In Friendship's Guise by Wm. Murray Graydon

W >> Wm. Murray Graydon >> In Friendship\'s Guise

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

"I was not aware of the robbery until my nephew informed me last night,"
explained Sir Lucius. "I have lost no time in restoring what I believe
to be your property. It is an unfortunate affair, and a most
disagreeable one to me, apart from any money considerations. But
it affords me much gratification, sir, to be the means of--"

"I am by no means certain, Sir Lucius," Mr. Lamb interrupted, "that this
_is_ my picture."

"There could not be two of them!" gasped Sir Lucius.

"As a matter of fact, there _are_ two," was the reply. "It is a curious
affair, Sir Lucius, but I can speedily make it clear to you."

Very concisely and briefly Mr. Lamb told all that he knew about the
duplicate Rembrandt, giving the gist of his interview months before with
Jack Vernon.

"Then you mean to say that this is the duplicate?" asked Nevill.

"No; I can't say that."

Sir Lucius brightened suddenly. The loss of his prize was a heavy blow,
but it would be far worse, he told himself, if he had been tricked into
buying a false copy. He hated to think of such a thing--it was a wound
to his pride, an insult to his judgment.

"I have reason to believe that the duplicate was a splendid replica of
the original, otherwise it would not have been worth the trouble of
stealing," Mr. Lamb went on. "Mr. Vernon assured me of that. So, under
the circumstances, I cannot be positive which picture lies here before
us. My eyesight is a little bad, and I prefer not to trust to it. Mr.
Drummond might recognize the canvas, but he is out of town. I am
disposed to doubt, however, that this is the original Rembrandt."

"You think it is more likely to be the duplicate?" inquired Sir Lucius.

"I do."

Sir Lucius swelled out with indignation, and his cheerfulness vanished.

"I am sorry to hear that" he said. "I can scarcely believe that I have
been imposed upon. I am somewhat of an authority on old masters, Mr.
Lamb."

The dealer smiled faintly; he had known Sir Lucius in a business way for
a number of years.

"The price you paid--eleven hundred pounds--favors my theory," he
replied. "Your Munich Jew, whom I happen to know by repute, is a very
clever scoundrel. It is most unlikely that he would have parted with a
real Rembrandt for such a sum. But I will gladly refund you the amount
if this proves to be the original."

"I don't want the money," growled Sir Lucius. "I dare say you are right,
sir; and if so, it is not to my discredit that I have been taken in by
such a perfect copy. Gad, it would have deceived Rembrandt himself! But
the question still remains to be settled. How can that be done, and as
quickly as possible?"

"Mr. Vernon, the artist, is the only person who can do that. He put a
private mark on the duplicate--"

"Vernon--John Vernon?" interrupted Sir Lucius. "Surely, Victor, I have
heard you mention that name?"

"Quite right, uncle," said Nevill. He made the admission promptly,
foreseeing that a denial might have awkward consequences in the future.
"I know Jack Vernon well," he added. "He is an old friend. But I am
sorry to inform you that he is not in England at present."

This was false, for Nevill had noted in the morning paper that Jack was
one of the passengers by the P. and O. steamship _Ismaila_, which had
docked on the previous day. Mr. Lamb, it appeared, was not aware of the
fact.

"Your nephew is correct, Sir Lucius," he said. "Mr. Vernon has been in
India for some months, acting as special war artist for the _Universe_.
But he is expected home very shortly--in the course of a week, I
believe."

"I shall not be here then," said Sir Lucius. "I am to leave London
to-day. What would you suggest?"

"Allow the canvas to remain in my hands--I will take the best of care
of it," replied Mr. Lamb. "I will write to you as soon as Mr. Vernon
returns, and will arrange that you shall meet him here."

"Very well, sir," assented Sir Lucius. "Let the matter rest at that.
When I hear from you I will run up to town."

He still hoped to learn that he had bought the original picture, and he
would have preferred an immediate solution of the question. He was in a
dejected mood when he left the shop with his nephew, but he cheered up
under the influence of a good lunch and a pint of port, and he was in
fairly good spirits when he took an afternoon train from Victoria to his
stately Sussex home.

"Hang the Rembrandt!" he said at parting. "I don't care how it turns
out. Run down for a few days at the end of the month, Victor--I can give
you some good shooting."

Glancing over a paper that evening, Mr. Lamb read of Jack Vernon's
return. But to find him proved to be a different matter, and at the end
of a week he was still unsuccessful. Then, meeting Victor Nevill on
Regent street, he induced him to join in the search for the missing
artist. The commission by no means pleased Nevill, but he did not see
his way to refuse.

