In Friendship's Guise by Wm. Murray Graydon

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"Is there any clew yet?"

Mr. Lamb shook his head sadly.

"Not a ray of light has been thrown on the mystery," he replied, "though
the best Scotland Yard men are at work. You may depend upon it that the
insurance people, who stand to lose ten thousand pounds, will leave no
stone unturned. As for Raper, our watchman, he has been discharged. Mr.
Drummond and I are convinced that his story was true, but it was
impossible to overlook his gross carelessness. We never knew that he
was in the habit of going nightly to the public house in Crown Court."

"It's a wonder you were not robbed before," said Jack. "You have my
address--will you let me know if anything occurs?"

"Certainly, Mr. Vernon. Must you be off? Good morning!"

Jack sauntered along Pall Mall, and turned up Regent street. At
Piccadilly Circus he saw two men standing before the cigar shop on the
corner. One was young and boyish looking. The other, a few years older,
was of medium height and stout beyond proportion; he wore a tweed suit
of a rather big check pattern, and the coat was buttoned over a scarlet
waistcoat; the straw hat, gaudily beribboned, shaded a fat, jolly,
half-comical face, of the type that readily inspires confidence. He was
talking to his companion animatedly when he saw Jack approaching. With a
boisterous exclamation of delight he rushed up to him and clapped him on
the shoulder.

"Clare, old boy!" he cried.

"Jimmie Drexell!" Jack gasped in amazement. "Dear old chap, how awfully
glad I am to see you!"

With genuine and heartfelt emotion they shook hands and looked into
each other's eyes--these two who had not met for long years, since the
rollicksome days of student life in Paris when they had been as intimate
as brothers.

"You're fit as a king, my boy--not much changed," spluttered Drexell,
with a strong American accent to his kindly, mellow voice. "I was going
to look you up to-day--only landed at Southampton yesterday--got beastly
tired of New York--yearned for London and Paris--shan't go back for six
months or a year, hanged if I do."

"I'm jolly glad to hear it, Jimmie."

"We'll see a lot of each other--eh, old man? So, you've stuck to the
name of Vernon? I called you Clare, didn't I? Yes, I forgot. You told me
you had taken the other name when you wrote a couple of years ago. I
haven't heard from you since, except through the papers. You've made
a hit, I understand. Doing well?"

"Rather! I've no cause to complain. And you, Jimmie? What's become of
the art?"

"Chucked it, Jack--it was no go. I painted like a blooming Turk--hired a
studio--filled it with jimcrackery--got the best-looking models--wore a
velvet coat and grew long hair. But it was all useless. I earned
twenty-five dollars in three years. I had a picture in a dealer's
shop--his place burnt down--I made him fork over. Then a deceased
relative left me $150,000--said I deserved it for working so hard in
Paris. A good one, eh? I leased the studio to the Salvation Army, and
here I am, a poor devil of an artist out of work."

Jack laughed heartily.

"Art never _was_ much in your line," he said, "though I remember how you
kept pegging away at it. And no one can be more pleased than myself to
learn that you've dropped into a fortune. Stick to it, Jimmie."

"There will be another one some day, Jack--when this is gone. By the
way, I met old Nevill last night--dined with him. And that reminds me--"

He turned to his companion, the fresh-faced boy, and introduced him to
Jack as the Honorable Bertie Raven. The two shook hands cordially, and
exchanged a few commonplace words.

"Come on; we've held up this corner long enough," exclaimed Drexell.
"Let's go and lunch together somewhere. I'll leave it to you, Raven.
Name your place."

"Prince's, then," was the prompt rejoinder.

As they walked along Piccadilly the Honorable Bertie was forced ahead by
the narrowness of the pavement and the jostling crowds, and Drexell
whispered at Jack's ear:

"A good sort, that young chap. I met him in New York a year ago. His
next eldest brother, the Honorable George, is over there now. I believe
he is going to marry a cousin of mine--a girl who will come into a pot
of money when her governor dies."

* * * * *

Nine o'clock at night, and a room in Beak street, Regent street; a back
apartment looking into a dingy court, furnished with a sort of tawdry,
depressing luxury, and lighted by a pair of candles. A richly dressed
woman who had once been extremely handsome, and still retained more than
a trace of her charms, half reclined on a couch; a fluffy mass of
coppery-red hair had escaped from under her hat, and shaded her large
eyes; shame and confusion, mingled with angry defiance, deepened the
artificial blush on her cheeks.

Victor Nevill stood in the middle of the floor, confronting her with a
faint, mocking smile at his lips. He had not taken the trouble to remove
his hat. He wore evening dress, with a light cloak over it, and he
twirled a stick carelessly between his gloved fingers.

