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Love Insurance (version 2)

<h3> CHAPTER VIII AFTER THE TRAINED SEALS </h3> Mr. Minot opened his eyes on Thursday morning with the uncomfortable feeling that he was far from his beloved New York. For a moment he lay dazed, wandering in that dim borderland between sleep and waking. Then, suddenly, he remembered. "Oh, yes, by jove," he muttered, "I've been knighted. Groom of the Back-Stairs Scandals and Keeper of the Royal Jewels—that's me." He lifted his pillow. There on the white sheet sparkled the necklace of which the whole British nobility was proud—Chain Lightning's Collar. Some seventy-five blue-white diamonds, pear-shaped, perfectly graduated. His for the moment! "What's Harrowby up to, I wonder?" he reflected "The dear old top! Nice, pleasant little party if a policeman should find this in my pocket." Another perfect day shone in that narrow Spanish street. Up in Manhattan theatrical press agents were crowning huge piles of snow with posters announcing their attractions. Ferries were held up by ice in the river. A breeze from the Arctic swept round the Flatiron building. Here lazy summer lolled on the bosom of the town. In the hotel dining-room Mr. Minot encountered Jack Paddock, superb in white flannels above his grapefruit. He accepted Paddock's invitation to join him. "By the way," said Mrs. Bruce's jester, holding up a small, badly printed newspaper, "have you made the acquaintance of the San Marco Mail yet?" "No—what's that?" "A morning newspaper—by courtesy. Started here a few weeks back by a noiseless little Spaniard from Havana named Manuel Gonzale. Slipped in here on his rubber soles, Gonzale did—dressed all in white—lovely lemon face—shifty, can't-catch-me eyes. And his newspaper—hot stuff, my boy. It has Town Topics looking like a consular report from Greenland." "Scandals?" asked Mr. Minot, also attacking a grapefruit. "Scandals and rumors of scandals. Mostly hints, you know. Several references this morning to our proud and haughty friend, Lord Harrowby. For example, Madame On Dit, writing in her column, on page one, has this to say: 'The impecunious but titled Englishman who has arrived in our midst recently with the idea of connecting with certain American dollars has an interesting time ahead of him, if rumor speaks true. The little incident in the lobby of a local hotel the other evening—which was duly reported in this column at the time—was but a mild beginning. The gentleman in charge of the claimant to the title held so jealously by our British friend promises immediate developments which will be rich, rare and racy.'" "Rich, rare and racy," repeated Minot thoughtfully. "Ah, yes—we were to watch Mr. Trimmer. I had almost forgot him in the excitement of last evening. By the way, does the Mail know anything about the disappearance of Chain Lightning's Collar?" "Not as yet," smiled Mr. Paddock, "although Madame On Dit claims to have been a guest at the dinner. By the way, what do you make of last night's melodramatic farce?" "I don't know what to make of it," answered Minot truthfully. He was suddenly conscious of the necklace in his inside coat pocket. "Then all I can say, my dear Watson," replied Mr. Paddock with burlesque seriousness, "is that you are unmistakably lacking in my powers of deduction. Give me a cigarette, and I'll tell you the name of the man who is gloating over those diamonds to-day." "All right," smiled Minot. "Go ahead." Mr. Paddock, reaching for a match tray, spoke in a low tone in Minot's ear. "Martin Wall," he said. He leaned back. "You ask how I arrived at my conclusion. Simple enough. I went through the list of guests for possible crooks, and eliminated them one by one. The man I have mentioned alone was left. Ever notice his eyes—remind me of Manuel Gonzale's. He's too polished, too slick, too good to be true. He's traveled too much—nobody travels as much as he has except for the very good reason that a detective is on the trail. And he made friends with simple old Harrowby on an Atlantic liner—that, if you read popular fiction, is alone enough to condemn him. Believe me, Dick, Martin Wall should be watched." "All right," laughed Minot, "you watch him." "I've a notion to. Harrowby makes me weary. Won't call in a solitary detective. Any one might think he doesn't want the necklace back." After breakfast Minot and Paddock played five sets of tennis on the hotel courts. And Mr. Minot won, despite the Harrowby diamonds in his trousers pocket, weighing