CAPTER XI
TEARS FROM THE GAIETY
FRIDAY morning found Mr. Minot ready for whatever diplomacy the day might demand of him. He had a feeling that the demand would be great. The unheralded arrival of Miss Gibrielle Rose and her packet of letters presented no slight complication. Whatever the outcome of any suit she might start against Harrowby, Minot was sure that the mere announcement of it would be sufficient to blast Jephson's hopes for all time. Old Spencer Meyrick, already inflamed by the episode of the elder brother, was not likely to take coolly the publication of Harrowby's incriminating letters.
After an early breakfast, Minot sent a cable to Jephson telling of Miss Rose's arrival and asking for information about her. Next he sought an interview with the Gaiety lady.
An hour later, in a pink and gold parlor of the Hotel de la Pax, he stood gazing into the china-blue eyes of Miss Gabrielle Rose. It goes without saying that Miss Rose was pretty; innocent she seemed, too, with a baby stare that said as plainly as words: "Please don't harm me, will you?" But—ah, well, Lord Harrowby was not the first to learn that a business woman may lurk back of a baby stare.
"You come from Lord Harrowby?" And the smile that had decorated ten million post-cards throughout the United Kingdom flashed on Mr. Minot. "Won't you sit down?"
"Thanks." Minot fidgeted. He had no idea what to say. Time—it was time he must fight for, as he was fighting with Trimmer. "Er—Miss Rose," he began, "when I started out on this errand I had misgivings. But now that I have seen you, they are gone. Everything will be all right, I know. I have come to ask that you show Lord Harrowby some leniency."
The china-blue eyes hardened.
"You have come on a hopeless errand, Mr—er—Minot. Why should I show Harrowby any consideration? Did he show me any—when he broke his word to me and made me the laughing-stock of the town?"
"But that all happened five years ago—"
"Yes, but it is as vivid as though it were yesterday. I have always intended to demand some redress from his lordship. But my art—Mr.—Mr. Minot—you have no idea how exacting art can be. Not until now have I been in a position to do so."
"And the fact that not until now has his lordship proposed to marry some one else—that of course has nothing to do with it?"
"Mr. Minot!" A delightful pout. "If you knew me better you could not possibly ask that"
"Miss Rose, you're a clever woman—"
"Oh, please don't. I hate clever women, and I'm sure you do, too. I'm not a bit clever, and I'm proud of it On the contrary, I'm rather weak—rather easily got round. But when I think of the position Allan put me in—even a weak woman can be firm in the circumstances."
"Have it your own way," said Minot, bowing. "But you are at least clever enough to understand the futility of demanding financial redress from a man who is fiat broke. I assure you Lord Harrowby hasn't a shilling."
"I don't believe it. He can get money somehow. He always could. The courts can force him to. I shall tell my lawyer to go ahead with the suit."
"If you would only delay—a, week—"
"Impossible." Miss Rose spoke with haughty languor. "I begin rehearsals in New York in a week. No, I shall start suit to-day. You may tell Lord Harrowby so."
Poor Jephson! Minot had a mental picture of the little bald man writing at that very moment a terribly large check for the Dowager Duchess of Tremayne—paying for the rain that had fallen in torrents. He must at least hold this woman off until Jephson answered his cable.
"Miss Rose," he pleaded, "grant us one favor. Do not make public your suit against Harrowby until I have seen you again—say, at four o'clock this afternoon."
Coldly she shook her head.
"But you have already waited five years. Surely you can wait another five hours—as a very great favor to me."
"I should like to—since you put it that way—but it's impossible. I'm sorry." The great beauty and business woman leaned closer. "Mr. Minot, you can hardly realize what Allan's unkindness cost me—in bitter tears. I loved him—once. And—I believe he loved me."
"There can not be any question about that."
"Ah—flattery—"
"No—spoken from the heart."
"Really!"
"My dear lady—I should like to be your press agent. I could write the most gorgeous things about you—and no one could say I lied."
"You men are so nice," she gurgled, "when you want to be." Ah, yes, Gabrielle Rose had always found them so, and had yet to meet one not worth her while to capture. She turned the baby stare full on Minot. Even to a beauty of the theater he was an ingratiating picture. She rose and strolled to a piano in one corner of the room, Minot followed.
"When Harrowby first met me," she said, her fingers on the keys, "I was singing Just a Little. My first dear song—ah, Mr. Minot, I was happy then."
In another minute she began to sing—softly—a plaintive little love-song, and in spite of himself Minot felt his heart beat faster.