"So it is really you!" he said.

"If you came to sneer at me, go!" the woman answered spitefully. "You
have your revenge. How did you find me?"

"It was not easy, but I persevered--"

"Why?"

"For a purpose. I will tell you presently. And do not think that I came
to sneer. I am sorry for you--grieved to find you struggling in the
vortex of London." He looked about the room, which, indeed, told a plain
story. "You were intended for better things," he added. "Where is Count
Nordhoff?"

"He left me--three years ago."

"I wouldn't mind betting that you cleaned him out, and then heartlessly
turned him adrift."

"You are insolent!"

"And I dare say you have had plenty of others since. What has become of
the Jew?"

The woman's eyes flashed like a tiger's.

"I wish I had him here now!" she cried. "He deserted me--broke a hundred
promises. I have not seen him for a week."

"You are suffering heavily for the past."

"For the past!" the woman echoed dully. "Victor," she said with a sudden
change of voice, "_you_ loved me once--"

"Yes, once. But you crushed that love--killed it forever. No stage
sentiment, please. Understand that, plainly."

The brief hope died out of the woman's eyes, and was replaced by a gleam
of hatred. She looked at the man furiously.

"There is no need to fly into a passion," said Nevill. "We can at least
be friends. I cherish no ill-feeling--I pity you sincerely. And yet you
are still beautiful enough to turn some men's heads. How are you off for
money?"

The woman opened a purse and dashed a handful of silver to the floor.

"That is my all!" she cried, hoarsely.

"Then you must find a way out of your difficulties. I am going to have
a serious talk with you."

Nevill drew a chair up to the couch, and his first words roused the
woman's interest. He spoke for ten minutes or more, now in whispers, now
with a rising inflection; now persuasively, now with well-feigned
indignation and scorn. The effect which his argument had on his
companion was shown by the swift changes that passed over her face; she
interrupted him frequently, asking questions and making comments. At the
end the woman rustled her silken skirts disdainfully, and rose to her
feet.

"Why do you suggest this, Victor?" she demanded. "Where do _you_ come
in?"

Nevill seemed slightly disconcerted.

"I am foolish enough to feel an interest in a person I once cared for,"
he replied. "I want to save you from ruin that is inevitable if you
continue in your present course."

"It is kind of you, Victor Nevill," the woman answered sneeringly. "He
has a personal motive," she thought. "What can it be?"

"The thing is so simple, so natural," said Nevill, "that I wonder you
hesitate. Of course you will fall in with it."

"Suppose I refuse?"

"I can't credit you with such madness."

"But what if--" She leaned toward him and whispered a short sentence in
his ear. His face turned the color of ashes, and he clutched her wrist
so tightly that she winced with pain.

"It is a lie!" he cried, brutally. "By heavens, if I believed--"

The woman laughed--a laugh that was not pleasant to hear.

"Fool! do you think I would tell you if it was true?" she said. "I was
only jesting."

"It is not a subject to jest about," Nevill answered stiffly. "I came
here to do you a good turn, and--"

"You had better have kept away. You are a fiend--you are a Satan
himself! Why do you tempt me? Do you think that I have no conscience,
no shame left? I am bad enough, Victor Nevill, but by the memory of the
past--of what I threw away--I can't stoop so low as to--"

"Your heroics are out of place," he interrupted. "Go to the devil your
own way, if you like."

"You shall have an answer to-morrow--to-morrow! Give me time to think
about it."

The woman sank down on the couch again; her over-wrought nerves gave
way, and burying her face in the cushions she sobbed hysterically.
Nevill looked at her for a moment. Then he put a couple of sovereigns on
the table and quietly left the room.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE DINNER AT RICHMOND.

Three days later, at the unusually early hour of nine in the morning,
Victor Nevill was enjoying his sponge bath. There appeared to be
something of a pleasing nature on his mind, for as he dressed he smiled
complacently at his own reflection in the glass. Having finished his
toilet, he did not ring immediately for his breakfast. He sat down to
his desk, and drew pen, ink and paper before him.

"My Dear Jack" he wrote, "will you dine with me at the Roebuck to-morrow
night? Jimmie Drexell is coming, and I am going to drive him down. We
will stop and pick you up on the way. An answer will oblige, if not too
much trouble."

He put the invitation in an envelope and addressed it. Then he pulled
the bell-cord, and a boy shortly entered the room with a tray containing
breakfast and a little heap of letters. Nevill glanced over his
correspondence carelessly--they were mostly cards for receptions and
tradesmen's accounts--until he reached a letter bearing a foreign stamp.
It was a long communication, and the reading of it caused him anything
but satisfaction, to judge from the frown that gathered on his features.

