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Love Insurance (version 2)

<h3> CHAPTER XIV JERSEY CITY INTERFERES </h3> At ten o'clock that Saturday morning Lord Harrowby was engrossed in the ceremony of breakfast in his rooms. For the occasion he wore an orange and purple dressing-gown with a floral design no botanist could have sanctioned—the sort of dressing-gown that Arnold Bennett, had he seen it, would have made a leading character in a novel. He was cheerful, was Harrowby, and as he glanced through an old copy of the London Times he made strange noises in his throat, under the impression that he was humming a musical comedy chorus. There was a knock, and Harrowby cried: "Come in." Mr. Minot, fresh as the morning and nowhere near so hot, entered. "Feeling pretty satisfied with life, I'll wager," Minot suggested. "My dear chap, gay as—as—a robin," Harrowby replied. "Snatch your last giggle," said Minot. "Have one final laugh, and make it a good one. Then wake up." "Wake up? Why, I am awake—" "Oh, no—you're dreaming on a bed of roses. Listen! Martin Wall didn't go north with the impostor after all. Changed his mind. Look!" And Minot tossed something on the table, just abaft his lordship's eggs. "The devil! Chain Lightning's Collar!" cried Harrowby. "Back to its original storage vault," said Minot. "What is this, Harrowby? A Drury Lane melodrama?" "My word. I can't make it out." "Can't you? Got the necklace back this morning with a note from Martin Wall, saying I dropped it last night in the scrap on the deck of the Lileth." "Confound the thing!" sighed Harrowby, staring morosely at the diamonds. "My first impulse," said Minot, "is to hand the necklace back to you and gracefully withdraw. But of course I'm here to look after Jephson's interests—" "Naturally," put in Harrowby quickly. "And let me tell you that should this necklace be found before the wedding, Jephson is practically certain to pay that policy. I think you'd better keep it. They're not likely to search you again. If I took it—dear old chap—they search me every little while." "You didn't steal this, did you?" Minot asked. "Of course not." Harrowby flushed a delicate pink. "It belongs in our family—has for years. Everybody knows that." "Well, what is the trouble?" "I'll explain it all later. There's really nothing dishonorable—as men of the world look at such things. I give you my word that you can serve Mr. Jephson best by keeping the necklace for the present—and seeing to it that it does not fall into the hands of the men who are looking for it." Minot sat staring gloomily ahead of him. Then he reached out, took up the necklace, and restored it to his pocket. "Oh, very well," he said. "If I'm sent to jail, tell Thacker I went singing an epithalamium." He rose. "By the way," Harrowby remarked, "I'm giving a little dinner to-night—at the Manhattan Club. May I count on you?" "Surely," Minot smiled. "I'll be there, wearing our necklace." "My dear fellow—ah, I see you mean it pleasantly. Wear it, by all means." Minot passed from the eccentric blooms of that dressing-gown to the more authentic flowers of the Florida outdoors. In the plaza he met Cynthia Meyrick, rival candidate to the morning in its glory. "Matrimony," she said, "is more trouble than it seems on a moonlit night under the palms. I've never been so busy in my life. By the way, two of my bridesmaids arrived from New York last night. Lovely girls—both of them. But I forget!" "Forget what?" "Your young heart is already ensnared, isn't it?" "Yes," replied Minot fervently. "It is. But no matter. Tell me about your preparations for the wedding. I should like to enjoy the thrill of it—by proxy." "How like a man—wants all the thrill and none of the bother. It's dreadfully hard staging a wedding, way down here a thousand miles from everything. But—my gown came last night from Paris. Can you imagine the thrill of that!" "Only faintly." "How stupid being a man must be." "And how glorious being a girl, with man only an afterthought—even at wedding time." "Poor Harrowby! He keeps in the lime-light fairly well, however." They walked along a moment in silence. "I've wondered," she said at length. "Why did you kidnap—Mr. Trimmer's—friend?" "Because—" "Yes?"—eagerly. Minot looked at her, and something rose in his throat to choke him. "I can't tell you," he said. "It is the fault of—the Master of the Show. I'm only the pawn—the baffled, raging, unhappy little pawn. That's all I can tell you. You—you were speaking of your wedding gown?" "A present from Aunt Mary," she answered, a strange tenderness in her tone. "For a good little girl who's caught a lord." "A charming little girl," said Minot softly. "May I say that?" "Yes—" Her brown eyes glowed. "I'm—glad—to have you—say it. I go in here. Good-by—Mr. Kidnaper." She disappeared into a shop, and Minot walked slowly down the street. Girls from Peoria and Paris, from Boise City and London, passed by. Girls chaperoned and girls alone—tourist girls in