COLONEL BOB WAITS FOR HIS MESSAGE.
Ablaze with light is the palatial mansion of the millionaire operator.
Sweet strains of music float out upon the misty moonlight, and are lost
in dying cadence upon the waters of the great lake, that gently lap the
pebbly shore so near the stately pile.
All that wealth can do to beautify and adorn the house has been done
with a liberal hand. In these days of magic all one has to do is to
press the golden button, and master minds accomplish the rest.
The parlors look like fairy bowers. Green plants and rare exotics are
everywhere, and the taste with which they are placed reflects credit
on the decorator artist. Among these scenes wander many of Chicago’s
gallant sons and fair daughters.
Dorothy as the hostess is as lovely a vision as the eye of man ever
beheld, and her father looks the wealthy merchant prince to perfection,
though perhaps one might see an uneasy gleam in his eyes at times, and
he glances toward the door frequently, as though expecting someone of
more than ordinary importance.
The gay reception is in full swing when Aleck and Wycherley arrive.
Both are of course in evening dress, for the ex-actor under the
circumstances has wisely invested the loan made by his companion. As
the future possible partner of the great Samson Cereal, he must make
a creditable _entree_ into society. Besides, a dress suit is a good
nucleus for a loan at “my uncle’s” on a rainy day.
Once inside they make their way to where Miss Dorothy, assisted by a
lady friend, receives, and meet a hearty welcome from both herself and
her father. If Aleck was far gone before, his case is hopeless now,
for the young woman presents such a picture of feminine beauty that
he is even awed to think of his boldness in daring to aspire to win
her. Still, deep down in his heart, he secretly exults to remember that
less than twenty-four hours previous he held all this loveliness in his
arms. Aleck is quiet, a thorough gentleman always, and for reasons of
his own he keeps near Mr. Cereal. Knowing the secret of the other, he
feels that he has a deep interest there.
As to Wycherley, he makes himself right at home, and being introduced
moves among the guests with charming freedom. An old traveler of his
stamp can adapt himself to either terminus of “society,” and under
other circumstances, should fortune throw him among a herd of tramps,
or into a camp of darkies, he would be found the jolliest fellow of
them all, telling tough yarns, singing songs, and picking the banjo. A
wonderfully versatile chap is this same Wycherley. To see him now, as
he saunters gracefully about, one would believe him a representative
of Chicago’s highest circles, and much curiosity is aroused as to who
he may be. His bearing, his name, both are very _distingué_, and many
speculations are indulged in as to whether he is from Boston or New
York.
“Ah! Aleck, my _dear_ boy, this is living. Just think what fortune has
done for me in a short twenty-four hours. I believe I’m on the highroad
to success. There are many lovely girls here, and backed by substantial
dads, but I shall not commit myself. I can’t quite forget the black
eyes of the Spanish cigar girl at the Fair, who made such a sieve of
my heart that it would do for a housewife’s use. But this is very
pleasant, dear boy, exceedingly so. I fancy our host looks careworn.”
“I’ve seen that all along. It may be anxiety about the coming of his
son John, who, as you may have noticed, has not yet shown up.”
“Yes, and it may be with reference to that momentous telegram he was
expecting,” declares Wycherley, who has not forgotten.
“Have you seen anything of the Turk?”
“Jove! you didn’t expect him here--no, you’re joking; but I have met
someone I know. What did I tell you about his ability to get there?”
“I’m in a fog, Claude.”
“Well, look down the room--just bowing over the hand of Miss Dorothy--I
never dreamed _he_ was a society man.”
“Bless me! Why, it’s Rocket!”
“Bob Rocket, dead sure. Listen, the old gentleman introduces him to
the banker’s wife--she who sparkles with a fortune of diamonds worth a
king’s ransom. What does he say?”
“Mrs. Bondclipper, allow me to introduce an old friend of mine, Colonel
Robert Rocket of Colorado. I met him on a Western trip years ago, when
he was in the Legislature. Our Western men are coming to the front, you
know, and I believe the colonel represents some of these great mines
you hear so much about in the papers.”
