Next day Tom Merriwether found himself unable to think of anything but
the mystery of the fateful Tuesday. He felt baffled. His curiosity had
been repulsed at every step. In their definite incomprehensibility all
the incidents that he so vividly recalled took on an irritating quality
that made him a morose and uncomfortable companion. Huntington Andrews
noticed it at luncheon; and so admirable was the quality of his
amiability that after the coffee he said:
“Tom, I've got important business to attend to to-day, and if you don't
mind I'll be off now. Of course if you think I can help you in any way
all you have to do is to tell me what it is.”
“Huntington, you are the best friend in the world. I've been thinking--”
Tom paused and stared into vacancy. He was trying to recall whether the
man at 777 Fifth Avenue had a criminal look about the eyes. Huntington
Andrews rose very quietly and walked away. He knew his friend wished to
think--alone.
Lost in his exasperating speculations, Tom finally ceased, thinking
of the man and began to think of the girl. Was the game to rouse his
interest in an unknown, later to be introduced to him? Was the scheme
one that involved an adventuress? Why all the claptrap? And why had
his thoughts, in spite of himself, dwelt so persistently on love and
somebody to love? Why had the springtime--since the night before--come
to mean a time for loving? Why had he begun to see, in flashes,
tantalizing glimpses of rosy cheeks and bright eyes? Why had he
permitted his own mind to be influenced by the strange man's remarks,
so that Tom Merri-wether was indeed thinking--if he would be honest with
himself--of marriage? Was his affinity on her way to him at this very
moment, as the man said? He began to hope she was.
He dined at home and was so preoccupied at the table that even his
father noticed it.
“What's up, Tom?”
“What? Oh! Nothing, dad! I was just thinking.”
“Terrible thing, my boy--thinking at meal-time,” said E. H. Merriwether,
with a self-conscious look of badinage.
“Yes, it is. I'll quit.”
“Is it anything about which you need advice--or help, my boy?” said the
great little railroad dynast, very carelessly.
His eyes never left his son's face; but when Tom raised his gaze to
meet his father's the elder Merriwether showed no interest. Tom knew his
father and felt the paternal love that insisted on concealing itself as
though it were a weakness.
“No, indeed. There is nothing the matter--really. I was thinking I'd
like to do a man's work. I guess you'd better let me go with you on your
next tour of inspection.”
The face of the czar of the Southwestern & Pacific lighted up.
“Will you?” he said, with an eagerness that made his voice almost
tremble.
“Yes.”
And that evening E. H. Merriwether delivered a long lecture on railroad
strategy and railroad financing to his son, which brought them very
close to each other.
On the next day, however, all thoughts of being his great father's
successor were subordinated to the feeling that, if Mr. Thomas Thome
Merriwether had to be the successor of a railroad man, he should himself
take steps to provide his own successors. Feeling that he was his
father's son made him think of paternity. And that made him think of the
message he had delivered in the dark and of the message the man had
said would some day come to Tom Merriwether. He drew a deep breath and
thought he smelled sweet peas. And that somehow made him think of the
girl he should marry. Try as he might, he could not quite see her face.
He thought he kissed her, and he inhaled the fragrance of sweet peas.
Her complexion was beautiful. No more!
On the afternoon of the third day Tom decided that he was wasting too
much time in thinking of the possible meaning of his queer experience,
and also that it was of little use trying not to think about it.
Therefore he would try to put an end to the perplexity.
He went to 777 Fifth Avenue and rang the bell. A footman opened the door
and stared at him icily. Tom perceived he was not one of the men whose
faces looked too intelligent for footmen.
“I wish to see Mr.--er--your master.”
“Does he expect you, sir?” The tone was not as respectful as footmen
in Fifth Avenue houses used in speaking to the heir of the Merriwether
millions. “No; but he knows me.”
“Who knows you, sir?”
“Your master.”
“Could you tell me his name, sir?”
“No; but I can tell you mine.”
“He's not at home, sir.”
“I'm Mr. Merriwether. Say I wish to speak to him a moment.”
“I'm sorry, sir. He's not in.”
The footman was so unimpressed by the name of Merriwether that Tom
experienced a new sensation, one which made him less sure of his own
powers. He took out a card and a bank-note and held them out toward the
man.
“I am anxious to see him.”
“Im sorry. I can't take it, sir,” said the footman, with such melancholy
sincerity that Tom smiled at the torture of the cockney soul.
Then he ceased to smile. The master of this mysterious house had
compelled even the footmen to obey him!
“But if you will call again in an hour, sir, I think perhaps, sir--”
“Thank you. Take it anyhow.”
He again held out the bank-note. The man saw it was for twenty dollars,
and almost turned green.
“I--I d-daresent, sir!” he whimpered, and closed his eyes with the
expression of an anchoret resolved not to see the beautiful temptress.
Tom left him, walked across the Avenue to the Park, and sat down on a
bench. He settled down to think calmly over the mysterious affair, and
looked about him.
The grass in the turf places had taken on a definite green, as though
it were May. The trees were not yet in leaf, making the grass-greenness
seem a trifle premature, but Tom noticed that the buds on the trees and
shrubs were bursting; there were little feathery tips of tender red and
pale green--tiny wings about to flutter upward because the sun and the
sky beckoned to them to go where it was bright and warm. The sky was of
a spotless turquoise, as though the spring cleaning up there had been
thorough. The clouds were of silver freshly burnished for the occasion.
