see him--he must. He owed it to Peter first, and
then to himself as Peter's brother and pal, to make Kenyon answer for
this dirty and disloyal trick. Yes, that was it, he told himself as the
cab bowled quickly to its destination. Kenyon must be made to answer,
or, at any rate, to offer some extenuating explanation if he could. It
would be something that would make him wake up in the middle of the
night and curse himself if he let the opportunity slip out of his hands
to face Kenyon up before he went immaculately, unquestioned and perhaps
unpunished out of their lives. How could he face Peter when he was well
again? How could he look at his own reflection in the looking-glass if,
for reasons of his personal admiration of Kenyon and disinclination to
force things to an issue, he let him escape without finding out the
truth?
The cab stopped. Graham sprang out, paid the man, ran up the flight of
stone steps and rang the bell. None too quickly it was answered by a
girl with a mass of black hair and a pair of Irish eyes which had been
put in with a dirty finger.
"Is Mr. Kenyon in?"
"Yes."
The hall was filled with baggage. A very distinct "K" was on all the
baggage tabs.
"All right!" said Graham. "I know my way up."
Rather sharply Kenyon called out "Come in!" when Graham knocked on the
door of the sitting-room.
In a much-waisted suit of brown clothes, a brown tie and a pair of brown
shoes which were so highly polished as to look almost hot, Kenyon was
standing with the telephone receiver to his ear. He was saying
"Good-bye" to one of the men to whom Graham had been proud to introduce
him and whose pockets he had already lightened by a fairly considerable
sum. He finished speaking before turning to see who had entered, and
hung up the receiver.
"Oh, hello, my dear fellow!" he said. "I didn't expect to see you. How
extremely and peculiarly pleasant!"
Graham wondered if he would think so by the time that he had done with
him. But, with a strong effort of will, he kept his self-control. He
intended to let Kenyon give himself away. That seemed to be the best
plan.
Kenyon gave him no chance to speak. "Not satisfied with wishing me 'bon
voyage' over the wire, eh? By Jove, this is most friendly of you. You'll
help kill the boring time before I drive off to the docks with all my
duly and laboriously labelled luggage. Make yourself at home, old boy,
and give me your news."
He took his hat and stick and yellow gloves out of the one comfortable
chair and waved his hand toward it.
Graham remained standing. Having seen Peter lying in such a bed, inert
and humiliated,--Peter, of all men,--he resented Kenyon's suave
cordiality and glib complacency. "I've just come from Peter," he said.
Kenyon burst out laughing. "Oh, do tell me! How does he look? Is his
head as big as the dome of St. Paul's this morning? It ought to be. I
gave him the sort of mixture that would blow most men skyhigh. It's
never been known to fail."
"It hasn't?" said Graham. "So you _did_ give it to him!" he added
inwardly. "Good! You'll pay for _that_."
"I was amazed to see the thirsty way our abstemious Peter lapped it
down. I've a sneaking notion that he liked it. It was on an empty
stomach, too. He seems to have been in an emotional mood
yesterday--tramping the streets. Ye gods, how these sentimentalists go
to pieces under the influence of a bit of a girl! He came up here fairly
late, just after Belle--I mean, just after----"
"Belle? Was Belle here last night, then?" Graham's voice rang out
sharply.
"Yes," said Kenyon, with a curious smile. After all, what did it matter
now who knew? He was on the verge of sailing and he hoped that he might
never see this family of Guthries again. "Yes, Belle was here."
There was a look in the corners of Kenyon's eyes that sent a spasm of
fear all through Graham's body. What was this man not capable of doing
since he had deliberately turned Peter, his friend, over to a
street-walker, having first rendered him senseless? "Then I'm here for
Belle, as well," he said to himself, "and whatever you did you'll pay
for that too."
There was an empty cardboard collar-box on the floor. Kenyon gave it a
spiteful kick. "Yes, Belle and I had,--what shall I call it?--a rather
tender parting scene here last night,--quite tender, in fact. All very
amusing in the sum total of things, eh? I was peculiarly ready for Peter
when he dropped in. And, by the way, how on earth did you find out where
he spent the night, learning, I trust, to shake off some of his Quaker
notions?"
"She rang me up," said Graham, whose fists were clenched so tightly
that every finger contained a pulse. He was almost ready to hit--almost.
He was only waiting for one other proof of this dirty dog's treachery.
"Oh, did she? Found your name and address in Peter's pocket, I suppose.
Well, she came along last night at the exact psychological moment. The
alacrity with which she took dear old drunken Peter off my hands at the
merest hint had a certain amount of pathos about it. _He's_ off his
immaculate perch now, eh? _He's_ left his tuppenny halo on a pretty
sordid hat-peg, at last, eh? He'll thank me for having done it for him
one of these days, I'll be bound."
Graham went slowly over to him. "Not one of these days," he said with
extreme distinctness. "Through me, thank God, to-day--now."
Kenyon darted a quick look at the man who had always caused him a
considerable amount of inward laughter, whom he had labelled as a
precocious provincial. He saw that his face had gone as white as a
stone--that his nostrils were all distended and that his eyes seemed to
have become bloodshot. No coward, Kenyon had an inherent detestation of
a fracas, especially when he was dressed for the street. He decided to
avert a row with a touch of autocratic authority. It had worked before.
"Let there be no vulgar display of pugilism here," he said, sharply. "If
you don't like my methods, get out!"
Everything in Graham's nature seemed to have become concentrated in one
big ball of desire to hit and hit, and hit again--to hear the heavy
thud of his blows on that man's body--to see him lying squirming and
broken on the carpet with a receipt in full upon his face for all that
he had done.
"Put up your fist," he said, "or I shall have to hit you cold."
"Curse you, get out!" cried Kenyon, catching Graham one on the mouth
before he was ready.
Graham laughed. He needed that. By jove, he needed that. He let out his
left. "That's for Peter," he said.
Kenyon staggered. His left eye seemed to fill. With a yell of pain he
jumped in and hit wildly.
Graham waited a second chance and got it. "And that's for Belle," he
said. And his knuckles bled with the contact of teeth.
Kenyon went in again. Chairs fell over and the table was pushed aside.
And all the time that he failed to reach Graham's face he screamed like
a horse whose stable is in flames.
But Graham, cold, icy cold, and cooler than he had ever been in his
life, played with him. He had never been so much a man in his life. He
warded and guarded and waited hoping that he might once more feel the
sting of pain that would make his last blow unforgettable--epoch-making.
He got it,--but with Kenyon's foot.
And again Graham laughed,--for joy--for very joy. Now he could hit, and
hit honestly.
"You little gentleman!" he said. "You perfect little gentleman--I've
paid you for Peter, and for Belle. Here's my debt, with a hundred per
cent, interest and then some."
The blow, hard and firm from the full shoulder, caught Kenyon on the
point of the jaw, lifted him off his feet and laid him out full stretch
on the broad of his back.
For several moments, breathing hard, Graham stood over him, looking down
at the dishevelled, unconscious dandy, with his bad blood all over his
face and clothes. His collar had sprung, his beautiful brown tie had
gone round under his ear, his shirt cuffs were dabbled with red, one eye
was bunged up and his mouth was all swollen.
Then Graham rang the bell, and while waiting tidied himself up in front
of the glass in which he now felt that he could look.
The girl came in and gave a shrill cry.
"Just see to that man, please. Cold water at once will be the best
thing."
He caught up his hat, went out, shut the door, ran down-stairs, let
himself into the street and was out of sight and into a taxicab before
the girl had recovered herself.
"Paid in full," he said breathlessly to himself, as he bound up his
knuckles--"in full."