* * * * *

For thirteen days Sir Lucius Chesney had been back at Priory Court,
happy among his horses and dogs, his short-horns and orchids; his
pictures rested temporarily under a cloud, and he was rarely to be found
in the spacious gallery. In London, Victor Nevill enjoyed life with as
much zest as his conscience would permit; Madge Foster dragged through
weary days and duller evenings at Strand-on-the-Green; and the editor of
the _Illustrated Universe_ wondered what had become of his bright young
war-artist since the one brief visit to the office.

At two o'clock on a drizzling, foggy morning a policeman, walking up
the Charing Cross Road, paused for a moment to listen to some remote
strains of music that came indistinctly from a distance; then he
shrugged his shoulders and went on--it was no business of his. The
sounds that attracted the policeman's attention had their source in a
cross street to the left--in one of those evil institutions known as a
"night club," which it seems impossible to eradicate from the fast life
of West End London.

It was a typical scene; there were many like it that night. The house
had two street doors, and behind the inner one, which was fitted with a
small grating and kept locked, squatted a vigilant keeper, equally ready
to open to a member or deny admittance to any one who had no business
there. On the first floor, up the dingy stairs, were two apartments. The
outer and smaller room had a bar at one side, presided over by a bright,
golden-haired young lady in _very_ conspicuous evening dress, whose
powers of _repartee_ afforded much amusement to her customers. These
were, many of them, in more or less advanced stages of intoxication, and
they comprised sporting men, persons from various unfashionable walks of
life, clerks who wanted to soar like eagles, and a few swell young men
who had dropped in to be amused. A sprinkling of women must be added.

Both apartments were hung with engravings and French prints and
decorated with tawdry curtains, and in the larger of the two dancing was
going on. Here the crowd was denser and of the same heterogeneous kind.
It was a festival of high jinks--a sway of riotous, unbridled merriment.
A performer at the piano, with a bottle of beer within easy reach,
rapped out the inspiriting chords of a popular melody. Couples glided
over the polished floor, some lightly, some galloping, and all reckless
of colliding with the onlookers. There was a touch of the _risque_ in
the dancing, suggesting the Moulin Rouge of a Casino de Paris carnival.
Occasionally, during a lull, songs were sung by music-hall _artistes_ of
past celebrity, who were now glad of the chance to earn a few shillings
before an uncritical audience. The atmosphere was charged with the scent
of rouge and powder, brandy and stale sherry. Coarse jest and laughter,
ringing on the night, mocked at go-to-bed London.

Two young men leaned against the wall of the dancing-room, close to
the door, both smoking cigars. They wore evening dress, considerably
rumpled, and their attitudes were careless. The elder of the two was
Tony Mostyn, a clever but dissipated artist of the decadent school, who
steered his life by the rule of indulgence and worked as little as
possible.

"It's rather dull," he said; "eh, old chap?"

"It gives one a bad taste," his companion replied. "I don't see why you
brought me here."

The second speaker was Jack Vernon. He looked bored and weary, but his
cheeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled; the women who glanced pertly
at him as they swung by inspired him merely with disgust. He had come to
the club with Mostyn, after a dozen turns at the Alhambra, followed by a
prolonged theater supper. He had drunk more than was good for him during
the course of the evening, but the effects had about worn off.

The story of the past two weeks--since Jack's return from India--was a
sad one. He tried his best to drown the bitter memories of Madge, of
what he had lost. He cut loose from Jimmie and other old friends, took
lodgings in an out-of-the-way quarter, and turned night into day. He had
plenty of money, and he had not been near the office of the _Universe_.
He found boon companions among the wildest acquaintances of his Paris
days, including Tony Mostyn and his set. But a fortnight had dispelled
the glamour, and life looked blacker to him than it had ever looked
before. Courage and manhood were at a low ebb. He laughed recklessly
as he wondered what the end would be.

"Let us go and get a drink," he said to his companion.

As he spoke a tumult broke out at the far end of the room. Scuffling
feet and men's angry voices mingled with cries of protest and women's
shrill screams. Then followed a heavy fall, a groan, and a rush of
people. The music had stopped and the dancers were still.

"There's been a row," exclaimed Mostyn. "It's bad for the club."

Idle curiosity led Jack to the spot, and Mostyn accompanied him.
They elbowed their way through, and saw a flashily-dressed man with
blue-black cheeks and a curling black mustache lying on the floor. He
was bleeding from an ugly wound on the forehead, where he had been
struck by a bottle. His assailant had slipped away, scared, and was
being smuggled out of the room and down stairs by his friends.

"What a shame!" ejaculated a terrified woman.

