In Friendship's Guise by Wm. Murray Graydon

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"Good God!" he cried. "What were you going to do?"

"End it all," gasped Bertie. He dropped into a chair and gave way to a
burst of tears, which he tried hard to repress.

"What does it mean?" exclaimed Jimmie, breathing quick and deep. "Are
you mad?"

Bertie lifted a ghastly, distorted face.

"It means ruin, old chap," he replied. "That's the plain truth. I wish
you had let me alone."

"Come, this won't do, you know," said Jimmie. "You are not yourself
this morning, and I don't wonder, after the condition I found you in
last night. Things always look black after a spree. You exaggerate, of
course, when you talk about ruin. You are all unstrung, Bertie. Tell me
your troubles, and I'll do what I can to help you out of them."

Bertie shuddered as his eyes fell on the pistol at his feet.

"It's awfully good of you, old fellow," he answered huskily, "but you
can't help me."

"How do you know that? Come, out with your story. Make a clean breast of
it!"

Moved by his friend's kind appeal, the wretched young man confessed his
troubles, speaking in dull, hopeless tones. It was the old story--a
brief career on the road to ruin, from start to finish. A woman was at
the bottom of it--when is it otherwise? Bertie had not reformed when he
had the chance; Flora, the chorus-girl of the Frivolity, had exercised
too strong an influence over him. His income would scarcely have kept
her in flowers, and to supply her with jewels and dinners and a hundred
other luxuries, as well as to repay money lost at cards, he had plunged
deeper into the books of Benjamin and Company, hoping each time that some
windfall would stave off disaster. Disregarding the advice of a few
sincere friends, he had continued his mad course of dissipation. And
now the blow had fallen--sooner than he had reason to expect. A bill for
a large amount was due that very day, and Benjamin and Company refused
to renew it; they demanded both interest and principal, and would give
no easier terms.

"You'd better let me have that," Bertie concluded, desperately, pointing
to the pistol.

Jimmie kicked the weapon under the table, put his hands deep into the
pockets of his dressing gown, and whistled thoughtfully.

"Yes, it's bad," he said. "So you've gone to the Jews! You ought to have
known better--but that's the way with you chaps who are fed with silver
spoons. I'm not a saint myself--"

"Are you going to preach?" put in Bertie, sullenly.

"No; my little lecture is over. Cheer up and face the music, my boy.
It's not as bad as you think. Surely your father will get you out of
the scrape."

"Do you suppose I would tell him?" Bertie cried, savagely. "That would
be worse than--well, you know what I was going to do. It's just because
of the governor that I can't bear to face the thing. He has paid my
debts three times before, and he vowed that if I ran up any more bills
he would ship me off to one of his ranches in Western America. He will
keep his word, too."

"Ranch life isn't bad," said Jimmie.

"Don't talk about it! I would rather kill myself than go out there, away
from England and all that one cares for. You know how it is, old man,
don't you? London is the breath of life to me, with its clubs and
theaters, and suppers, and jolly good fellows, and--"

"And Flora!" Jimmie supplemented drily.

"D--n Flora! She threw up the Friv yesterday and slipped off to the
Continent with Dozy Molyneaux. I'm done with _her_, anyway! But what
does it all matter? I'm ruined, and I must go under. Give me a drink,
old chap--a stiff one."

"You can't have it, Bertie. Now, don't get riled--listen to me. Where
was your father while you were going the pace so heavily?"

"In Scotland--at Runnymede Castle. He's there still, and knows nothing
of what I've been doing. I dare say he thinks I've been living
comfortably on my income--a beggarly five hundred a year!"

"What amount is the bill that falls due to-day?"

"Seven hundred and fifty pounds, with interest."

"And there are others?"

"Yes; three more--all renewals."

"And the total sum? Can you give it to me?"

"What's the use?" Bertie muttered. "But if you want to know--" He took a
bit of paper from his pocket. "I counted it up yesterday," he added. "I
can't get clear of the Jews for less than twenty-five hundred pounds."

"It's a heavy sum!"

"I can't raise a fraction of it. And the worst of it is that Victor
Nevill is on--By Jove, I shouldn't have let that out!"

"You mean that Nevill indorsed the paper--all of it?"

"Only the first bill, and the next one Benjamin and Company took without
an indorsement, as they did with the later ones. Nevill warned me what
would happen if I kept on. I wish I had listened to him!"

Jimmie looked very grave.

"So Nevill steered you to the Jews!" he said, in a troubled tone. "It
was hardly the act of a friend. Have you spoken to him in regard to this
matter?"