"I wouldn't have credited Sir Lucius with such weakness," he muttered
angrily. "What has possessed him?--and after all these years! He says
his conscience troubles him! He fears he was too cruel and hard-hearted!
Humph! it's pleasant for me, I must say. Fancy him putting _me_ on the
scent--asking _me_ to turn private detective! I suppose I'll have to
humor him, or pretend to. It will be the safest course. Can there be any
truth in his theory, I wonder? No, I don't think so. And after such a
lapse of time the task would be next to impossible. I will be a fool if
I let the thing worry me."

Victor Nevill locked the offending letter in his desk, vowing that he
would forget it. But that was easier said than done, and his gloomy
countenance and preoccupied air showed how greatly he was disturbed. His
breakfast was quite spoiled, and he barely tasted his coffee and rolls.
With a savage oath he put on his hat, and went down into Jermyn street.
He walked slowly in the direction of the Albany, where Jimmie Drexell
had been fortunate enough to secure a couple of chambers.

The afternoon post brought Jack the invitation to dinner for the
following night, and he answered it at once. He accepted with pleasure,
but told Nevill not to stop for him on the way to Richmond. He would not
be at home after lunch, he wrote, but would turn up at the Roebuck on
time. Having thus disposed of the matter, he went to town, and he and
Drexell dined together and spent the evening at the Palace, where the
newest attraction was an American dancer with whom the susceptible
Jimmie had more than a nodding acquaintance, a fact that possibly had
something to do with his hasty visit to London.

Jack worked hard the next day--he had a lot of lucrative commissions on
hand, and could not afford to waste much time. It was three o'clock when
he left the studio, and half an hour later he was crossing Kew Bridge.
He turned up the river, along the towing-path, and near the old palace
he joined Madge. She had written to him a couple of days before,
announcing her immediate return from Portland Terrace, and arranged
for a meeting.

It was a perfect afternoon of early summer, with a cloudless sky and a
refreshing breeze. It cast a spell over the lovers, and for a time they
were silent as they trod the grassy path, with the rippling Thames,
dotted with pleasure-craft, flowing on their right. Jack stole many a
glance at the lovely, pensive face by his side. He was supremely happy,
in a dreamy mood, and not a shadow of the gathering storm marred his
content.

"It was always a beautiful world, Madge," he said, "but since you came
into my life it has been a sort of a paradise. Work is a keener pleasure
now--work for your sake. Existence is a dreary thing, if men only knew
it, without a good, pure woman's love."

The girl's face was rapturous as she looked up at him; she clung
caressingly to his arm.

"You regret nothing, dearest?" he asked.

"Nothing, Jack. How could I?"

"You have been very silent."

"You can't read a woman's heart, dear. If I was silent, it was because I
was so happy--because the future, our future, seemed so bright. There is
only the one little cloud--"

"Your father?" he interrupted. "Is he still relentless, Madge?"

"I think he is softening. He has been much kinder to me since I came
home. He does not mention your name, and he has not forbidden me to see
you or write to you. I should not have hesitated to tell him that I was
going to meet you to-day. He knows that I won't give you up."

"And, knowing that, he will make the best of it," Jack said, gladly.
"He will come round all right, I feel sure. And now I want to ask you
something, Madge, dear. You won't make me wait long, will you?"

She averted her eyes and blushed. Jack drew her to a lonely bench near
the moat, and they sat down.

"I will tell you why I ask," he went on. "I got a letter this morning
from a man who wants to buy my Academy pictures. He offers a splendid
price--more than I hoped for--and I will put it aside for our honeymoon.
Life is short enough, and we ought to make the most of it. Madge, what
do you say? Will you marry me early in September? That is a glorious
month to be abroad, roaming on the Continent--"

"It is so soon, Jack."

"To me it seems an age. You will consent if your father does?"

"Yes, I will."

"And if he refuses?"

The girl nestled closer to him, and looked into his face with laughing
eyes.

"Then, I am afraid I shall have to disobey him, dear. If you wish it I
will be your wife in September."

"My own sweet Madge!" he cried.

All his passionate love was poured out in those four little words. He
forgot the past, and saw only the rich promise of the future. There was
a lump in his throat as he added softly:

"You shall never repent your choice, darling!"

For an hour they sat on the bench, talking as they had never talked
before, and many a whispered confidence of the girl's, many a phrase and
sentence, burnt into Jack's memory to haunt him afterward. Then they
parted, there by the riverside, and Madge tripped homeward.