him down. Luncheon over, Mr. Paddock suggested a drive to Tarragona Island. "A little bit of nowhere a mile off-shore," he said. "No man can ever know the true inwardness of the word lonesome until he's seen Tarragona." Minot hesitated. Ought he to leave the scene of action? Of action? He glanced about him. There was less action here than in a Henry James novel. The tangle of events in which he was involved rested for a siesta. So he and Mr. Paddock drove along the narrow neck of land that led from the mainland to Tarragona Island. They entered the kingdom of the lonely. Sandy beach with the ocean on one side, swamps on the other. Scrubby palms, disreputable foliage, here and there a cluster of seemingly deserted cottages—the world and its works apparently a million miles away. Yet out on one corner of that bleak forgotten acre stood the slim outline of a wireless, and in a little white house lived a man who, amid the sea-gulls and the sand-dunes, talked daily with great ships and cities far away. "I told you it was lonesome," said Mr. Paddock. "Lonesome," shivered Minot. "Even God has forgot this place. Only Marconi has remembered." And even as they wandered there amid the swamps, where alligators and rattlesnakes alone saw fit to dwell, back in San Marco the capable Mr. Trimmer was busy. By poster and by hand-bill he was spreading word of his newest coup, so that by evening no one in town—save the few who were most concerned—was unaware of a development rich, rare and racy. Minot and Paddock returned late, and their dinner was correspondingly delayed. It was eight-thirty o'clock when they at last strolled into the lobby of the De la Pax. There they encountered Miss Meyrick, her father and Lord Harrowby. "We're taking Harrowby to the movies," said Miss Meyrick. "He confesses he's never been. Won't you come along?" She was one of her gay selves to-night, white, slim, laughing, irresistible. Minot, looking at her, thought that she could make even Tarragona Island bearable. He knew of no greater tribute to her charm. The girl and Harrowby led the way, and Minot and Paddock followed with Spencer Meyrick. The old man was an imposing figure in his white serge, which accentuated the floridness of his face. He talked of an administration that did not please him, of a railroad fallen on evil days. Now and again he paused and seemed to lose the thread of what he was saying, while his eyes dwelt on his daughter, walking ahead. They arrived shortly at the San Marco Opera-House, devoted each evening to three acts of "refined vaudeville" and six of the newest film releases. It was here that the rich loitering in San Marco found their only theatrical amusement, and forgetting Broadway, laughed and were thrilled with simpler folk. A large crowd was fairly fighting to get in and Mr. Paddock, who volunteered to buy the tickets, was forced to take his place at the end of a long line. Finally they reached the dim interior of the opera-house, and were shown to seats far down in front. By hanging back in the dusk Minot managed to secure the end seat, with Miss Meyrick at his side. Beyond her sat Lord Harrowby, gazing with rapt British seriousness at the humorous film that was being flashed on the screen. Between pictures Harrowby offered an opinion. "You in America are a jolly lot," he said. "Just fancy our best people in England attending a cinematograph exhibition." They tried to fancy it, but with his lordship there, they couldn't. Two more pictures ran their filmy lengths, while Mr. Minot sat entranced there in the half dark. It was not the pictures that entranced him. Rather, was it a lady's nearness, the flash of her smile, the hundred and one tones of her voice—all, all again as it had been in that ridiculous automobile—just before the awakening. After the third picture the lights of the auditorium were turned up, and the hour of vaudeville arrived. On to the stage strolled a pert confident youth garbed in shabby grandeur, who attempted sidewalk repartee. He clipped his jests from barber-shop periodicals, bought his songs from an ex-barroom song writer, and would have gone to the mat with any one who denied that his act was "refined." Mr. Minot, listening to his gibes, thought of the Paddock jest factory and Mrs. Bruce. When the young man had wrung the last encore from a kindly audience, the drop-curtain was raised and revealed on the stage in gleaming splendor Captain Ponsonby's troupe of trained seals. An intelligent aggregation they proved, balancing balls on