The Yellow Crayon Part 4

"I thank you very much," Mr. Sabin said, "but I must beg to be excused.

I am expecting some despatches at my hotel. If you are successful this afternoon you will perhaps do me the honour of dining with me to-night.

I will wait until eight-thirty."

The two men parted upon the pavement. Mr. Skinner, with his small bowler hat on the back of his head, a fresh cigar in the corner of his mouth, and his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, strolled along Broadway with something akin to a smile parting his lips, and showing his yellow teeth.

"Darned old fool," he muttered. "To marry a slap-up handsome woman like that, and then pretend not to know what it means when she bolts. Guess I'll spoil his supper to-night."

Mr. Sabin, however, was recovering his spirits. He, too, was leaning back in the corner of his carriage with a faint smile brightening his hard, stern face. But, unlike Mr. Skinner, he did not talk to himself.

CHAPTER IV

R. Sabin, who was never, for its own sake, fond of solitude, had ordered dinner for two at eight-thirty in the general dining-room. At a few minutes previous to that hour Mr. Skinner presented himself.

Mr. Skinner was not in the garb usually affected by men of the world who are invited to dine out. The long day's exertion, too, had had its effect upon his linen. His front, indeed, through a broad gap, confessed to a foundation of blue, and one of his cuffs showed a marked inclination to escape from his wrist over his knuckles. His face was flushed, and he exhaled a strong odour of cigars and c.o.c.ktails.

Nevertheless, Mr. Sabin was very glad to see him, and to receive the folded sheet of paper which he at once produced.

"I have taken the liberty," Mr. Sabin remarked, on his part, "of adding a trifle to the amount we first spoke of, which I beg you will accept from me as a mark of my grat.i.tude for your promptness."

"Sure!" Mr. Skinner answered tersely, receiving the little roll of bills without hesitation, and retreating into a quiet corner, where he carefully counted and examined every one. "That's all right!" he announced at the conclusion of his task. "Come and have one with me now before you read your little billet-doux, eh?"

"I shall not read your report until after dinner," Mr. Sabin said, "and I think if you are ready that we might as well go in. At the head-waiter's suggestion I have ordered a c.o.c.ktail with the oysters, and if we are much later he seemed to fear that it might affect the condition of the--I think it was terrapin, he said."

Mr. Skinner stopped short. His tone betrayed emotion.

"Did you say terrapin, sir?"

Mr. Sabin nodded. Mr. Skinner at once took his arm.

"Guess we'll go right in," he declared. "I hate to have a good meal spoiled."

They were an old-looking couple. Mr. Sabin quietly but faultlessly attired in the usual evening dinner garb, Mr. Skinner ill-dressed, untidy, unwashed and frowsy. But here at least Mr. Sabin's incognito had been unavailing, for he had stayed at the hotel several times--as he remembered with an odd little pang--with Lucille, and the head-waiter, with a low bow, ushered them to their table. Mr. Skinner saw the preparations for their repast, the oysters, the c.o.c.ktails in tall gla.s.ses, the magnum of champagne in ice, and chuckled. To take supper with a duke was a novelty to him, but he was not shy. He sat down and tucked his serviette into his waistcoat, raised his gla.s.s, and suddenly set it down again.

"The boss!" he exclaimed in amazement.

Mr. Sabin turned his head in the direction which his companion had indicated. Coming hastily across the room towards them, already out of breath as though with much hurrying, was a thick-set, powerful man, with the brutal face and coa.r.s.e lips of a prizefighter; a beard cropped so short as to seem the growth of a few days only covered his chin, and his moustache, treated in the same way, was not thick enough to conceal a cruel mouth. He was carefully enough dressed, and a great diamond flashed from his tie. There was a red mark round his forehead where his hat had been, and the perspiration was streaming from his forehead. He strode without hesitation to the table where Mr. Sabin and his guest were sitting, and without even a glance at the former turned upon his myrmidon.

"Where's that report?" he cried roughly. "Where is it?"

Mr. Skinner seemed to have shrunk into a smaller man. He pointed across the table.

"I've given it to him," he said. "What's wrong, boss?"

The newcomer raised his hand as though to strike Skinner. He gnashed his teeth with the effort to control himself.

"You d.a.m.ned blithering idiot," he said hoa.r.s.ely, gripping the side of the table. "Why wasn't it presented to me first?"

"Guess it didn't seem worth while," Skinner answered. "There's nothing in the darned thing."

"You ignorant fool, hold your tongue," was the fierce reply.

The newcomer sank into a chair and wiped the perspiration from his streaming forehead. Mr. Sabin signaled to a waiter.

"You seem upset, Mr. Horser," he remarked politely. "Allow me to offer you a gla.s.s of wine."

Mr. Horser did not immediately reply, but he accepted the gla.s.s which the waiter brought him, and after a moment's hesitation drained its contents. Then he turned to Mr. Sabin.

"You said nothing about those letters you had had when you came to see me this morning!"

"It was you yourself," Mr. Sabin reminded him, "who begged me not to enter into particulars. You sent me on to Mr. Skinner. I told him everything."

Mr. Horser leaned over the table. His eyes were bloodshot, his tone was fierce and threatening. Mr. Sabin was coldly courteous. The difference between the demeanour of the two men was remarkable.

"You knew what those letters meant! This is a plot! Where is Skinner's report?"

Mr. Sabin raised his eyebrows. He signaled to the head-waiter.

"Be so good as to continue the service of my dinner," he ordered. "The champagne is a trifle too chilled. You can take it out of the cooler."

The man bowed, with a curious side glance at Horser.

"Certainly, your Grace!"

Horser was almost speechless with anger.

"Are you going to answer my questions?" he demanded thickly.

"I have no particular objection to doing so," Mr. Sabin answered, "but until you can sit up and compose yourself like an ordinary individual, I decline to enter into any conversation with you at all."

Again Mr. Horser raised his voice, and the glare in his eyes was like the glare of a wild beast.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked. "Do you know who you're talking to?"

Mr. Sabin looked at him coolly, and fingered his winegla.s.s.

"Well," he said, "I've a shocking memory for names, but yours is--Mr.

Horser, isn't it? I heard it for the first time this morning, and my memory will generally carry me through four-and-twenty hours."

There was a moment's silence. Horser was no fool. He accepted his defeat and dropped the bully.

"You're a stranger in this city, Mr. Sabin, and I guess you aren't altogether acquainted with our ways yet," he said. "But I want you to understand this. The report which is in your pocket has got to be returned to me. If I'd known what I was meddling with I wouldn't have touched your business for a hundred thousand dollars. It's got to be returned to me, I say!" he repeated in a more threatening tone.

Mr. Sabin helped himself to fish, and made a careful examination of the sauce.

"After all," he said meditatively, "I am not sure that I was wise in insisting upon a sauce piquante. I beg your pardon, Mr. Horser. Please do not think me inattentive, but I am very hungry. So, I believe, is my friend, Mr. Skinner. Will you not join us--or perhaps you have already dined?"

There was an ugly flush in Mr. Horser's cheeks, but he struggled to keep his composure.