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Love Insurance (version 2)

<h3> CHAPTER XII EXIT A LADY, LAUGHINGLY </h3> After dinner Minot lighted a cigar and descended into the hotel gardens for a stroll. Farther and farther he strayed down the shadowy gravel paths, until only the faint far suggestion of music at his back recalled the hotel's lights and gaiety. It was a deserted land he penetrated; just one figure did he encounter in a fifteen minutes' walk—a little man clad all in white scurrying like a wraith in the black shade of the royal palms. At a distant corner of the grounds near the tennis-courts was a summer-house in which tea was served of an afternoon. Into this Minot strolled, to finish his cigar and ponder the day's developments in the drama he was playing. As he drew a comfortable chair from moonlight into shadow he heard a little gasp at his elbow, and turning, beheld a beautiful vision. Gabrielle Rose was made for the spotlight, and that being absent, moonlight served as well. Under its soft merciful rays she stood revealed—the beauty thousands of playgoers knew and worshiped. Dick Minot gazed at her in awe. He was surprised that she held out her hand to him, a smile of the utmost friendliness on her face. "How fortunate," she said, as though speaking the cue for a lovely song. "I stand here, the wonder of this old Spanish night getting into my very blood—and the only thing lacking in the picture is—a man. And then, you come." "I'm glad to be of service," said Minot, tossing away his cigar. "What an unromantic way to put it! Really, this chance meeting—it was a chance meeting, I suppose?—" "A lucky chance," he agreed. She pouted. "Then you did not follow? Unromantic to the last! But as I was saying, this chance meeting is splendid. My train goes in an hour—and I wanted so very much to see you—once again." "You flatter me." "Ah—you don't understand." She dropped into a chair. "I wanted to see you—to put your conscience at rest. You were so sorry when you had to be—cruel—to me to-day. You will be so glad to know that it has all turned out happily, after all." "What do you mean?" asked Minot, new apprehensions rising in his mind. "Alas, if I could only tell you." She was laughing at him now—an experience he did not relish. "But—my lips are sealed, as we say on the stage. I can only give you the hint. You thought you left me a broken vanquished woman. How the thought did pain you! Well, your victory was not absolute. Let that thought console you." "You are too kind," Minot answered. "And—you are glad I am not leaving San Marco quite beaten?" "Oh, yes—I'm wild with pleasure." "Really—that is sweet of you. I am so sorry we must part. The moonlight, the palms, the distant music—all so romantic. But—we shall meet again?" "I don't know." "Don't know? How unkind—when it all depends on you. You will look me up in New York, won't you? New York is not so romantic—but I shall try to make it up to you. I shall sing for you. Just a Little." She stood up, and held out a slim white hand. "Good-by, Mr. Minot." Still she laughed. "It has been so good to know you." "Er—good-by," said Minot. He took the hand. He heard her humming beneath her breath—humming Just a Little. "I've enjoyed your singing immensely." She laughed outright now—a silvery joyous laugh. And, refusing the baffled Minot's offer to take her back to the hotel, she fled away from him down the dark path. He fell back into his chair, and lighted another cigar. Exit the Gaiety lady, laughing merrily. What was the meaning of that? What new complication must he meet and solve? For his answer, he had only to return to the hotel. On the steps he was met by Lord Harrowby's man, agitated, puffing. "Been looking all about for you, sir," he announced. "'Is lordship wishes to see you at once—most h'important." "More trouble, Minot," was Lord Harrowby's gloomy greeting. "Sit down, old chap. Just had a very nasty visitor." "Sorry to hear it." "Little brown monkey of a man—Manuel Gonzale, proprietor of the San Marco Mail. I say, old boy, there's a syllable missing in the name of that paper. Do you get me?" "You mean it should be the San Marco Blackmail? Pretty good, Harrowby, pretty good." And Minot added to himself "for you." "That's exactly what I do mean. Gabrielle has sold out her bunch of letters to Mr. Gonzale. And it appears from the chap's sly hints that unless I pay him ten thousand dollars before midnight, the best of those letters will be in to-morrow's Mail." "He's got