"Yes, but he was short of money, and couldn't help me," Bertie replied.
"He was awfully cut up about it, and went to see the Jews. It was no
good--they refused to renew the bill on his indorsement."

"And heretofore they have accepted paper bearing your own signature
only! Of course they knew that you had future expectations, or that your
father would protect them from loss. It's the old game!"

"My expectations are not what they were," Bertie said sullenly, "and
that's about what has brought things to a crisis. I can see through a
millstone when there is a hole in it. I have a bachelor uncle on my
mother's side--a woman-hater--who always said that he would remain
single and make me his heir. But he changed his mind a couple of months
ago, and married."

"Be assured that Benjamin and Company know that," Jimmie answered; "it's
their reason for refusing to renew the bill."

"Yes; Nevill told me the same. He advised me to own up to the governor."

"How about your eldest brother--Lord Charters?"

"No good," the Honorable Bertie replied, gloomily; "we are on bad terms.
And George is in New York."

"Then I must put you on your feet again."

"You!"

"Yes; I will lift your paper--the whole of it."

"Impossible! I can't accept money from a friend!"

"I'm more than that, my boy--or will be. Isn't your brother going to
marry my cousin? And, anyway, we'll call it a loan. I'll take your I O U
for the amount, and you can have twenty years to repay it--a hundred if
you like. I can easily spare the money."

"I tell you I won't--"

"Don't tell me anything. It's settled. I mean to do it."

Bertie broke down; his scruples yielded before his friend's persistence.

"I'll pay it back," he cried, half sobbingly. "I'll be able to some day.
God bless you, Jimmie--you don't know what you've saved me from. Another
chance! I will make the most of it! I'll cut the old life and run
straight--I mean it this time. I'm done with cards and evil companions,
and all the rest of it!"

"Glad to hear it," said Jimmie. "I want your word of honor that you
won't exceed your income hereafter, and that you will leave London for
six months and go home."

"I will; I swear it!"

"And you will have nothing more to do with Flora and her kind?"

"Never again!"

"I believe you," said Jimmie, patting the young man on the shoulder.
"Cheer up now and we'll breakfast together presently, and meanwhile I'll
send a man round to your rooms for some morning togs. Then I'll leave
you here while I go down to the city to see my bankers. I'll be back
before noon, and bring a solicitor with me; I want the thing done
ship-shape."

With that, Jimmie retired to the bedroom, where he was soon heard
splashing in his tub. An hour later, when breakfast was over, he hurried
away. He returned at half-past twelve, accompanied by an elderly
gentleman of legal aspect, Mr. Grimsby by name. Bertie was ready,
dressed in a suit of brown tweeds, and the three went on foot to Duke
street, St. James'. They passed through the narrow court, and, without
knocking, entered the office of Benjamin and Company. No one was there,
but two persons were talking in a rear apartment, the door of which
stood open an inch or so. And one of the voices sounded strangely
familiar to Jimmie.

"Listen!" he whispered to Bertie. "Do you hear that?"

CHAPTER XXIII.

ON THE TRACK.

In answer to Jimmie's question, Bertie gave him a puzzled look; he
clearly did not understand. At the same instant the conversation in the
next room was brought to a close. Some person said "Good-morning,
Benjamin," and there was a sound of a door closing and of retreating
footsteps; one of the speakers had gone, probably by another exit. The
house, as Jimmie suspected, fronted on Duke street, and it was the rear
portion that was connected with the court.

The elderly Jew, who was Mr. Benjamin himself, promptly entered the
office, adjusting a black skull-cap to his head. He gave a barely
perceptible start of surprise at sight of his visitors; he could not
have known that they were there. He apologized extravagantly, and
inquired what he could have the pleasure of doing for them. Mr. Grimsby
stated their business, and the Jew listened with an inscrutable face;
his deep-sunken eyes blinked uneasily.

"Do I understand," he said, addressing himself to the Honorable Bertie,
"that you wish to take up not only the bill which is due to-day--"

"No; all of them, Benjamin," Bertie interrupted. "My friend wants to pay
you to the last penny."

"I shall be happy to oblige," said the Jew, rubbing his hands. "I always
knew that you were an honest young gentleman, Mr. Raven. I am sorry that
I had to insist on payment, but my partner--"

"Will you let me have the paper, sir," Jimmie put in, curtly.

The Jew at once bestirred himself. He opened a safe in which little
bundles of documents were neatly arranged, and in a couple of minutes he
produced the sheaf of bills that had so nearly been the ruin of his
aristocratic young client. The first one was among the number; it had
been renewed several times, on Nevill's indorsement.