“Well done for Bob! Of course his only object in coming here is to keep
an eye on John. I only hope and pray for my part--I mean Mr. Cereal’s
peace of mind--the exposure doesn’t take place before all this company.”
“It would be needless. We must, if necessary, find some means of
avoiding that.”
“Ah! you don’t know Bob. Just as soon as he gets that telegram, he’ll
make direct for his man, and all Hades couldn’t stop him.”
“Very good. We must watch him, then. Just as soon as a message comes,
if it does arrive, one of us--myself--must see John and inveigle him
out of the room, while you fall in with the colonel and distract his
attention.”
“Count on me to do my best. Both of us are interested now in avoiding a
scene on account of our prospective relations with Samson Cereal. There
now, don’t give up, Aleck. Ah! he comes.”
“Who--the messenger boy?”
“Pshaw! no, it’s John.”
The young man has entered the room. He makes a decidedly striking
appearance, for, although not quite six feet in height, his figure is
that of an athlete. Aleck takes to him on sight.
“What a shame such a young god should have descended to the rôle of a
defaulter,” mutters Wycherley in the Canadian’s ear.
Aleck does not reply. He has the queerest feeling pass over him--a
flush succeeded by a chill. It is hard to believe this fine, frank
looking man can be a fugitive from justice, but strange things happen
in this life, and we grow accustomed to many facts which at first seem
impossible.
Samson Cereal goes to him, his eager hand outstretched, his eye kindled
with emotion. They meet close to where our friends stand.
“My boy, is the past forgiven? I have learned of my wretched mistake,
and stand here ready to tell you how sorry I have been,” is what the
father says in a husky voice.
His hand is taken in a strong clasp.
“Say no more, father. The past is forgotten. Let us never speak of it
again. I have come to-night because Dorothy bade me, God bless her!
Take me to her, sir.”
Then they move off. The expected scene does not materialize, but
speedily it is noised about that Samson Cereal’s son is in the room.
Few of his Chicago acquaintances knew he had a son, and much surprise
ensues; but when John is introduced a little flutter spreads among the
fair buds and those who have been in the market several seasons, such
a flutter as the advent of a new and very desirable catch must always
cause.
Aleck keeps an eye on Colonel Bob.
That remarkable personage seems to be quite amused at the coming of
John. He is accustomed to seeing daring games played by the men whom
he has business with, and there are times when he can admire the nerve
that is needed to carry them through. All the while he keeps one eye
on the door. There is not a moment that he does not expect a message
of some sort, letter or telegram, having left instructions behind for
either coming to his address to be delivered at once.
There are other elements in the game which Aleck has not forgotten, and
he is forcibly reminded of this fact. Standing by himself in a portion
of the rear parlor or music room, while Cereal is proudly introducing
his stalwart son to many of his friends, Aleck is positive he hears a
long-drawn sigh, and then the whispered words:
“God bless him!”
He turns his head.
There is a door near by, a hallway beyond. Someone stands just beyond
this door--a woman, wearing a white apron and a lace cap, a jaunty bit
of feathery material on top of her gray hair. He has had one or two
glimpses of her before, and knows she has been employed in the rear
room assisting the ladies to remove their wraps, a sort of _femme de
chambre_.
Attracted by the words that escaped her lips, Aleck looks more closely
at her face than he has done before. It is changed indeed, but he
suddenly remembers that he talked with this woman not many hours before.
Again he looks--her eyes meet his gaze, and she shrinks back. He
follows her, and just before she can enter the ladies’ dressing room,
calls:
“I wish to see you, Adela.”
At the sound of that name she turns and clasps her hands. Upon her
sad face comes a look so full of entreaty that the young Canadian is
touched.
“Do not mention that name again under this roof, I beg. I admit I am
the wretched woman you talked with, but do not betray me--I pray this
by the memory of the mother you love,” she says feebly.