his nerve—working a game like that," said Minot. "Nerve—not at all," replied Harrowby. "He's as safe as a child in its own nursery. He knows as well as anybody that the last thing I'd do would be to appeal to the police. Too much publicity down that road. Well?" "His price is a bit cheaper than Gabrielle's." "Yes, but not cheap enough. I'm broke, old boy. The governor and I are on very poor terms. Shouldn't think of appealing to him." "We might pawn Chain Lightning's Collar," Minot suggested. "Never! There must be some way—only three days before the wedding. We mustn't lose on the stretch, old boy." A pause. Minot sat glumly. "Have you no suggestion?" Harrowby asked anxiously. "I have not," said Minot, rising. "But I perceive clearly that it now devolves on little Dicky Minot to up and don his fighting armor once more." "Really, old boy, I'm sorry," said Harrowby. "I'm hoping things may quiet down a bit after a time." "So am I," replied Minot with feeling. "If they don't I can see nervous prostration and a hospital cot ahead for me. You stay here and study the marriage service—I'm going out on the broad highway again." He went down into the lobby and tore Jack Paddock away from the side of one of the Omaha beauties. Mr. Paddock was resplendent in evening clothes, and thoughtful, for on the morrow Mrs. Bruce was to give an important luncheon. "Jack," Minot said, "I'm going to confide in you. I'm going to tell you why I am in San Marco." "Unbare your secrets," Paddock answered. Crossing the quiet plaza Minot explained to his friend the matter of the insurance policy written by the romantic Jephson in New York. He told of how he had come south with the promise to his employer that Miss Cynthia Meyrick would change her mind only over his dead body. Incredulous exclamations broke from the flippant Paddock as he listened. "Knowing your love of humor," Minot said, "I hasten to add the crowning touch. The moment I saw Cynthia Meyrick I realized that if I couldn't marry her myself life would be an uninteresting blank forever after. Every time I've seen her since I've been surer of it. What's the answer, Jack?" Paddock whistled. "Delicious," he cried. "Pardon me—I'm speaking as a rank outsider. She is a charming girl. And you adore her! Bless my soul, how the plot does thicken! Why don't you resign, you idiot?" "My first idea. Tried it, and it wouldn't work. Besides, if I did resign, I couldn't stick around and queer Jephson's chances—even supposing she'd listen to my pleading, which she wouldn't." "Children, see the very Christian martyr! If it was me I'd chuck the job and elope with—oh, no, you couldn't do that, of course. It would be a low trick. You are in a hole, aren't you?" "Five million fathoms deep. There's nothing to do but see the wedding through. And you're going to help me. Just now, Mr. Manuel Gonzale has a packet of love-letters written by Harrowby in his salad days, which he proposes to print on the morrow unless he is paid not to to-night. You and I are on our way to take 'em away from him." "Um—but if I help you in this I'll be doing you a mean trick. Can't quite make out, old boy, whether to stand by you in a business or a personal way." "You're going to stand by me in a business way. I want you along to-night to lend your moral support while I throttle that little blackmailer.". "Ay, ay, sir. I've been hearing some things about Gonzale myself. Go to it!" They groped about in a dark hallway hunting the Mail office. "Shady are the ways of journalism," commented Paddock. "By the way, I've just thought of one for Mrs. Bruce to spring to-morrow. In case we fail and the affinity letters are published, she might say that Harrowby's epistles got into the Mail once too often. It's only a rough idea—ah—I see you don't like it. Well, here's success to our expedition." They opened the door of the Mail office. Mr. O'Neill sat behind a desk, the encyclopedia before him, seeking lively material for the morrow's issue. Mr. Howe hammered at a typewriter. Both of the newspaper men looked up at the intrusion. "Ah, gentlemen," said O'Neill, coming forward. "What can I do for you?" "Who are you?" Minot asked. "What? Can it be? Is my name not a household word in San Marco? I am managing editor of the Mail." His eyes lighted on Mr. Paddock's giddy attire. "We can't possibly let you give a ball here to-night, if that's what you want." "Very humorous," said Minot. "But our wants are far different. I won't beat around the bush. You have some letters