The affair was quickly settled. The solicitor went carefully over Mr.
Benjamin's figures, representing principal and interest up to date, and
expressed himself as satisfied; it was extortionate but legal, he
declared. The sum total was a little over twenty-five hundred
pounds--Bertie had received less than two-thirds of it in cash--and
Jimmie promptly hauled out a fat roll of Bank of England notes and paid
down the amount. He took the canceled paper, nodded coldly to the Jew,
and left the money-lender's office with his companions.

Mr. Grimsby, declining an invitation to lunch, hailed a cab and went off
to the city to keep an appointment with a client. The other two walked
on to Piccadilly, and Bertie remembered that morning, months before,
when Victor Nevill had helped him out of his difficulties, only to get
him into a tighter hole.

"No person but myself was to blame," he thought. "Nevill meant it as a
kindness, and he advised me to pull up when he found what I was drifting
into--I never mentioned the last bill to him. Dear old Jimmie, he's
given me another chance! How jolly to feel that one is rid of such a
burden! I haven't drawn an easy breath for weeks."

"We'll go to my place first," said Jimmie. "I want a wash after the
atmosphere of that Jew's den. And then we'll lunch together."

It was a dull and cheerless day, but the sitting-room in the Albany
looked quite different to Bertie as he entered it. Was it only a few
hours before, he wondered, that he had stood there by the window in the
act of taking that life which had become too great a burden to bear? And
in the blackness of his despair, when he saw no glimmer of hope, the
clouds had rolled away. He glanced at the pistol, harmlessly resting on
a shelf, and a rush of gratitude filled his heart and brought tears to
his eyes. He clasped his friend's hand and tried incoherently to thank
him.

"Come, none of that," Jimmie said, brusquely. "Let us talk of something
more interesting. I have a pot of money; and this stuff," pulling out
the packet of bills, "don't even make a hole in it. It was a jolly
little thing to do--"

"It wasn't a little thing for me, old chap. I shall never forget, and
be assured that you will get your money back some day, with interest."

"Oh, hang the money!" exclaimed Jimmie. "If I'm ever hard up I'll ask
for it. If you want to show your gratitude, my boy, see that you stick
to your promise and run straight as a die hereafter."

"I swear I will, Jimmie. I would be worse than a blackguard if I didn't.
Don't worry--I've had my lesson!"

"Then let it be a lasting one. There are plenty of fellows who _never_
get clear of the Jews."

Jimmie vanished into the next room, and in a few moments reappeared,
rubbing his face vigorously with a towel.

"Do you remember in the Jew's den," he said abruptly, "my calling your
attention to the men talking in the back office?"

"Yes, but I didn't know what you meant."

"Didn't one of the voices sound familiar to you?"

"By Jove, you're right, come to think of it. It reminded me of--"

"Of Victor Nevill," said Jimmie. "Benjamin's companion talked exactly
like him, it struck me."

"That's it. Queer, wasn't it? But, of course, it was only a coincidence.
Nevill couldn't have been there."

"No; I hardly think so," Jimmie answered, slowly and seriously.

"I'm positive about it," exclaimed Bertie. "Surely you wouldn't
insinuate that Nevill is a--"

"No, I can't believe him to be that--a tout for money-lenders. But it
was wonderfully like his voice."

"Don't get such an idea into your head," protested Bertie. "Nevill was
only in the place twice, and then he went to oblige me. He hates the
Jews, and won't have anything to do with them himself. And he don't
need to. He has a settled income of two or three thousand a year."

"Yet he refused to help you, and pleaded that he was hard up?"

"Yes," assented Bertie, "but he didn't put it exactly in that way. He
explained how he was fixed, and I quite understand it. He must save all
his spare cash just now. He is going to be married soon."

"That's news," said Jimmie. "I hadn't an inkling of it."

"Nor I," declared Bertie, "until a week ago. I was dining with Nevill,
and he had taken half a bottle too much, you know. That's when he let
it out."

"Who is the girl?"

"A Miss Foster, I believe. She lives somewhere near Kew Bridge, in a
big, old-fashioned house on the river. I suppose her father has money.
From what Nevill said--"

A sharp exclamation fell from Jimmie's lips, and his face expressed
blank astonishment.

"By Jove! Nevill engaged to Madge Foster?" he cried.

"That's the girl, and he's going to marry her!"

Jimmie turned away to hide his feelings. This was a most astounding
piece of news, but under the circumstances he was satisfied that it
must be true. So Nevill knew Miss Foster! That in itself was a strange
revelation! And suddenly a vague suspicion came into his mind--a
chilling doubt--as he recalled Nevill's demeanor, and certain little
actions of his, on the night when Jack Vernon's French wife confronted
him under the trees of Richmond Terrace. Had a jealous rival planned
that Diane should be there?--that she should come to life again to blast
the happiness of the man who believed her dead? He tried to put away the
suspicion, but it would not be stifled; it grew stronger.