swarms. And not a few of them wondered why such a good-looking young man should appear to be so sorry for himself. Returning to the hotel at noon, Minot met Martin Wall on the veranda. "Lucky I put old George on Tarragona for the day," Wall confided. "As I expected, Trimmer was out to call early this morning. Searched the ship from stem to stern. I rather think we have Mr. Trimmer up a tree. He went away not quite so sure of himself." "Good," Minot answered. "So you changed your mind about going north?" "Yes. Think I'll stay over for the wedding. By the way, wasn't that Chain Lightning's Collar you left behind you last night?" "Y—yes." "Thought so. You ought to be more careful. People might suspect you of being the thief at Mrs. Bruce's." "If you think that, I wish you'd speak to his lordship." "I have. Your innocence is established. And I've promised Harrowby to keep his little mystery dark." "You're very kind," said Minot, and went on into the hotel. The remainder of the day passed lazily. Dick Minot felt lost indeed, for seemingly there were no more doughty deeds to be done in the name of Jephson. The Gaiety lady was gone; her letters were in the hands of the man who had written them. The claimant to the title languished among the alligators of Tarragona, a prisoner. Trimmer appeared to be baffled. Bridesmaids arrived. The wedding gown appeared. It looked like smooth sailing now. Jack Paddock, met for a moment late in the afternoon, announced airily: "By the way, the Duke and Duchess of Lismore have come. You know—the sausage lady and her captive. My word—you should see her! A wardrobe to draw tears of envy from a theatrical star. Fifty costly necklaces—and only one neck!" "Tragic," smiled Minot. "Funny thing's happened," Paddock whispered. "I met the duchess once abroad. She sent for me this noon and almost bowled me over. Seems she's heard of Mrs. Bruce as the wittiest woman in San Marco. And she's jealous. 'You're a clever boy,' says her ladyship to me. 'Coach me up so I can outshine Mrs. Bruce.' What do you know?" "Ah—but you were the pioneer," Minot reminded him. "Well, I was, for that matter," said Mr. Paddock. "But I know now it wasn't a clever idea, if this woman can think of it, too." "What did you tell her?" "I was shocked. I showed it. It seemed deception to me. Still—she made me an offer that—well, I told her I'd think it over." "Good heavens, Jack! You wouldn't try to sell 'em both dialogue?" "Why not? Play one against the other—make 'em keener for my goods. I've got a notion to clean up here quick and then go back to the real stuff. That little girl from the Middle West—I've forgot all about her, of course. But speaking of cleaning up—I'm thinking of it, Dick, my boy. Yes, I believe I'll take them both on—secretly, of course. It means hard work for me, but when one loves one's art, no service seems too tough." "You're hopeless," Minot groaned. "Say not so," laughed Paddock, and went away humming a frivolous tune. At a quarter before seven, for the first time, Minot entered Mr. Tom Stacy's Manhattan Club and Grill. To any one who crossed Mr. Stacy's threshold with the expectation of immediately encountering lights and gaiety, the first view of the interior came as a distinct shock. The main dining-room of the Manhattan Club was dim with the holy dimness of a cathedral. Its lamps, hung high, were buried in oriental trappings, and shone half-heartedly. Faintly through the gloom could be discerned white table-cloths, gleaming silver. The scene demanded hushed voices, noiseless footsteps. It got both. The main dining-room was hollowed out of the center of the great stone building, and its roof was off in the dark three stories above. On each side of the entrance, stairways led to second and third-floor balconies which stretched around the room on three sides. From these balconies doors opened into innumerable rooms—rooms where lights shone brighter, and from which the chief of police, when he came to make certain financial arrangements with Mr. Stacy, heard frequently a gentle click-click. It may have been that the furnishings of the main dining-room and the balconies were there before Mr. Stacy's coming, or again they may have set forth his own idea of suitable decoration. Looking about him, Mr. Minot was reminded of a play like Sumurun after three hard seasons on the road. Moth-eaten rugs and musty tapestries hung everywhere. Here and there an atrocious cozy corner belied its name. Iron lanterns gave parsimonious light. Aged sofa-pillows lay limply. "Oriental," Mr. Stacy would have called the effect. Here in this dim, but scarcely religious light, the patrons of his "grill" ate their food, being not without misgivings as they stared through the gloom at their plates. The long tables for the Harrowby dinner were already set, and about them hovered waiters of a color to match the room. Most of the guests had arrived. Mr. Paddock made it a point to introduce Mr. Minot at once to the Duchess of Lismore. This