their small heads, juggling flaming torches, and taking as their just due lumps of sugar from the captain's hand as they finished each feat. The audience recalled them again and again, and even the peerage was captivated. "Clever beasts, aren't they?" Lord Harrowby remarked. And as Captain Ponsonby took his final curtain, his lordship added: "Er—what follows the trained seals?" The answer to Harrowby's query came almost immediately, and a startling answer it proved to be. Into the glare of the footlights stepped Mr. Henry Trimmer. His manner was that of the conquering hero. For a moment he stood smiling and bowing before the approving multitude. Then he raised a hand commanding silence. "My dear friends," he said, "I appreciate this reception. As I said in my handbill of this afternoon, I am working in the interests of justice. The gentleman who accompanies me to your delightful little city is beyond any question whatsoever George Harrowby, the eldest son of the Earl of Raybrook, and as such he is entitled to call himself Lord Harrowby. I know the American people well enough to feel sure that when they realize the facts they will demand that justice be done. That is why I have prevailed upon Lord Harrowby to meet you here in this, your temple of amusement, and put his case before you. His lordship will talk to you for a time with a view to getting acquainted. He has chosen for the subject of his discourse The Old Days at Rakedale Hall. Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor to introduce—the real Lord Harrowby." Out of the wings shuffled the lean and gloomy Englishman whom Mr. Trimmer had snatched from the unknown to cloud a certain wedding-day. The applause burst forth. It shook the building. From the gallery descended a shrill penetrating whistle of acclaim. Mr. Minot glanced at the face of the girl beside him. She was looking straight ahead, her cheeks bright red, her eyes flashing with anger. Beyond, the face of Harrowby loomed, frozen, terrible. "Shall we—go?" Minot whispered. "By no means," the girl answered. "We should only call attention to our presence here. I know at least fifty people in this audience. We must see it through." The applause was stilled at last and, supremely fussed, the "real Lord Harrowby" faced that friendly throng. "Dear—er—people," he said. "As Mr. Trimmer has told you, we seek only justice. I am not here to argue my right to the title I claim—that I can do at the proper time and place. I am simply proposing to go back—back into the past many years—back to the days when I was a boy at Rakedale Hall. I shall picture those days as no impostor could picture them—and when I have done I shall allow you to judge." And there in that crowded little southern opera-house on that hot February night, the actor who followed the trained seals proceeded to go back. With unfaltering touch he sketched for his audience the great stone country seat called Rakedale Hall, where for centuries the Harrowbys had dwelt. It was as though he took his audience there to visit—through the massive iron gates up the broad avenue bordered with limes, until the high chimneys, the pointed gables, the mullioned windows, and the walls half hidden by ivy, creeping roses and honeysuckles were revealed to them. He took them through the house to the servants' quarters—which he called "the offices"—out into the kitchen gardens, thence to the paved quadrangle of the stables with its arched gateway and the chiming clock above. Tennis-courts, grape-houses, conservatories, they visited breathlessly; they saw over the brow of the hill the low square tower of the old church and the chimneys of the vicar's modest house. And far away, they beheld the trees that furnished cover to the little beasts it was the Earl of Raybrook's pleasure to hunt in the season. Becoming more specific, he spoke of the neighbors, and a bit of romance crept in in the person of the fair-haired Honorable Edith Townshend, who lived to the west of Rakedale Hall. He described at length the picturesque personality of the "racing parson," neighbor on the south, and in full accord with the ideas of the sporting Earl of Raybrook. The events of his youth, he said, crowded back upon him as he recalled this happy scene, and emotion well-nigh choked him. However, he managed to tell of a few of the celebrities who came to dinner, of their bon mots, their preferences in cuisine. He mentioned the thrilling morning when he was nearly drowned in the brook that skirted the "purple meadow"; also