"I say, old man, what's gone wrong?" asked Bertie. "You're acting
queerly. I hope _you've_ not been hit in that quarter."

Jimmie faced around and laughed.

"No fear, Bertie," he said. "I'm not a marrying man. I wouldn't know
Miss Foster from your precious Flora, for I've never seen either of
them." He suddenly remembered the photograph Jack had shown him, and his
cheeks flushed. "It gave me a bit of a start to hear that Nevill was
going to be married," he added, hastily. "I thought he was too fond of
a bachelor's existence to tie himself to a wife."

"It's funny what a woman can do with a chap," Bertie sagely observed.

"_You_ ought to know," Jimmie replied, pointedly, as he pulled on his
coat. "Come along! It's past my lunch hour, and I'm hungry."

On their way to a noted restaurant in the vicinity Jimmy engaged in deep
reflection.

"I'll do it," he vowed, mentally. "I'll keep an eye on Mr. Victor
Nevill, and get to the bottom of this thing. I remember that I took a
dislike to him in Paris from the first. I hate a traitor, and if Nevill
has been playing the part of a false friend, I'll block his little game.
He seemed rather too anxious to take Diane away that night. And he'll
bear watching for another reason--I'm almost certain that it was his
voice I heard in the Jew's back room. Benjamin and Company, like charity,
may cover a multitude of sins. Nevill was going a rapid pace when he was
abroad, and he couldn't well have kept it up all these years on his
legacy."

* * * * *

It was eleven o'clock at night, and the theatres were pouring their
audiences from pit and stalls, galleries and boxes, into the crowded,
tumultuous, clamoring Strand, blazing and flashing like a vast, long
furnace, echoing to the roar of raucous throats, and throbbing to
the rumble of an endless invasion of cabs and private carriages. A
fascinating scene, and one of the most interesting that London can show.

The uniformed commissionaire of the Ambiguity, reading the wishes of a
lady and gentleman who pressed across the pavement to the curb, promptly
claimed a hansom and opened the door. Stephen Foster helped his daughter
into it and followed her. Madge looked fragile and tired, but her sweet
beauty attracted the attention of the bystanders; she drew her fluffy
opera-cloak about her white throat and shoulders as she nestled in a
corner of the seat. Nevill, who had been separated from them by the
crush, came forward just then.

"I'm sorry you won't have some supper," he said. "It is not late."

"It will be midnight before we get home," Stephen Foster replied. "We
are indebted to you for a delightful evening."

"Yes, we enjoyed it _so_ much," Madge added, politely.

"I hope you will let me repeat it soon," Nevill said.

The girl did not answer. She held out her hand, and it was cold to
Nevill's touch. He bade them both good-night, and stepped aside to give
the cabby his directions. He watched the vehicle roll away, and then
scowled at the commissionaire, who waited expectantly for a tip.

"As beautiful as a dream," he thought, savagely, "but with a heart of
ice--at least to me. Will I never be able to melt her?"

It is no easy matter to cross the Strand when the theaters are dismissing
their audiences, and five minutes were required for Nevill to accomplish
that operation; even then he had to avail himself of a stoppage of the
traffic by a policeman. He bent his steps to the grill-room of the Grand,
and enjoyed a chop and a small bottle of wine. Lighting a cigar, he
sauntered slowly to Jermyn street, and as he reached his lodgings a man
started up suddenly before him.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said humbly, "but ain't you Mr. Victor Nevill?"

CHAPTER XXIV.

A FATEFUL DECISION.

Nevill paused, latch-key in hand; a cautious impulse checked the
admission of his identity. The individual who had accosted him, seen by
the glow of a distant street-lamp, was thickset and rakish-looking, with
a heavy mustache. He repeated his question uneasily.

"If I've made a mistake--" he went on.

"No, you are not mistaken," said Nevill. "But how did you learn my name,
and what do you want with me?"

On a natural impulse, fancying he recognized a racing tipster who had
been of service to him in the past, he reached for his pocket; the
jingling of coin was heard.

"Stow that--I'm not a beggar!" the man said, sharply.

"I beg your pardon! I thought I recalled--"

"We never met before, Mr. Nevill."

"Then it's a queer time of night for a stranger to hunt me up. If you
have business with me, come in the morning; or, better still, write to
me."

