V
THE FLORENTINE BOX
WHEN a young man meets face to face the girl of his dreams, artistic or amatory, the nature of things requires that he shall be dressed to the queen's taste. What queen is irrelevant, as all the romancers I wot of disagree. Certainly it may not be the Lady of Cyprus, since she was non-sartorial; Margot, perhaps, or Mary; some half-goddess, posing mistily between history and tradition; not Elizabeth, to whom I deny any taste whatever. To proceed. He shall wear in his buttonhole a gardenia by preference, the popular vote having been given to that delicate flower in the remote but unforgetable epoch of Moths. There shall be no flaw in the outward make-up which appoints “men ... gay deceivers ever.” A doffed hat, all but brushing the varnished boots, a gloved hand covering the heart....
After all, I have no right to make light of Forbes' predicament. It is not very agreeable to have Her burst in upon you when you look ready for the oven, like a Thanksgiving turkey. And Forbes, for all his amatory flights, was (and is) a clean, kindly, honorable young man, capable of rising to heights, as shall be seen.
“What the devil are you doing here?” thundered the elderly man.
Forbes mumbled behind his handkerchief.
“What's been going on here?”
The girl, however, had some sense. She quickly unknotted the handkerchief. Forbes gasped hungrily, like a fish out of water, and worked his tongue around his cheeks. Something issued from his numb lips that sounded like “Thank you.”
“What has happened?” demanded the girl.
“A gentleman in a black mask....”
“Janet, the safe! We have been robbed! I told you it would happen!”
The girl and her father rushed over, getting in each other's way.
“Never saw the ruby nor the money!”
“But he has taken my jewel-box!” The girl stood up, leaning against the wall, her eyes shut. Forbes expected her to crumple up and sink to the floor, like one of Piffle's heroines. “My jewel-box!”—in a low murmur.
“I beg pardon,” said Forbes; “but I'd be extremely grateful if you'd take off these things. What time is it?”—irrelevantly.
“What time is it!” bawled the girl's father. “Well, you're a cool hand! Quarter after nine.”
“Quarter after nine? Haven't I been here any longer than that?”
“What I want to know is, what are you doing here at all?” The elderly man picked up the extension telephone.
“Father, what are you going to do?”
“Do?”—irately. “Why, send down to the club for the caterer. What do you suppose?”
“If you call the police you'll only make me very unhappy. I forbid you.”
“Good lord!” Her father set down the telephone roughly. “Have your own way; but some fine night we'll have our throats cut.”
Forbes stared at the girl, much astonished. No hysterical wringing of hands, no rushing about aimlessly; only a quiet acceptance of the inevitable. She did not want the police; investigation would only make her unhappy. What had that box contained? Then his astonishment gave place to speculative admiration. He saw her profile on the cover of The World-Wide, her arms filled with golden-rod. Corking cover. He could use the head for a year at least. No hesitant art-editors when they saw this. What a find!
“Will you kindly tell us how you came here?” The girl turned to Forbes inquiringly.
“I am Mortimer Forbes,” he said simply.
Her eyebrows remained elevated.
“The illustrator.”
No change in her expression.
She had never heard of him! And she wasn't a foreigner, either. Forbes was rather abashed.
“I came in here believing it to be the apartment of Mr. Jillson, my friend,”
“Jillson? Oh, now we are getting somewhere. Know him. Same club. Lives over us. Moved in last week. Soon find out whether you're telling the truth or not. I'll go up and get him. If he knows Mr.—ah—”
“Forbes”—dully. Not that Forbes was a vain man, but he believed it a matter of course that everybody had heard of him or seen his work.
“—Forbes. If what you say is true....” The excited parent did not complete the sentence but bolted from the apartment.
The girl walked over to the safe again and rummaged about. She was as pale as a lily. “You saw a man in a mask?”
“Yes.”
“You saw him take a box?”
“Yes. A Florentine affair.” The stole was biting painfully. “He made no attempt to open it.”
She nodded. Then she held out for his inspection a large roll of crisp green and yellow bills.
“He couldn't have seen it,” replied Forbes, understanding her gesture.
“Do you know how much is there?”
“I haven't had the pleasure of counting it!”—curtly. “I came in here expecting to see a poker game; instead, a pistol was held at my head and I was politely requested to be seated. Oh, he was very polite!”—bitterly.
The girl didn't apologize. “Fifteen thousand dollars.” She said it musingly.
“Fif.... What, in these days of checks, do you carry that much loose in our safe for?”
“I drew it from the bank this morning, To-morrow an agent from an emerald firm in Delhi is coming with a necklace I ordered. It was to be cash. It is made up of thirty stones.”
Tame grew the tales of Scheherezade, daughter of the grand vizier. Thirty emeralds at five hundred each! Would she let him sketch her head?
She sat down, her arm flung across the back of a chair and her face half hidden in the furry sleeve. The money slipped from her fingers and fluttered like autumn leaves at her feet. Was she crying? Forbes could not tell.
“I am sorry,” he said. “But would you mind untying these treasures? On the word of a gentleman, I shan't make any effort to go away. It was all a mistake on my part. Yet I am glad I blundered in. I may be able to help you to recover the box. My hands are so numb, and I do not believe I have any feet”
“Oh!” She got up and came over to him and deftly removed the stole and the Bokhara embroidery. Gratefully Forbes stretched himself.
“Women ought never to leave their jewels in boxes. A box like yours is an invitation to any burglar who sees it.”
“It contained nothing but letters. I keep all my jewels save one at the bank.”
“Letters?” Forbes laughed softly. “Well, the rogue will be nicely sold. That's something.”
The girl returned to her chair, and there she sat, staring stonily into the black cavity of the safe.
Was she crying?
Forbes tried to stand up, but swayed rockily and plumped back into the Sheraton, which, being genuinely antique, protested ominously. Presently he tried it again, walking doubtfully round the chair. Sure of his balance at last, he picked up the bills, made a compact roll of them, and laid them in the girl's lap.
“Thank you,” she said, just as if he had offered her a cup of tea.