The man who now came in was that lovable, unlucky, wonderfully clever
Dick Travers, who was forty and a failure when a manager, miraculously
experiencing a lucid interval, brought out his five hundredth play,
“The Idiot,” since which time five hundred managers coquet with him
for each new play. But all this was after the time now reached. Dick
Travers was still a failure whom Fair had met before his own ascent to
opulence, and to whom he was drawn by several ties, among which was
their common taste for etchings in dry-point and the more tangible
common interest in yachting and hatred for most things foreign.
“Pretty well right, thanks,” replied Travers to Fair’s welcome, adding
immediately with much excitement, “and by Jove, old man, have you seen
the evening papers? You’ve got a lot of those Empire shares, haven’t
you? Well, the blooming things went up to two hundred and eighty today.”
“Not really?” exclaimed Fair, enjoying the innocent’s naïve idea
that all this was news to the man who had put up the shares to that
altitude. “Baxter, some brandy and soda. Look sharp.”
“Yes, sir; thank you, sir,” answered Baxter with spirit as he trotted
out after the brandy and soda, pathetically clutching the hope that his
young master’s case could not be so desperate after all, since he was
meeting his friend’s high spirits with equally high ones.
“You picked up these shares, didn’t you,” asked Travers, sitting on
the end of the table, “when they were being kicked about the Street at
about twenty? Lord, what a lucky devil you are. I, on the contrary,
bought those beastly Australian King shares, and they went up also—in
smoke.”
“I am lucky, am I not?” acquiesced Fair, glancing over at the chest.
“In fact, I wanted to talk to you tonight about myself. Do you see this
pistol? Do you recognize it?” he went on, with so abrupt a change of
subject and expression that Travers stood up with an uncomfortable look.
“Perfectly,” he answered, after taking up the pistol and looking at it;
“it is the one poor Ponsonby gave you—but what’s the game, old man?”
“Examine it. Is it loaded?” asked Fair with tormenting mystery.
“Yes. All the chambers are full. Translate, please,” said Travers after
carefully inspecting the revolver, with growing annoyance.
“Oh, come, now, look at it carefully,” cried Fair, with what seemed
absurd warmth to Travers. “Isn’t one of the chambers empty? Have
another look.”
“Right you are—one cartridge has been discharged,” answered Travers.
“Recently, wouldn’t you say?” continued Fair.
“Yes, perhaps,” replied Travers, becoming seriously disturbed by this
most unwonted development of character in the hard-headed and practical
Fair. “But what the deuce is the game, you know?”
“Nothing,” answered Fair, putting down the pistol and turning from the
table as if about to turn from the gruesome subject as well. “I had a
fancy that I wanted you to notice these little details. I may ask you
to remember them some day. By the way, you are going to Drayton Hall
tomorrow?”
“Yes,” quickly replied Travers, only too glad to follow some new lead.
“Sir Nelson asked me at the club last night. Who is to be there?
Drayton is no end of a bore, you know, when Lady Poynter has what she
calls ‘the literary set’ down. The men are a lot of insufferable prigs,
and the women—oh, hang it, you know what they are.”
“Yes,” drawled Fair, himself again; “if one could ever meet the women
who write! But one can’t, you know—it is the women who think they
write that one meets. But we are safe tomorrow. Poynter assured me that
nobody with brains would be down—so we count upon a comfortable time.
Anyhow, I shall be running back to town in the evening, and, before
I forget it, I want you and Allyne to give me the night—here at the
house. I have a bit of rather serious work on my hands.”
“I’m yours, of course,” answered Travers. “But, I say, old chap, let
up on this melodrama, can’t you? Be a man and try to bear up bravely
under your increased income of sixty thousand more a year. Now I have
a jolly good right to chronic blue devils, for I never succeeded at
anything in my life, as you know. But you—gad! it’s treason for you to
do a blessed thing but chant pæans of victory—and pour libations on
yourself.”
“Never fear,” laughed Fair, “I’m the happiest man alive. You have
no idea of what I possess. Why, hang it, man,” he went on with an
unpleasant ring in his voice that puzzled and alarmed Travers, “I tell
you, I have things that would surprise you—in this very room. Ah,
here’s the brandy and soda.”
Baxter entered and deposited the tray on the table, but, although he
took an unconscionable long time to arrange the decanters and glasses,
he could get no hint of the drift of the conversation, as neither of
the gentlemen spoke until the absorbing process of “mixing” was over
and Baxter gone.
