In Friendship's Guise Part 26

"As for the genuine Rembrandt--_my_ picture," resumed Mr. Lamb, "its disappearance is still shrouded in mystery. It can be only a matter of time, however, until the affair is cleared up. But that is poor consolation for the insurance people, who owe me 10,000."

"It is well you safeguard yourself in that way," observed Jack. "I shouldn't be surprised if your picture turned up as unexpectedly as mine has done, and perhaps before long. But I can hardly call this my property. Sir Lucius Chesney is out of pocket to the tune of eleven hundred pounds--"

"D--n the money, sir!" blurted out Sir Lucius. "I can afford to lose it.

And pray accept the Rembrandt from me as a gift, if you think you are not ent.i.tled to it legally."

"You are very kind, but I prefer that you should keep it."

"I don't want it--won't have it! Take it out of my sight!--it is only a worthless copy!" Sir Lucius, purple in the face, plumped himself down in his chair. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Vernon," he added. "As a copy it is truly magnificent--it does the greatest credit to your artistic skill.

It deceived _me_, sir! Whom would it not have deceived? There is an end of the matter! I shall forget it. But I will go to Munich some day, and beat that rascally Jew within an inch of his life!"

"If you can catch him," thought Jack. "I had better leave the painting with you for the present, Mr. Lamb," he said. "It may be of some use in your search for the original."

"Quite so," a.s.sented the dealer. "I will gladly retain it for the present."

"If that is all," Jack continued, "I will wish you good afternoon."

"One moment, Mr. Vernon," said Sir Lucius, whose choleric indications had completely vanished. "I--I should like to have an interview with you, if you will consent to humor an old man. Your face interests me--I admire your work. I propose to remain in town for a brief time, though I am off to Oxford to-night, to visit an old friend, and will not be back until to-morrow afternoon. Would you find it convenient to give me a call to-morrow night at eight o'clock, at Morley's Hotel?"

Jack was silent; his face expressed the surprise he felt.

"I should like you to come down to Suss.e.x and do some landscapes of Priory Court," Sir Lucius further explained.

"I am not working at present," Jack said, curtly.

"But there is something else--a--a private matter," Sir Lucius replied, confusedly. "I beg that you will oblige me, Mr. Vernon."

"Very well, sir, since you wish it so much," Jack consented. "I will come to Morley's Hotel at eight to-morrow evening."

"Thank you, Mr. Vernon."

Jack shook hands with both gentlemen, picked up his hat and stick, and went off to an early dinner. Sir Lucius looked after him wistfully.

CHAPTER XXII.

ANOTHER CHANCE.

Sir Lucius Chesney remained for an hour to further discuss the affair of the two Rembrandts with Mr. Lamb, and the conversation became so interesting that he almost forgot that he had arranged to leave Paddington for Oxford at eight o'clock; when he suddenly remembered the fact he hurried off, fearful of losing his dinner, and St. Martin's in the Fields indicated a quarter to seven as he entered Morley's Hotel.

At that time a little party of three persons were sitting down to a table in one of the luxurious dining-rooms of the Trocadero. Victor Nevill was the host, and his guests were Stephen Foster and his daughter; later they were all going to see the production of a new musical comedy.

Madge, as lovely as a dream in her l.u.s.trous, shimmering evening gown, fell under the sway of the lights and the music, and was more like her old self than she had been for months; the papers had been kept out of her way, and she did not know that Jack had returned from India. Stephen Foster was absorbed in the _menu_ and the wine-card, and Nevill, in the highest of spirits, laughed and chatted incessantly. He was ignorant of something that had occurred that very day, else his evening's pleasure would surely have been spoiled.

To understand the incident, the reader must go back to the previous night, or rather an early hour of the morning. For the last of the West End restaurants were putting out their lights and closing their doors when Jimmie Drexell, coming home from a "smoker" at the Langham Sketch Club, ran across Bertie Raven in Piccadilly. It was a fortunate meeting.

The Honorable Bertie was with a couple of questionable companions, and he was intoxicated and very noisy; so much so that he had attracted the attention of a policeman, who was moving toward the group.