Happy were Jack's reflections as he picked up a cab that rattled him
swiftly into Richmond and up the famous Hill to the Roebuck. Nevill and
Jimmie Drexell, who had arrived a short time before, greeted him
hilariously.

The table was laid for Nevill and his guests in the coffee-room of the
Roebuck, as cheerful and snug a place as can be found anywhere, with its
snowy linen and shining silver and cut-glass, its buffet temptingly
spread, and on the walls a collection of paintings that any collector
might envy.

The Roebuck's _chef_ was one of the best, and the viands served were
excellent; the rare old wines gurgled and sparkled from cobwebbed
bottles that had lain long in bin. The dinner went merrily, the evening
wore on, and the sun dipped beneath the far-off Surrey Hills.

"This is a little bit of all right, my boys," said Jimmie, quoting
London slang, as he stirred his _creme de menthe frappe_ with a straw.
"I'm jolly glad I crossed the pond. Many's the time I longed for a
glimpse of Richmond and the river while I sweltered in the heat on the
Casino roof-garden. Here's to 'Dear Old London Town,' in the words
of--who _did_ write that song?"

Nevill drained his chartreuse.

"Come, let's go and have a turn on the Terrace," he said. "It's too
early to drive back to town."

They lighted their cigars and filed down stairs, laughing gaily, and
crossed the road. Jack was the merriest of the three. Little did he
dream that he was going to meet his fate.

CHAPTER XV.

FROM THE DEAD.

There were not many people about town. The strollers had gone back to
town, or down the hill to their dinners. The Terrace, and the gardens
that dropped below it to the Thames, were bathed in the purplish
opalescent shades of evening. From the windows of the Roebuck streamed a
shaft of light, playing on the trunks of the great trees, and gleaming
the breadth of the graveled walk. It shone full on Nevill and his
companions, and it revealed a woman coming along the Terrace from the
direction of the Star and Garter; she was smartly dressed, and stepped
with a graceful, easy carriage.

"Look!" whispered Jimmie. "The Lass of Richmond Hill! There's something
nice for you."

"Not for me," Jack laughed.

The woman, coming opposite to the three young men, shot a bold glance at
them. She stopped with a little scream, and pressed one hand agitatedly
to her heart.

"Jack!" she cried in an eager whisper. "My Jack!"

That once familiar voice woke the chords of his memory, bridged the gulf
of years. His blood seemed to turn to ice in his veins. He stared at the
handsome face, with its expression of mingled insolence and terror--met
the scrutiny of the large, flashing eyes. Then doubt fled. His brain
throbbed, and the world grew black.

"Diane! My God!" fell from his lips.

"Fancy _her_ turning up!" Nevill whispered to Drexell.

"It's a bad business," Jimmie replied; he, as well as Nevill, had known
Diane Merode while she was Jack's wife.

The woman came closer; she shrugged her shoulders mockingly.

"Jack--my husband," she said. "Have you no welcome for me?"

With a bitter oath he caught her arm. His face indicated intense
emotion, which he vainly tried to control.

"Yes, it is you!" he said, hoarsely. "You have come back from the grave
to wreck my life. I heard you were dead, and I believed it--"

"You read it in a Paris paper," interrupted Diane, speaking English with
a French accent. "It was a lie--a mistake. It was not I who was dragged
from the river and taken to the Morgue. It would have been better so,
perhaps. Jack, why do you glare at me? Listen, I am not as wicked as you
think. There were circumstances--I was not to blame. I can explain
all--"

"Hush, or I will kill you!" he said, fiercely. He snatched at a chain
that encircled her white throat, and as it broke in his grasp a
sparkling jewel fell to the ground. The most stinging name that a man
can call a woman hissed from his clenched teeth. She shrank back,
terrified, into the shadow, and he followed her. "Are you dead to all
shame, that you dare to make yourself known to me?" he cried. "The life
you lead is blazoned on your painted cheeks! You are no wife of mine!
Begone! Out of my sight! Merciful God, what have I done to deserve this?"

"For Heaven's sake, don't make a scene!" urged Jimmie. "Control yourself,
old man." He looked anxiously about, but as yet the altercation had not
been observed by the few persons in the vicinity. "Nevill, we must stop
this," he added.

"I _won't_ go away," Diane vowed, obstinately. "You are my husband,
Jack, and you know it. Let your friends, who knew us in the old days,
deny it if they can! I have a wife's claim on you."

"Take her away!" Jack begged.

Nevill drew the woman to one side, and though she made a show of
resistance at first, she quickly grew calm and listened quietly to his
whispered words. He whistled for a passing hansom, and it stopped at the
edge of the street. He helped Diane into it, and rejoined his companions.