noble lady with the packing-house past was making a commendable effort to lighten the Manhattan Club by a wonderful display of jewels. "Then felt I like some watcher of the skies, when a new planet swims into his ken," whispered Minot, as the duchess moved away. Paddock laughed. "A dowdy little woman by day, but a pillar of fire by night," he agreed. "By the way, I'm foreman of her composing-room, beginning to-morrow." "Be careful, Jack," Minot warned. "A double life from now on," Paddock replied, "but I think I can get away with it. Say, for ways that are dark this man Stacy seems to hold a better hand than the heathen Chinee." In one corner the portly Spencer Meyrick was orating to a circle of young people on the evils of gambling. Minot turned away, smiling cynically. Meyrick, as everybody knew, had made a large part of his fortune in Wall Street. The dinner was much larger than Mrs. Bruce's. Minot met a number of new people—the anemic husband of the jewels, smug in his dukedom, and several very attractive girls thrilled at being present in Mr. Stacy's sinful lair. He bestowed a smile upon Aunt Mary, serene among the best people, and discussed with Mrs. Bruce—who wasted no boughten wit on him—the Florida climate. Also, he asked the elder of the Omaha girls if she had heard of Mr. Nat Goodwin's latest wife. For once the dinner itself was a minor event. It sped rapidly there in the gloom, and few so much as listened to the flashes of Mrs. Bruce's wit—save perhaps the duchess, enviously. It was after the dinner, when Harrowby led his guests to the entertainment above, that interest grew tense. No gloom in that bright room overhead. A cluster of electric lights shed their brilliance on Mr. Stacy's pet roulette tables, set amid parlor furnishings of atrocious plush. From one corner a faro lay-out that had once flourished on Fifty-eighth Street, New York, beckoned. And on each side, through open doors, might be seen rooms furnished for the game of poker. Mr. Stacy's assistant, a polished gentleman with a face like aged ivory, presided over the roulette table. He swung the wheel a few times, an inviting smile on his face. Harrowby, his eyes bright, laid a sum of money beside a row of innocent figures. He won. He tried again, and won. Some of the young women pushed close to the table, visibly affected. Others pretended this sort of thing was an old story to them. A few of the more adventurous women borrowed coins from the men, and joined in the play. Arguments and misunderstandings arose, which Mr. Stacy's assistant urbanely settled. More of the men—Paddock among them—laid money on the table. A buzz of excited conversation, punctuated now and then by a deathly silence as the wheel spun and the little ball hovered heart-breakingly, filled the room. Cheeks glowed red, eyes sparkled, the crush about the table increased. Spencer Meyrick himself risked from his endless store. Mr. Tom Stacy's place was in full swing. Dick Minot caught Cynthia Meyrick's glance as she stood close beside Lord Harrowby. She seemed another girl to-night, grave rather than gay, her great brown eyes apparently looking into the future, wondering, fearing. As for Harrowby, he was a man transformed. Not for nothing was he the son of the sporting Earl of Raybrook—the peer who never failed to take a risk. The excitement of the game was reflected in his tall tense figure, his flaming cheeks. This was the Harrowby who had made Jephson that gambling proposition on a seventeenth floor in New York. And Harrowby won consistently. Won, until a fatal choice of numbers with an overwhelming stake left him poor again, and he saw all his winnings swept to swell Tom Stacy's store. Quickly he wormed his way out of the crowd and sought Minot. "May I see you a moment?" he asked. "Out here." And he led the way to the gloom of the balcony. "If I only had the cash," Harrowby whispered excitedly, "I could break Stacy to-night. And I'm going to get it. Will you give me the necklace, please." "You forget," Minot objected, "that the necklace is supposed to have been stolen." "No. No. That's no matter. I'll arrange that. Hurry—" "You forget, too, that you told me this morning that should this necklace be found now—" "Mr. Minot—the necklace belongs to me. Will you kindly let me have it." "Certainly," said Minot coldly. And, much annoyed, he returned to the room amid the buzz and the thrill of gambling. Harrowby ran quickly down the stairs. In the office of the club he found Tom Stacy in amiable converse with Martin Wall. He threw Chain Lightning's Collar on the manager's desk. "How much can you loan me on that?" he demanded. With a grunt of surprise, Mr. Stacy took up the famous collar in his thick fingers. He gazed at it for a moment. Then he looked up, and caught Martin Wall's crafty eye over Harrowby's shoulder. "Not a cent," said Mr. Stacy firmly. "What! I don't understand." Harrowby gazed at him blankly. "It's worth—" "Not a cent," Stacy repeated. "That's final." Harrowby