"It's no fair fighting," added another.

"Shut up, all of you!" angrily cried a harsh-voiced man--clearly one in
authority--as he elbowed his way to the front. "Do you want to bring the
police down on us?"

The warning had a prompt effect, and comparative silence ensued. The
injured man tried to rise, but his potations had weakened him more than
the loss of blood.

"Where's the bloke what hit me?" he feebly demanded.

His maudlin speech and woe-begone manner roused Jack's sympathy. He
knelt down beside him, and made a brief examination.

"It's nothing serious--the bottle glanced off," he said. "Fetch water
and a sponge, and I'll soon stop the bleeding. Who has a bit of
plaster?"

No sponge was to be had, but a basin of water was quickly produced. Jack
tore his handkerchief in two and wet part of it. He was about to begin
operations when a hand tapped him on the shoulder and a familiar voice
pronounced his name.

CHAPTER XXI.

A QUICK DECISION.

Jack turned around, and when he saw Victor Nevill bending over him he
looked first confused and then pleasurably surprised.

"Hello, old chap," he said. "Wait a bit, will you?"

"You've led me a chase," Nevill whispered in a low voice. "I want to
talk to you. Important!"

"All right," Jack replied. "I'll be through in a couple of minutes."

He wondered if it could have anything to do with Diane, as he set to
work on the injured man. With deft fingers he bathed the cut, staunched
the blood, and applied a piece of plaster handed to him by a bystander;
over it he placed the dry half of his handkerchief.

"You'll do now," he said. "It's not a deep cut."

With assistance the man got to his feet. The shock had sobered him, and
he was pretty steady. He pulled his cap on his head, and winced with
pain as it stirred the bandage.

"Where's the cowardly rat what hit me?" he demanded.

"Never you mind about 'im," put in the proprietor of the club--a very
fat man with a ponderous watch-chain. "While the excitement was on 'e
'ooked it. You be off, too--I don't want any more rowing." Sinking his
voice to a faint whisper, he added: "You'd be worse off than the rest
of us, 'Awker, should the police 'appen to come."

"Yes, go home, my good fellow," urged Jack. "You look ill; and what you
need is rest. You'll be all right in the morning."

He pressed half a sovereign into the man's hand--so cleverly that none
observed the action--and then slipped back and joined Nevill and Mostyn,
who had a slight acquaintance with each other. The three had left the
room, and were going downstairs, before Mr. Noah Hawker recovered from
his surprise on learning that his gift was gold instead of a silver
sixpence. It chanced that he was reduced to his last coppers, and so the
half sovereign was a boon indeed. He nudged the elbow of a supercilious
looking young gentleman in evening dress who was passing.

"That swell cove who fixed me up--he's just gone," he said. "He's a real
gent, he is! Could you tell me his name, sir?"

"Aw, yes, I think I can," was the drawling reply. "He's an artist chap,
don't you know! Name of Vernon."

"Might it be John Vernon?"

"That's it, my man."

The name rang in Noah Hawker's ears, and he repeated it to himself as he
stumbled downstairs. He was in such a brown study that he forgot to tip
the door-keeper who let him into the street. He pulled his cap lower to
hide his bandaged head, and struck off in the direction of Tottenham
Court road.

"Funny how I run across that chap!" he reflected. "Vernon--John
Vernon--yes, it's the same, no doubt about it. But he's only an artist,
and I know what artists are. There's many on 'em, with claw-hammer coats
and diamonds in their shirt-fronts, as hasn't got two quid to knock
together. You won't suit my book, Mr. Vernon--you're not in the running
against the others. It's a pity, though, for he was a real swell, what I
_call_ a gent. But I'll keep him in mind, and it sort of strikes me I'll
be able to do him a good turn some day."

Meanwhile, as Noah Hawker walked northward in the direction of Kentish
Town, Jack and his companions had reached Piccadilly Circus. Here Mostyn
left them, while Jack and Nevill went down Regent street.

"A bit of a rounder, that chap," said Nevill. "He's not your sort. What
have you been doing with yourself for the last two weeks? I've not seen
you since you sailed for India, early in the summer."

"How did you find me to-night?" asked Jack, in a tone which suggested
that he did not want to be found.

"I met a Johnny who told me where you were. I vowed he was mistaken at
first, but he stuck to it so positively--"

"You said you wanted to talk to me," Jack interrupted. "I suppose it is
about--"

"No; you're wrong. _She_ is in Paris, and she won't trouble you again.
The fact is, I have a message for you from Lamb and Drummond. They've
been trying to find you for a fortnight."