here written by a friend of mine to a lady he adored—at the moment. You are going to print them in to-morrow's Mail unless my friend is easy enough to pay you ten thousand dollars. He isn't going to pay you anything. We've come for those letters—and we'll get them or run you and your boss out of town in twenty-four hours—you raw little blackmailers!" "Blackmailers!" Mr. O'Neill's eyes seemed to catch fire from his hair. His face paled. "I've been in the newspaper business seventeen years, and nobody ever called me a blackmailer and got away with it. I'm in a generous mood. I'll give you one chance to take that back—" "Nonsense. It happens to be true—" put in Paddock. "I'm talking to your friend here." O'Neill's breath came fast. "I'll attend to you, you lily of the field, in a minute. You—you liar—are you going to take that back?" "No," cried Minot. He saw a wild Irishman coming for him, breathing fire. He squared himself to meet the attack! But the man at the typewriter leaped up and seized O'Neill from behind. "Steady, Bob," he shouted. "How do you know this fellow isn't right?" Unaccountably the warlike one collapsed into a chair. "Damn it, I know he's right," he groaned. "That's what makes me rave. Why didn't you let me punch him? It would have been some satisfaction. Of course he's right. I had a hunch this was a blackmailing sheet from the moment my hot fingers closed on Gonzale's money. But so long as nobody told us, we were all right." He glared angrily at Minot. "You—you killjoy," he cried. "You skeleton at the feast. You've put us in a lovely fix." "Well, I'm sorry," said Minot, "but I don't understand these heroics." "It's all up now, Harry," moaned O'Neill. "The free trial is over and we've got to send the mattress back to the factory. Here in this hollow lotus land, ever to live and lie reclined—I was putting welcome on the mat for a fate like that. Back to the road for us. That human fish over in the Chronicle office was a prophet—'You look unlucky—maybe they'll give you jobs on the Mail.' Remember." "Cool off, Bob," Howe said. He turned to Minot and Paddock. "Of course you don't understand. You see, we're strangers here. Drifted in last night broke and hungry, looking for jobs. We got them—under rather unusual circumstances. Things looked suspicious—the proprietor parted with money without screaming for help, and no regular newspaper is run like that. But—when you're down and out, you know—" "I understand," said Minot, smiling. "And I'm sorry I called you what I did. I apologize. And I hate to be a—er—a killjoy. But as a matter of fact, your employer is a blackmailer, and it's best you should know it." "Yes," put in Paddock. "Do you gentlemen happen to have heard where the editor of Mr. Gonzale's late newspaper, published in Havana, is now?" "We do not," said O'Neill, "but maybe you'll tell us." "I will. He's in prison, doing ten years for blackmail. I understand that Mr. Gonzale prefers to involve his editors, rather than himself." O'Neill came over and held out his hand to Minot. "Shake, son," he said. "Thank God I didn't waste my strength on you. Gonzale will be in here in a minute—" "About those letters?" Howe inquired. "Yes," said Minot. "They were written to a Gaiety actress by a man who is in San Marco for his wedding next Tuesday—Lord Harrowby." "His ludship again," O'Neill remarked. "Say, I always thought the South was democratic." "Well," said Howe, "we owe you fellows something for putting us wise. We've stood for a good deal, but never for blackmailing. As a matter of fact, Gonzale hasn't brought the letters in yet, but he's due at any minute. When he comes—take the letters away from him. I shan't interfere. How about you, Bob?" "I'll interfere," said O'Neill, "and I'll interfere strong—if I think you fellows ain't leaving enough of little Manuel for me to caress—" The door opened, and the immaculate proprietor of the Mail came noiselessly into the room. His eyes narrowed when they fell on the strangers there. "Are you Manuel Gonzale?" Minot demanded. "I—I am." The sly little eyes darted everywhere. "Proprietor of the Mail?" "Yes." "The gentleman who visited Lord Harrowby an hour back?" "Man! Man! You're wasting time," O'Neill cried. "Excuse me," smiled Minot. "Unintentional, I assure you." He seized the little Spaniard suddenly by the collar. "We're here for Lord Harrowby's letters," he said. His other hand began a rapid search of Manuel Gonzale's pockets. "Let me go, you thief," screamed the proprietor of the