the thrilling afternoon when he hid his mother's famous necklace in the biscuit box on the sideboard, and upset a whole household. And he narrated a dozen similar exploits, each garnished with small illuminating details. His audience sat fascinated. All who listened felt that his words rang true—even Lord Harrowby himself, sitting far forward, his hand gripping the seat in front of him, until the white of his knuckles showed through. Next the speaker shifted his scene to Eton, thrilled his hearers with the story of his revolt against Oxford, of his flight to the States, his wild days in Arizona. And he pulled out of his pocket a letter written by the old Earl of Raybrook himself, profanely expostulating with him for his madness, and begging that he return to ascend to the earldom when the old man was no more. The "real Lord Harrowby" finished reading this somewhat pathetic appeal with a little break in his voice, and stood looking out at the audience. "If my brother Allan himself were in the house," he said, "he would have to admit that it is our father speaking in that letter." A rustle of interest ran through the auditorium. The few who had recognized Harrowby turned to stare at him now. For a moment he sat silent, his face a variety of colors in the dim light. Then with a cry of rage he leaped to his feet. "You stole that letter, you cur," he cried. "You are a liar, a fraud, an impostor." The man on the stage stood shading his eyes with his hand. "Ah, Allan," he answered, "so you are here, after all? Is that quite the proper greeting—after all these years?" A roar of sympathetic applause greeted this sally. There was no doubt as to whose side Mr. Trimmer's friend, the public, was on. Harrowby stood in his place, his lips twitching, his eyes for once blazing and angry. Dick Minot was by this time escorting Miss Meyrick up the aisle, and they came quickly to the cool street. Harrowby, Paddock and Spencer Meyrick followed immediately. His lordship was most contrite. "A thousand pardons," he pleaded. "Really I can't tell you how sorry I am, Cynthia. To have made you conspicuous—what was I thinking of? But he maddened me—I—" "Don't worry, Allan," said Miss Meyrick gently. "I like you the better for being maddened." Old Spencer Meyrick said nothing, but Minot noted that his face was rather red, and his eyes were somewhat dangerous. They all walked back to the hotel in silence. From the hotel lobby, as if by prearrangement, Harrowby followed Miss Meyrick and her father into a parlor. Minot and Paddock were left alone. "My word, old top," said Mr. Paddock facetiously, "a rough night for the nobility. What do you think? That lad's story sounded like a little bit of all right to me. Eh, what?" "It did sound convincing," returned the troubled Minot. "But then—a servant at Rakedale Hall could have concocted it." "Mayhap," said Mr. Paddock. "However, old Spencer Meyrick looked to me like a volcano I'd want to get out from under. Poor old Harrowby! I'm afraid there's a rift within the loot—nay, no loot at all." "Jack," said Minot firmly, "that wedding has got to take place." "Why, what's it to you?" "It happens to be everything. But keep it under your hat." "Great Scott—does Harrowby owe you money?" "I can't explain just at present, Jack." "Oh, very well," replied Mr. Paddock. "But take it from me, old man—she's a million times too good for him." "A million," laughed Mr. Minot bitterly. "You underestimate." Paddock stood staring with wonder at his friend. "You lisp in riddles, my boy," he said. "Do I?" returned Minot. "Maybe some day I'll make it all clear." He parted from Paddock and ascended to the third floor. As he wandered through the dark passageways in search of his room, he bumped suddenly into a heavy man, walking softly. Something about the contour of the man in the dark gave him a suggestion. "Good evening, Mr. Wall," he said. The scurry of hurrying footsteps, but no answer. Minot went on to 389, and placed his key in the lock. It would not turn. He twisted the knob of the door—it was unlocked. He stepped inside and flashed on the light. His small abode was in a mad disorder. The chiffonier drawers had been emptied on the floor, the bed was torn to pieces, the rug thrown in a corner. Minot smiled to himself. Some one had been searching—searching for Chain Lightning's Collar. Who? Who but the man he had bumped against in that dark passageway? <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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