"Lamb and Drummond looking for me? Ah, yes, I think I know what they
want."

"It's a queer business, isn't it? My uncle is mixed up in it--Sir Lucius
Chesney, you know."

"Then he has told you--"

"Only a little. It's not my affair, and I would rather not speak about
it. Can I tell Mr. Lamb that you will call upon him at five o'clock
to-morrow afternoon--or this afternoon, to be correct? They will want
to get my uncle from the country."

"I will be there at that hour," Jack assented, and with a hasty
"Good-night" he was gone, striding rapidly away. Nevill looked after
him for a moment, and then sauntered home. The street lights showed
a sneering smile of satisfaction on his face.

Jack could easily have picked up a cab, but he preferred to walk. He
went along the Strand, now waking up to the life and traffic of early
morning. Turning into Wellington street, he crossed Waterloo Bridge, and
the gray dawn was breaking when he let himself into a big, dingy house
not far from the river. Here, remote from his friends, he had chosen to
live, in two rooms which he had fitted up more than comfortably with
recent purchases. Even Jimmie did not know where he was--never dreamed
of looking for him on the Surrey side. His brain was too active for
sleep, and he sat up smoking another hour.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon when Jack awoke from an unrefreshing
slumber; his head was heavy, and he would have liked to remain in bed
for the rest of the day. He remembered that he had two engagements; he
had promised to attend a "do" at a studio in Joubert Mansions, Chelsea,
where he would meet a lot of Tony Mostyn's set, and make night noisy
until the wee hours of the morning. At four o'clock he started to dress
for the evening. At five a cab put him down in Pall Mall, opposite the
premises of Lamb and Drummond. A clerk conducted him to the private
office, which was well lighted. Mr. Lamb was present, and with him a
soldierly, aristocratic-looking gentleman who had been summoned by wire
from Sussex. Victor Nevill would have been there also, but he had
pleaded a previous engagement.

The military gentleman was formally introduced as Sir Lucius Chesney.
Jack shook hands with him nonchalantly, and wondered what was coming
next; he did not much care. Sir Lucius regarded Jack carelessly at
first, then with a stare that was almost impertinent. He adjusted a pair
of gold-rimmed eye-glasses, and looked again. He leaned forward in his
chair, under the influence of some strong agitation.

"Bless my soul!" he muttered, half audibly. "Very remarkable!"

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Jack.

"Nothing! nothing!" replied Sir Lucius, in some confusion. "So you are
Mr. Vernon?"

"That is my name, sir."

Sir Lucius pulled himself together, and thoughtfully stroked his
mustache. An awkward pause was broken by Mr. Lamb, who proceeded to
state at some length the business that had rendered Jack's presence
imperative. Sir Lucius listened with rising indignation, as the story
poignantly recalled to him his bitter experience with the Munich Jew.
Jack, seeing the ludicrous side, with difficulty repressed an
inclination to smile.

"Let me have the picture," he said. "I can settle the question at once."

Sir Lucius rose eagerly from his seat. Mr. Lamb took the canvas from
an open safe and spread it on the table. Jack bent over it, standing
between the two. He laughed as he pointed to a peculiar
brush-stroke--insignificant in the general effect--down in the lower
right-hand corner.

"There is my mark," he said, "and this is the duplicate I painted for
Martin Von Whele, nearly six years ago."

"I thought as much," exclaimed Mr. Lamb.

"Are you sure of what you are saying, young man?" asked Sir Lucius.

"Quite positive, sir," declared Jack. "I assure you that--"

"Yes, there can be no doubt about it," interrupted Mr. Lamb. "I was
pretty well satisfied from the first, but I would not trust my own
judgment, considering the poorness of my eyesight. This is the copy, and
the person who stole it from Mr. Vernon's studio disposed of it later to
the Jew in Munich, who succeeded--very naturally, I admit--in selling it
to you as the real thing, Sir Lucius."

There was a _double entendre_ about the "very naturally" which Sir
Lucius chose, rightly or wrongly, to interpret to his own disadvantage.

"Do you mean to insinuate--" he began, bridling up.

"As for the genuine Rembrandt--_my_ picture," resumed Mr. Lamb, "its
disappearance is still shrouded in mystery. It can be only a matter of
time, however, until the affair is cleared up. But that is poor
consolation for the insurance people, who owe me L10,000."

"It is well you safeguard yourself in that way," observed Jack. "I
shouldn't be surprised if your picture turned up as unexpectedly as mine
has done, and perhaps before long. But I can hardly call this my
property. Sir Lucius Chesney is out of pocket to the tune of eleven
hundred pounds--"

"D--n the money, sir!" blurted out Sir Lucius. "I can afford to lose it.
And pray accept the Rembrandt from me as a gift, if you think you are
not entitled to it legally."