Mail. He squirmed and fought. "Let me go!" He writhed about to face his editors. "You fools! What are you doing, standing there? Help me—help—" "We're waiting," said O'Neill. "Waiting for our turn. Remember your promise, son. Enough of him left for me." Minot and his captive slid back and forth across the floor. The three others watched, O'Neill in high glee. "Go to it!" he cried. "That's Madame On Dit you're waltzing with. I speak for the next dance, Madame." Mr. Minot's eager hand came away from the Spaniard's inner waistcoat pocket, and in it was a packet of perfumed letters, tied with a cute blue ribbon. He released his victim. "Sorry to be so impolite," he said. "But I had to have these to-night." Gonzale turned on him with an evil glare. "Thief!" he cried. "I'll have the law on you for this." "I doubt that," smiled Minot. "Jack, I guess that about concludes our business with the Mail." He turned to Howe and O'Neill. "You boys look me up at the De la Pax. I want to wish you bon voyage when you start north. For the present—good-by." And he and Paddock departed. "You're a fine pair," snarled Gonzale, when the door had closed. "A fine pair to take my salary money, and then stand by and see me strangled." "You're not strangled yet," said O'Neill. He came slowly toward his employer, like a cat stalking a bird. "Did you get my emphasis on the word yet?" Gonzale paled beneath his lemon skin, and got behind a desk. "Now, boys," he pleaded, "I didn't mean anything. I'll be frank with you—I have been a little indiscreet here. But that's all over now. It would be dangerous to try any more—er—deals at present. And I want you to stay on here until I can get new men in your places." "Save your breath," said O'Neill through his teeth. "Your work has been excellent—excellent," went on Gonzale hastily. "I feel I am not paying you enough. Stay on with me until your week is up. I will give you a hundred each when you go—and I give you my word I'll attempt nothing dangerous while you are here." He retreated farther from O'Neill. "Wait a minute, Bob," said Howe. "No blackmailing stunts while we stay?" "Well—I shouldn't call them that—" "No blackmailing stunts?" "No—I promise." "Harry," wailed the militant O'Neill. "What's the matter with you? We ought to thrash him—now—and—" "Go back on the road?" Howe inquired. "A hundred dollars each, Bob. It means New York in a parlor car." "Then you will stay?" cried Gonzale. "Yes,—we'll stay," said Howe firmly. "See here—" pleaded O'Neill. "Oh, what's the use? This dolce far niente has got us." "We stay only on the terms you name," stipulated Howe. "It is agreed," said Gonzale, smiling wanly. "The loss of those letters cost me a thousand dollars—and you stood by. However, let us forgive and forget. Here—Madame On Dit's copy for to-morrow." Timidly he held out a roll of paper toward O'Neill. "All right." O'Neill snatched it. "But I'm going to edit it from now on. For instance, there's a comma I don't like. And I'm going to keep an eye on you, my hearty." "As you wish," said Gonzale humbly. "I—I am going out for a moment." The door closed noiselessly behind him. Howe and O'Neill stood looking at each other. "Well—you had your way," said O'Neill, shamefacedly. "I don't seem to be the man I was. It must be the sunshine and the posies. And the thought of the road again." "A hundred each," said Howe grimly. "We had to have it, Bob. It means New York." "Yes." O'Neill pondered. "But—that good-looking young fellow, Harry—the one who apologized to us for calling us blackmailers—" "Yes?" "I'd hate to meet him on the street to-morrow. Five days. A lot could happen in five days—" "What are your orders, Chief?" asked Howe. At that moment Minot, followed by Paddock was rushing triumphantly into the Harrowby suite. He threw down on the table a package of letters. "There they are!" he cried. "I—" He stopped. "Thanks," said Lord Harrowby wildly. "Thanks a thousand times. My dear Minot—we need you. My man has been to the theater—Trimmer is organizing a mob to board the Lileth!" "Board the Lileth?" "Yes—to search for that creature who calls himself Lord Harrowby." "Come on, Jack," Minot said to Paddock. They ran down several flights of stairs, through the lobby, and out into the street. "Where to?" panted Paddock. "The harbor!" Minot cried. As they passed the opera-house they saw a crowd forming and heard the buzz of many voices. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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