"It's all right--she is reasonable now," he said in a low voice. "Brace
up, Jack; I'll see you through this. Jimmie, go over and pay the account,
will you? Here is the money. And say that I will send for the trap
to-morrow."

Nevill entered the cab, and it rattled swiftly down the hill. As the
echo of the wheels died away, Jack dropped on a bench and hid his face
in his hands.

"I'll be back in a moment, old chap," said Jimmie. "Wait here."

He had scarcely crossed the street when Jack rose. His agony seemed too
intense to bear, and even yet he did not realize all that the blow
meant. For the moment he was hardly responsible for his actions, and
a glimpse of the river, shining far below, lured him on blindly and
aimlessly. A little farther along the Terrace, just beyond the upper
side of the gardens, was a footway leading down to the lower road and
the Thames. He followed this, swaying like a drunken man, and he had
reached the iron stile at the bottom when Jimmie, who had sighted him
in the distance, overtook him and caught his arm. Jack shook him roughly
off.

"What do you want?" he said, hoarsely.

"Don't take it so hard," pleaded Jimmie. "I'm awfully sorry for you,
old man. I know it's a knock-down blow, but--"

"You don't know half. It's worse than you think. I am the most miserable
wretch on earth! And an hour ago I was the happiest--"

"Come with me," said Jimmie. "That's a good fellow."

Jack did not resist. Linked arm in arm with his friend, he stumbled
along the narrow pavement of the lower road. At The Pigeons they found a
cab that had just set down a fare. They got into it, and Jimmie gave the
driver his orders.

It seemed a short ride to Jack, and while it lasted not a word passed
his lips. He sat in a stupor, with dull, burning eyes and a throbbing
head. In all his thoughts he recalled the lovely, smiling face of Madge.
And now she was lost to him forever--there was a barrier between them
that severed their lives. In his heart he bitterly cursed the day when
he had yielded to the wiles of Diane Merode, the popular dancer of the
Folies Bergere.

The cab stopped, and he reeled up a dark flight of steps. He was sitting
in a big chair in his studio, with the gas burning overhead, and Jimmie
staring at him with an expression of heartfelt sympathy on his honest
face.

"This was the best place to bring you," he said.

Jack rose, and paced to and fro. He looked haggard and dazed; his hair
and clothing were disheveled.

"Tell me, Jimmie," he cried, "is it all a dream, or is it true?"

"I wish it wasn't true, old man. But you're taking it too hard--you're
as white as a ghost. It can be kept out of the papers, you know. And you
won't have to live with her--you can pension her off and send her
abroad. I dare say she's after money. Women are the very devil, Jack,
ain't they? I could tell you about a little scrape of my own, with
Totsy Footlights, of the Casino--"

"You don't understand," said Jack, in a dull, hard voice. "I believed
that Diane was dead."

"Of course you did--you showed me the paragraph in the _Petit Journal_."

"I considered myself a free man--free to marry again."

"Whew! Go on!"

Jack was strangely calm as he took out his keys and unlocked a cabinet
over his desk. He silently handed his friend a photograph.

"By Jove, what a lovely face!" muttered Jimmie.

"That is the best and dearest girl in the world," said Jack. "I thought
I was done with women until I met her, a short time ago. We love each
other, and we were to be married in September. And now--My God, this
will break her heart! It has broken mine already, Jimmie! Curse the day
I first put foot in Paris!"

"My poor old chap, this _is_--"

That was all Jimmie could say. He vaguely realized that he was in the
presence of a grief beyond the power of words to comfort. There was a
suspicious moisture in his eyes as he turned abruptly to the table and
mixed himself a mild stimulant. He drank it slowly to give himself time
to think.

Jack thrust the photograph into the breast pocket of his coat. He rubbed
one hand through his hair, and kicked an easel over. He burst into a
harsh, unnatural laugh.

"This is a rotten world!" he cried. "A rotten world! It's a stage
full of actors, and they play d---- little but tragedy! I've found
my long-lost wife again, Jimmie! Rejoice with me!"

He poured three fingers of neat brandy into a glass and drank it at a
gulp. Then the mocking laughter died on his lips, and he threw himself
into a chair. He buried his face in his hands, and his body shook with
the violence of the sobs he was powerless to stifle.

"It will do him good," thought Jimmie.

The clock ticked on, and at intervals there was the rumble of trains
passing to and from Ravenscourt Park station, and the clang of distant
tram-bells. The voice of mighty London mocked at Jack's misery, and he
conquered his emotions. He lifted a defiant face, much flushed.

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