Jimmie, like a good Samaritan, promptly rescued his friend and took him to his own chambers in the Albany, as he was obviously unfit to go elsewhere. Bertie demurred at first, but his mood soon changed, and he became pliant and sullen. He roused a little when he found himself indoors, and demanded a drink. That being firmly refused, he muttered some incoherent words, flung himself down on a big couch in Jimmie's sitting-room, and lapsed into a drunken sleep.

Jimmie threw a rug over him, locked up the whisky, and went off to bed.

His first thought, when he woke about nine the next morning, was of his guest. Hearing footsteps in the outer room, he hurriedly got into dressing-gown and slippers and opened the communicating door. He was not prepared for what he saw. Bertie stood by the window, with the dull gray light on his haggard face and disordered hair, his crushed shirt-front and collar. A revolver, taken from a nearby cabinet, was in his hand. He was about to raise it to his forehead.

Jimmie was across the room at a bound, and, striking his friend's arm down, he sent the weapon clattering to the floor.

"Good G.o.d!" he cried. "What were you going to do?"

"End it all," gasped Bertie. He dropped into a chair and gave way to a burst of tears, which he tried hard to repress.

"What does it mean?" exclaimed Jimmie, breathing quick and deep. "Are you mad?"

Bertie lifted a ghastly, distorted face.

"It means ruin, old chap," he replied. "That's the plain truth. I wish you had let me alone."

"Come, this won't do, you know," said Jimmie. "You are not yourself this morning, and I don't wonder, after the condition I found you in last night. Things always look black after a spree. You exaggerate, of course, when you talk about ruin. You are all unstrung, Bertie. Tell me your troubles, and I'll do what I can to help you out of them."

Bertie shuddered as his eyes fell on the pistol at his feet.

"It's awfully good of you, old fellow," he answered huskily, "but you can't help me."

"How do you know that? Come, out with your story. Make a clean breast of it!"

Moved by his friend's kind appeal, the wretched young man confessed his troubles, speaking in dull, hopeless tones. It was the old story--a brief career on the road to ruin, from start to finish. A woman was at the bottom of it--when is it otherwise? Bertie had not reformed when he had the chance; Flora, the chorus-girl of the Frivolity, had exercised too strong an influence over him. His income would scarcely have kept her in flowers, and to supply her with jewels and dinners and a hundred other luxuries, as well as to repay money lost at cards, he had plunged deeper into the books of Benjamin and Company, hoping each time that some windfall would stave off disaster. Disregarding the advice of a few sincere friends, he had continued his mad course of dissipation. And now the blow had fallen--sooner than he had reason to expect. A bill for a large amount was due that very day, and Benjamin and Company refused to renew it; they demanded both interest and princ.i.p.al, and would give no easier terms.

"You'd better let me have that," Bertie concluded, desperately, pointing to the pistol.

Jimmie kicked the weapon under the table, put his hands deep into the pockets of his dressing gown, and whistled thoughtfully.

"Yes, it's bad," he said. "So you've gone to the Jews! You ought to have known better--but that's the way with you chaps who are fed with silver spoons. I'm not a saint myself--"

"Are you going to preach?" put in Bertie, sullenly.

"No; my little lecture is over. Cheer up and face the music, my boy.

It's not as bad as you think. Surely your father will get you out of the sc.r.a.pe."

"Do you suppose I would tell him?" Bertie cried, savagely. "That would be worse than--well, you know what I was going to do. It's just because of the governor that I can't bear to face the thing. He has paid my debts three times before, and he vowed that if I ran up any more bills he would ship me off to one of his ranches in Western America. He will keep his word, too."

"Ranch life isn't bad," said Jimmie.

"Don't talk about it! I would rather kill myself than go out there, away from England and all that one cares for. You know how it is, old man, don't you? London is the breath of life to me, with its clubs and theaters, and suppers, and jolly good fellows, and--"

"And Flora!" Jimmie supplemented drily.

"D--n Flora! She threw up the Friv yesterday and slipped off to the Continent with Dozy Molyneaux. I'm done with _her_, anyway! But what does it all matter? I'm ruined, and I must go under. Give me a drink, old chap--a stiff one."

"You can't have it, Bertie. Now, don't get riled--listen to me. Where was your father while you were going the pace so heavily?"