"You are very kind, but I prefer that you should keep it."

"I don't want it--won't have it! Take it out of my sight!--it is only a
worthless copy!" Sir Lucius, purple in the face, plumped himself down in
his chair. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Vernon," he added. "As a copy it is
truly magnificent--it does the greatest credit to your artistic skill.
It deceived _me_, sir! Whom would it not have deceived? There is an end
of the matter! I shall forget it. But I will go to Munich some day, and
beat that rascally Jew within an inch of his life!"

"If you can catch him," thought Jack. "I had better leave the painting
with you for the present, Mr. Lamb," he said. "It may be of some use in
your search for the original."

"Quite so," assented the dealer. "I will gladly retain it for the
present."

"If that is all," Jack continued, "I will wish you good afternoon."

"One moment, Mr. Vernon," said Sir Lucius, whose choleric indications
had completely vanished. "I--I should like to have an interview with
you, if you will consent to humor an old man. Your face interests me--I
admire your work. I propose to remain in town for a brief time, though
I am off to Oxford to-night, to visit an old friend, and will not be back
until to-morrow afternoon. Would you find it convenient to give me a
call to-morrow night at eight o'clock, at Morley's Hotel?"

Jack was silent; his face expressed the surprise he felt.

"I should like you to come down to Sussex and do some landscapes of
Priory Court," Sir Lucius further explained.

"I am not working at present," Jack said, curtly.

"But there is something else--a--a private matter," Sir Lucius replied,
confusedly. "I beg that you will oblige me, Mr. Vernon."

"Very well, sir, since you wish it so much," Jack consented. "I will
come to Morley's Hotel at eight to-morrow evening."

"Thank you, Mr. Vernon."

Jack shook hands with both gentlemen, picked up his hat and stick, and
went off to an early dinner. Sir Lucius looked after him wistfully.

CHAPTER XXII.

ANOTHER CHANCE.

Sir Lucius Chesney remained for an hour to further discuss the affair
of the two Rembrandts with Mr. Lamb, and the conversation became so
interesting that he almost forgot that he had arranged to leave
Paddington for Oxford at eight o'clock; when he suddenly remembered the
fact he hurried off, fearful of losing his dinner, and St. Martin's in
the Fields indicated a quarter to seven as he entered Morley's Hotel.

At that time a little party of three persons were sitting down to a
table in one of the luxurious dining-rooms of the Trocadero. Victor
Nevill was the host, and his guests were Stephen Foster and his
daughter; later they were all going to see the production of a new
musical comedy.

Madge, as lovely as a dream in her lustrous, shimmering evening gown,
fell under the sway of the lights and the music, and was more like her
old self than she had been for months; the papers had been kept out of
her way, and she did not know that Jack had returned from India. Stephen
Foster was absorbed in the _menu_ and the wine-card, and Nevill, in the
highest of spirits, laughed and chatted incessantly. He was ignorant of
something that had occurred that very day, else his evening's pleasure
would surely have been spoiled.

To understand the incident, the reader must go back to the previous
night, or rather an early hour of the morning. For the last of the West
End restaurants were putting out their lights and closing their doors
when Jimmie Drexell, coming home from a "smoker" at the Langham Sketch
Club, ran across Bertie Raven in Piccadilly. It was a fortunate meeting.
The Honorable Bertie was with a couple of questionable companions, and
he was intoxicated and very noisy; so much so that he had attracted the
attention of a policeman, who was moving toward the group.

Jimmie, like a good Samaritan, promptly rescued his friend and took
him to his own chambers in the Albany, as he was obviously unfit to go
elsewhere. Bertie demurred at first, but his mood soon changed, and he
became pliant and sullen. He roused a little when he found himself
indoors, and demanded a drink. That being firmly refused, he muttered
some incoherent words, flung himself down on a big couch in Jimmie's
sitting-room, and lapsed into a drunken sleep.

Jimmie threw a rug over him, locked up the whisky, and went off to bed.
His first thought, when he woke about nine the next morning, was of
his guest. Hearing footsteps in the outer room, he hurriedly got into
dressing-gown and slippers and opened the communicating door. He was not
prepared for what he saw. Bertie stood by the window, with the dull gray
light on his haggard face and disordered hair, his crushed shirt-front
and collar. A revolver, taken from a nearby cabinet, was in his hand. He
was about to raise it to his forehead.

Jimmie was across the room at a bound, and, striking his friend's arm
down, he sent the weapon clattering to the floor.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16