“I forgot to tell you,” began Travers, with his glass in his hand,
“that I saw that Cuban chap, Lopez, this morning, and he wants me to
dine with him to meet another yellow gent from the land of cigars, who
says that he knows you, or rather, Mrs. Fair. Can you imagine who he
may be?”
“It is probably a man named Mendes, a very rich planter,” answered
Fair, after a few moments, during which he was critically studying the
rich amber color of his drink as he held his glass between his eye and
the light. “I fancy it must be Mendes, for he was in London today—but
he left very suddenly this afternoon. Have another drink.”
“Left, eh?” asked Travers, filling his glass. “Thank heaven, for then
I sha’n’t have to meet him. I hate those Cubans. Always seem to have
something up their sleeve—and to have forgot tubbing that morning.”
“But you would like Mendes, I’m sure,” returned Fair, smiling. “Plays
chess better than any man on earth, I believe. He was good enough to
call to say good-bye, although he was in a beastly hurry. If you had
kept your promise and dropped in for a go at billiards, you would have
met him. I was able to do him a trifling service at one time ages ago,
and the fellow seems never to forget it. I’m sorry he’s gone; I am,
really.”
“Not returning, then?” inquired Travers, with no very great interest.
“I’m afraid not,” replied Fair, with a slight uneasiness. “I’d give a
good deal to see him walk in that door this minute, though. You see——”
“Mr. Allyne is in the billiard-room, sir,” announced Baxter at the door.
“Run in and tell Allyne that I’ll join you presently, will you, Dick,
that’s a good chap?” said Fair, with more of command than suggestion
in his tone, so that Travers obeyed and followed Baxter down to the
billiard-room.
In an instant Fair’s whole bearing changed. Closing the door, he picked
up the hat and coat that Baxter had brought from the passage and thrust
them into the large chest, carefully averting his face as he did so.
Dropping into his chair he wiped the cold sweat from his face and
signaled to the crack in the side door that whoever it was that had
been gently opening it for some little time might now come in. As he
knew, it was Mrs. Fair, who then entered, attired in another dinner
gown.
Motioning to her that she must speak softly, Fair said: “Allyne and
Travers are in the billiard-room. The rest will be coming presently.
How are you, poor little Janet?”
She came and sat on the arm of his chair and put her face down upon his
shoulder. “Am I awake?” she moaned after a few seconds. “Oh, Maxwell,
for God’s sake, wake me and tell me that I have been dreaming. My God,
what can we do? Where is—it?”
“Hush!” replied Fair, holding his arm about her. “Try not to think of
him, dear. Be brave, sweet, for a couple of hours. Don’t be afraid.
Have I ever failed you?”
“No, no—never, Maxwell—God bless you, never,” she sobbed. “But,
oh—look, look—quick, hide that pistol!”
“I left it there on purpose,” he answered quietly and reassuringly.
“Now don’t in any way try to alter my plans. I have thought more in the
last half-hour than I ever did in all the rest of my life. Everything
is provided for. At this time tomorrow night you and the children will
be safe on the continent. What did you do with that other dress?”
“Ugh,” she shuddered; “while I was taking it off baby came running into
the room and wanted to touch the horrible spots. I wrapped the accursed
thing up in stout paper and gave it to Miss Mettleby. Why, you are not
afraid that she—but no. Well, I told her it was a surprise for you,
and she will hide it somewhere while we are at dinner, and tell me
after.”
“That was a wise move,” said Fair. “And now, Janet, a brave heart, old
girl, and this beastly dinner will be over. What a trump you are!”
“Trust me,” she replied, looking with infinite loyalty at the man who
had stood for so much so strangely much in her torn and beaten life.
“Trust me. But, Maxwell, when the end comes, as it most surely will,
you will explain how it came to be done—you will tell them how his
crimes deserved this. For the children’s sake you won’t be foolish and
sacrifice yourself to protect others? Oh, promise me, promise me.”
“Poor little woman!” he answered, with great tenderness. “Yes, yes, all
shall be told. Hush! I hear them on the stairs. Yes, they are coming.”
When Baxter with much ceremony threw open the door of the library, Mr.
and Mrs. Maxwell Fair stood there radiantly cordial and unruffled to
welcome the three or four intimate friends who were dining with them.
“Sir Nelson and Lady Poynter, Mrs. March, Mr. Travers, Mr. Allyne,”
solemnly announced Baxter at the door, and these several ladies and
gentlemen, all chatting and beaming, hurried forward to pay their
respects to the most talked of man in London and his gracious and
handsome wife.