The air was alive, laden with subtle thrills; it throbbed invisibly,
as though the light were life, and life were love. He saw hundreds of
sparrows, and they all twittered; and all the twitterings were very,
very shrill, and yet very, very musical. And also they twittered in
couples that hopped and darted and aerially zigzagged--always together
and always twittering!
A policeman stopped and said something to a nurse-maid. The nurse-maid
said something to the policeman. He was young and she was pretty. Then
the policeman said nothing to the nurse-maid, and the nurse-maid said
nothing to the policeman. Then two faces turned red. Then one face
nodded yes. Then the other face walked away, swinging a club; and--by
all that was marvelous!--swinging the club in time to the tune the
sparrows were twittering--in couples--the same tune, as though the
club-swinger's soul were whistling it!
Tom smiled uncertainly--he wanted to give money, lots of it, to the
policeman and to the nursemaid; and he knew it was impossible--it was
too obviously the intelligent thing to do! So, instead, he drew a deep
breath.
Instantly there came to him not the odor of spring and of green things
growing, but of sweet peas and summer winds, and changing, evanescent
faces, pink-and-white as flowers, with flower-odor associations and eyes
full of glints and brightnesses that recalled dewdrops and sunlight and
stars. And these glittering points shifted in tune to the twittering of
birds and the swinging of Park policemen's clubs.
Love was in the air! Love was making Tom Mer-riwether impatient, as that
love which is the love of loving always makes the mateless man.
He could no longer sit calmly. He could not sit at all. He craved to
do something, to do anything, so long as it was motion. Therefore he
walked briskly northward. At Ninetieth Street he halted abruptly. He had
begun to walk mechanically and he could think of what he did not wish to
think. So he shook himself free from the spell and walked back.
An hour had passed. He again rang the bell of 777. The same footman
opened the door.
“Is he in?” asked Tom, impatiently.
“Yes, sir--he is, sir. I told him the moment he came in, sir.” He looked
as uncomfortable as a lifelong habit of impassivity permitted.
“What did he say?” asked Tom.
“He said: 'How much did he offer to give you when you said I wasn't at
home?' Yes, sir. That's what he asked me.”
“And you said?”
“I said it was a yellowback, sir. That's all I could see. I said I
wouldn't take it, and he said I might just as well have taken it. Thank
you, sir! This way, sir.”
The footman led the way to the door in the rear, rapped, and in the
sonorous, triumphant voice that a twenty-dollar tip will give to any
menial he announced:
“Mr. Merriwether!”
The same man was in the same chair in the same room, with his back to
the stained-glass window. Tom recalled all the incidents of his previous
visits--recalled every detail. Also the old question: What is the game?
Also the new question: Where is she?
The man rose and bowed. It was the bow of a social equal, Tom saw.
“Good morning, Mr. Merriwether. Won't you be seated, sir?” And he
motioned him to a chair.
“Thank you.”
“How can I serve you?”
“Who is the woman?” said Tom, abruptly. “Your fate!” answered the man.
“Her name?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Her address?”
“I don't know it.”
“What is your game?”
“I have money enough for my whims and time enough to gratify my desire
to help you. Eugenics is my hobby. I recognize that I cannot fight
against the decree of destiny.”
“I am tired of all this humbug.”
“I ask nothing of you now. You can go or you can come. You can go to
India or to Patagonia--or even farther. You may send detectives and
lawyers, or even thugs, to me. You may cease your search for her--if you
can!”
“You have roused my curiosity--”
“That is a sign of intelligence.”
“I tell you now that I don't believe a word of what you say.”
“Free country, young man.”
“I've had enough of this nonsense--”
“Though I am always glad to see you, young sir, and would not wound your
feelings for worlds”--the man's voice was very polite, but also very
cold--“I might be forgiven for observing that I did not ask you to
call.”
“I'll give you a thousand dollars--”
The man stopped him with a deprecatory wave of the hand.
“One of the pearls I offered you, Mr. Merriwether, is valued at ten
thousand dollars. You did not select that one; but I'll exchange the one
you took for it--now if you wish.”
“That's all very well, but--” Tom paused, and the man cut in:
“Do you wish to see her from a safe distance? Or do you wish to talk to
her without seeing her? Or--”
“To see her and talk to her!”
“Wait!”
The man intently regarded the tip of Tom's left shoe for fully five
minutes. Then he raised his head and clapped his hands twice. The black
manservant with the fez appeared.
The man said something in Arabic--at least it sounded so to Tom. The
black answered. The man spoke again. The black replied:
The man said what sounded to Tom like, “_Ay adad_.”
The negro answered, “_Al-sabi! Al-sabi wal Saboun_.”
The man waved his hand dismissingly and the negro salaamed and left the
room.
After a moment the man turned to Tom and said, with obvious perplexity:
“I am not sure it is wise for me to meddle, but perhaps it is written
that I am to help you three times. Who knows?”
He stared into Tom's eyes as though he would read a word there--either
yes or no. But Tom said, a trifle impatiently:
“Well, sir?”
“Go to the opera to-night. Take seat H 77. No other seat will do.”
“H 77--to-night,” repeated Thomas Thorne Merriwether.
“The opera is 'Madame Butterfly.'”
“Thanks,” said Tom, and started for the door. He halted when the man
spoke.
“It is the seat back of G 77. None other will do.”
“Good day, sir,” said Tom, and left the room.