The Black Bag Part 11

"I was afraid--afraid his actions might have seemed peculiar, to-night ..."

"There are lots of things I don't understand, Miss Calendar. Some day, perhaps, it will all clear up,--this trouble of yours. At least, one supposes it is trouble, of some sort. And then you will tell me the whole story.... Won't you?" Kirkwood insisted.

"I'm afraid not," she said, with a smile of shadowed sadness. "We are to say good night in a moment or two, and--it will be good-by as well. It's unlikely that we shall ever meet again."

"I refuse positively to take such a gloomy view of the case!"

She shook her head, laughing with him, but with shy regret. "It's so, none the less. We are leaving London this very night, my father and I--leaving England, for that matter."

"Leaving England?" he echoed. "You're not by any chance bound for America, are you?"

"I ... can't tell you."

"But you can tell me this: are you booked on the _Minneapolis_?"

"No--o; it is a--quite another boat."

"Of course!" he commented savagely. "It wouldn't be me to have _any_ sort of luck!"

She made no reply beyond a low laugh. He stared gloomily out of his window, noting indifferently that they were pa.s.sing the National Gallery. On their left Trafalgar Square stretched, broad and bare, a wilderness of sooty stone with an air of mutely tolerating its incongruous fountains. Through Charing Cross roared a tide-rip of motor-busses and hackney carriages.

Glumly the young man foresaw the pa.s.sing of his abbreviated romance; their destination was near at hand. Brentwick had been right, to some extent, at least; it was quite true that the curtain had been rung up that very night, upon Kirkwood's Romance; unhappily, as Brentwick had not foreseen, it was immediately to be rung down.

The cab rolled soberly into the Strand.

"Since we are to say good-by so very soon," suggested Kirkwood, "may I ask a parting favor, Miss Calendar?"

She regarded him with friendly eyes. "You have every right," she affirmed gently.

"Then please to tell me frankly: are you going into any further danger?"

"And is that the only boon you crave at my hands, Mr. Kirkwood?"

"Without impertinence ..."

For a little time, waiting for him to conclude his vague phrase, she watched him in an expectant silence. But the man was diffident to a degree--At length, somewhat unconsciously, "I think not," she answered.

"No; there will be no danger awaiting me at Mrs. Hallam's. You need not fear for me any more--Thank you."

He lifted his brows at the unfamiliar name. "Mrs. Hallam--?"

"I am going to her house in Craven Street."

"Your father is to meet you there?"--persistently.

"He promised to."

"But if he shouldn't?"

"Why--" Her eyes clouded; she pursed her lips over the conjectural annoyance. "Why, in that event, I suppose--It would be very embarra.s.sing.

You see, I don't know Mrs. Hallam; I don't know that she expects me, unless my father is already there. They are old friends--I could drive round for a while and come back, I suppose."

But she made it plain that the prospect did not please her.

"Won't you let me ask if Mr. Calender is there, before you get out, then? I don't like to be dismissed," he laughed; "and, you know, you shouldn't go wandering round all alone."

The cab drew up. Kirkwood put a hand on the door and awaited her will.

"It--it would be very kind ... I hate to impose upon you."

He turned the k.n.o.b and got out. "If you'll wait one moment," he said superfluously, as he closed the door.

Pausing only to verify the number, he sprang up the steps and found the bell-b.u.t.ton.

It was a modest little residence, in nothing more remarkable than its neighbors, unless it was for a certain air of extra grooming: the area railing was sleek with fresh black paint; the doorstep looked the better for vigorous stoning; the door itself was immaculate, its bra.s.ses shining l.u.s.trous against red-lacquered woodwork. A soft glow filled the fanlight.

Overhead the drawing-room windows shone with a cozy, warm radiance.

The door opened, framing the figure of a maid sketched broadly in ma.s.ses of somber black and dead white.

"Can you tell me, is Mr. Calendar here?"

The servant's eyes left his face, looked past him at the waiting cab, and returned.

"I'm not sure, sir. If you will please step in."

Kirkwood hesitated briefly, then acceded. The maid closed the door.

"What name shall I say, sir?"

"Mr. Kirkwood."

"If you will please to wait one moment, sir--"

He was left in the entry hall, the servant hurrying to the staircase and up. Three minutes elapsed; he was on the point of returning to the girl, when the maid reappeared.

"Mrs. Hallam says, will you kindly step up-stairs, sir."

Disgruntled, he followed her; at the head of the stairs she bowed him into the drawing-room and again left him to his own resources.

Nervous, annoyed, he paced the floor from wall to wall, his footfalls silenced by heavy rugs. As the delay was prolonged he began to fume with impatience, wondering, half regretting that he had left the girl outside, definitely sorry that he had failed to name his errand more explicitly to the maid. At another time, in another mood, he might have accorded more appreciation to the charm of the apartment, which, betraying the feminine touch in every detail of arrangement and furnishing, was very handsome in an unconventional way. But he was quite heedless of externals.

Wearied, he deposited himself sulkily in an armchair by the hearth.

From a boudoir on the same floor there came murmurs of two voices, a man's and a woman's. The latter laughed prettily.

"Oh, any time!" snorted the American. "Any time you're through with your confounded flirtation, Mr. George B. Calendar!"

The voices rose, approaching. "Good night," said the woman gaily; "farewell and--good luck go with you!"

"Thank you. Good night," replied the man more conservatively.