turned appealingly to Martin Wall. "You—" he pleaded. "I'm not investing," Wall replied, with a queer smile. Lord Harrowby restored the necklace to his pocket and, crestfallen, gloomy, went back to the room above. "Wouldn't loan me anything on it," he whispered to Minot. "I don't understand, really." Thereafter Harrowby suffered the pain of watching others play. And while he watched, in the little office down-stairs, a scene of vital bearing on his future was enacted. A short stocky man with a bullet-shaped head had pushed open the door on Messrs. Stacy and Wall. He stood, looking about him with a cynical smile. "Hello, Tom," he said. "Old Bill Huntley!" cried Stacy. "By gad, you gave me a turn. I forgot for a minute that you can't raid me down here." "Them happy days is past," returned Mr. Huntley dryly. "I'm working for Uncle Sam, now, Tom. Got new fish to fry. Used to have some gay times in New York, didn't we? Oh, hello, Craig!" "My name is Martin Wall," said that gentleman stiffly. "Ain't he got the lovely manners," said Huntley, pretending admiration. "Always did have, too. And the swell friends. Still going round in the caviar crowd, I hear. What if I was to tell your friends here who you are?" "You won't do that," said Wall, outwardly unshaken, but his breath came faster. "Oh—you're sure of that, are you?" "Yes. Who I am isn't one of your worries in your new line of business. And you're going to keep still because I can do you a favor—and I will." "Thanks, Craig. Excuse me—Martin Wall. Sort of a strain keeping track of your names, you know." "Forget that. I say I can do you a favor—if you'll promise not to mix in my affairs." "Well—what is it?" "You're down here looking for a diamond necklace known as Chain Lightning's Collar." "Great little guesser, you are. Well—what about it?" "Promise?" "You deliver the goods, and I'll see." "All right. You'll find that necklace in Lord Harrowby's pocket right now. And you'll find Lord Harrowby in a room up-stairs." Mr. Huntley stood for a moment staring at the man he called Craig. Then with a grunt he turned away. Two minutes later, in the bright room above, that same rather vulgar grunt sounded in Lord Harrowby's patrician ear. He turned, and his face paled. Hopelessly he looked toward Minot. Then without a word he followed Huntley from the room. Only two of that excited crowd about the wheel noticed. And these two fled simultaneously to the balcony. There, half hidden behind an ancient musty rug, Cynthia Meyrick and Minot watched together. Harrowby and Huntley descended the soft stairs. At the bottom, Martin Wall and Stacy were waiting. The sound of voices pitched low could be heard on the balcony, but though they strained to hear, the pair above could not. However, they could see the plebeian hand of Mr. Huntley held out to Lord Harrowby. They could see Harrowby reach into his pocket, and bring forth a white envelope. Next they beheld Chain Lightning's Collar gleam in the dusk as Huntley held it up. A few low words, and Harrowby went out with the detective. Martin Wall ascended the stair. On the dim balcony he was confronted by a white-faced girl whose wonderful copper hair had once held Chain Lightning's Collar. "What does it mean?" she asked, her voice low and tense. "Mean?" Martin Wall laughed. "It means that Lord Harrowby must go north and face a United States Commissioner in Jersey City. It seems that when he brought that necklace over he quite forgot to tell the customs officials about it." "Go north! When?" "To-night. On the midnight train. North to Jersey City." Mr. Wall went into the bright room where the excitement buzzed on, oblivious. Cynthia Meyrick turned to Minot. "But he can't possibly get back—" she cried. "No. He can't get back. I'm sorry." "And my wedding dress—came last night." She stood clutching a moth-eaten tapestry in her slim white hand. In the gloom of that dull old balcony her eyes shone strangely. "Some things aren't to be," she whispered. "And"—very faintly—"others are." A thrill shot through Minot, sharp as a pain, but glorious. What did she mean by that? What indeed but the one thing that must not happen—the thing he wanted most of all things in the world to happen—the thing he had come to San Marco to prevent. He came closer to her—and closer—the blood was pounding in his brain. Dazed, exulting, he held out his arms. "Cynthia!" he cried. And then suddenly behind her, on the stairs, he caught sight of a great bald head ascending through the dusk. It was an ordinary bald head, the property of Mr. Stacy in fact, but to Minot a certain Jephson seemed to be moving beneath it He remembered. His arms fell to his sides. He turned away. "We must see what can be done," he said mechanically. "Yes," Cynthia Meyrick agreed in an odd tone, "we must see what can be done." And a tear, unnoticed, fell on Mr. Stacy's aged oriental tapestry. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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