"I've got to talk to you to-night, sir, and I ain't to be put off. For
two blessed hours I've been hanging around this house, watching an'
waiting--"

"A sad waste of time! You are an impudent fellow, whoever you are. I
refuse to have anything to do with you."

"I think you'll change your mind, sir. If you don't you'll be sorry till
your dying day."

"You scoundrel, do you dare to threaten me?" cried Nevill. "There is
only one remedy for ruffians of your kind--" He looked up and down the
street in search of a policeman.

"You can call an officer if you like," the man said, scornfully; "or, if
you choose to order me away, I'll go. But in that case," he bent nearer
and dropped his voice to a whisper, "I'll take my secret straight to Sir
Lucius Chesney. And I'll warrant _he_ won't refuse to hear it."

Nevill's countenance changed, and he seemed to wilt instantly.

"Your secret?" he muttered. "Are you telling the truth? What is it?"

"Do you suppose I'm going to give that away here in the street? It's a
private matter, and can only be told under shelter, where there ain't no
danger of eavesdroppers."

"I'll trust you," replied Nevill, after a brief hesitation. "Come, you
shall go to my rooms. But I warn you in advance that if you are playing
a game of blackmail I'll have no mercy on you."

"I won't ask none. Don't you fear."

Nevill opened the house door, and the two went softly up the dimly lit
staircase. The gas-lamps were turned on, revealing the luxuries of the
front apartment, and the visitor looked about him with bewildered
admiration; he seemed to feel his unfitness for the place, and
instinctively buttoned his coat over his shabby linen. But that was only
for a moment. With an insolent smile he took possession of a
basket-chair, helped himself to a cigar, and poured some brandy from a
_carafe_ into a glass. Meanwhile Nevill had drawn the window curtains,
and when he turned around he had hard work to restrain his anger.

"What the devil--," he began, and broke off. "You are the cheekiest
fellow I ever came across," he added.

"It ain't often," replied the man, puffing away contentedly, "that I get
a chance to try a swell's tobacco and liquor. That's prime stuff, sir. I
feel more like talking now."

"Then be quick about it. What is your business? And as you have the
advantage of me at present, it would be better if you began by stating
your name."

"My name," the man paused half a second, "is Timmins--Joe Timmins. It
ain't likely that you--"

"No; I never heard it," Nevill interrupted. He sat down at the other
side of the table, and endeavored to hide his anxiety and impatience.
"I can't spare you much time," he added.

"Sure there ain't nobody within earshot?"

"Quite sure. Make your mind easy."

Mr. Joe Timmins--_alias_ Noah Hawker--expressed his satisfaction by
a nod. He produced a paper from his pocket, and slowly unfolded it.

"If you will kindly read that," he said.

Nevill took the document curiously. It consisted of half a dozen pages
of writing, well-worded and grammatical, but done by a wretched,
scrawling hand, and embellished with numerous blots and smudges. From
the first he grasped its import, and as he read on to the end his face
grew pale and his hands shook. With a curse he started to his feet and
made a step toward the grate, where the embers of a coal fire lingered.
Then, dropping down again, he laughed bitterly.

"Of course this is only a copy?" he exclaimed.

"That's all, sir," replied Mr. Timmins, with a grim smile. "It ain't
likely I'd been fool enough to bring the original here. I did the copy
myself, an' though I ain't much of a scholar, I do say as it reads for
what it's meant to be, word for word."

"I want better proof than this, my man."

"Ain't you satisfied? Look at the date of the letter, an' where it was
written, an' what it says. Could I invent such a thing?"

"No; you couldn't," Nevill admitted. "You have the original letter, you
say?"

"I've had that and other papers for years, hid away in a safe place,
which is where they lie now. It's only lately I looked into them deep,
so to speak, and saw what they might be worth to me. I studied them,
sir, and by putting things together I found there were three persons
concerned--three chances for me to try."

"You are a cunning fellow," said Nevill. "Why did you bring the letter
to me?"

"Because it pointed that way. I knew you were the biggest bird, and the
one most likely to pay me for my secret. It was quite a different matter
with the others--"

"You haven't seen them?"

"No fear!" Mr. Timmins answered, emphatically. "I spotted you as my man
from the first, and I'm glad you've got the sense to look at it right.
I hope we understand each other."

"I don't think there can be much doubt about that," replied Nevill,
whose quick mind had grasped the situation in all its bearings; he
realized that there was no alternative--save ruin--but to submit to the
scoundrel's terms. But the bargain must be made as easy as possible.

"I must know more than you have told me," he went on. "How did the
letter come into your possession? And why have you waited more than five
years to make use of it?"

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