"How it brings back the old days," she whispered. "The lights, and the friendly faces—Harrowby in the stalls. And the little suppers after the show—"
She leaned forward and sang at Minot as she had sung at Harrowby five years before:
"You could love me just a little—if you tried—
You could feel your heart go pit-a-pat inside—"
Really, she had a way with her!
"Dear, it's easy if you try;
Cross your heart and hope to die—
Don't you love me just a little—now?"
That baby stare in all its pathos, all its appealing helplessness, was focused full on Minot. He gripped the arms of his chair. Gabrielle Rose saw. Had she made another captive? So it seemed. She felt very kindly toward the world. "Promise," Minot leaned over. His voice was hoarse. "You'll meet me here at four. Quite aside from my errand—quite aside from everything—I want to see you again."
"Do you really?" She continued to hum beneath her breath. "Very well—here at four."
"And—" he hesitated, fearing to break the spell. "In the meantime—"
"In the meantime," she said, "I'll think only of—four o'clock."
Minot left that pink and gold parlor at sea in several respects. The theory was that he had played with this famous actress—wound her round his finger—cajoled a delay. But somehow he didn't feel exactly as one who has mastered a delicate situation should. Instead he felt dazed by the beauty of her.
Still more was he at sea as to what he was going to do at four o'clock. Of what good was the delay if he could not make use of it? And at the moment he hadn't the slightest notion of what he could do to prepare himself for the afternoon interview. He must wait for Jephson's cable—perhaps that would give him an idea.
Minot was walking blankly down the street in the direction of his morning paper when a poster in a deserted store window caught his eye. It was an atrocious poster—red letters on a yellow background. It announced that five hundred dollars reward would be paid by Mr. Henry Trimmer for information that would disclose the present whereabouts of the real Lord Harrowby.
As Minot stood reading it, a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. Turning, he looked into the lean and hostile face of Henry Trimmer himself.
"Good morning," said Mr. Trimmer.
"Good morning," replied Minot.
"Glad to number you among my readers," sneered Trimmer. "What do you think—reward large enough?"
"Looks about the right size to me," Minot answered.
"Me, too. Ought to bring results pretty quick. By the way, you were complaining last night that you never heard of me until you came here. I've been thinking that over, and I've decided to make up to you in the next few days for all those lonely years—"
But the morning had been too much for Minot. Worried, distressed, he lost for the moment his usual smiling urbanity.
"Oh, go to the devil!" he said, and walked away.
Lunch time came—two o'clock. At half past two, out of London, Jephson spoke. Said his cable:
"Know nothing of G. R. except that she's been married frequently. Do best you can."
And what help was this, pray? Disgustedly Minot read the cable again. Four o'clock was coming on apace, and with every tick of the clock his feeling of helplessness grew. He mentally berated Thacker and Jephson. They left him alone to grapple with wild problems, offering no help and asking miracles. Confound them both!
Three o'clock came. What—what was he to say? Lord Harrowby, interrogated, was merely useless and frantic He couldn't raise a shilling. He couldn't offer a suggestion. "Dear old chap," he moaned, "I depend on you."
Three-thirty! Well, Thacker and Jephson had asked the impossible, that was all. Minot felt he had done his best. No man could do more. He was very sorry for Jephson, but—golden before him opened the possibility of Miss Cynthia Meyrick free to be wooed.
Yet he must be faithful to the last. At a quarter to four he read Jephson's cablegram again. As he read, a plan ridiculous in its ineffectiveness occurred to him. And since no other came in the interval before four, he walked into Miss Rose's presence determined to try out his weak little bluff.
The Gaiety lady was playing on the piano—a whispering, seductive little time. As Minot stepped to her side she glanced up at him with a coy inviting smile. But she drew back a little at his determined glare.
"Miss Rose," he said sharply, "I have discovered that you can not sue Lord Harrowby for breach of contract to marry you."
"Why—why not?" she stammered.
"Because," said Minot, with a triumphant smile—though it was a shot in the dark—"you already had a husband when those letters were written to you."
Well, he had done his best. A rather childish effort, but what else was there to attempt? Poor old Jephson!
"Nonsense," said the Gaiety lady, and continued to play.
"Nothing of the sort," Minot replied. "Why, I can produce the man himself."
Might as well go the limit while he was about it. That should be his consolation when Jephson lost. Might as well—but what was this?
Gabrielle Rose had turned livid with anger. Her lips twitched, her china-blue eyes flashed fire. If only her lawyer had been by her side then! But he wasn't And so she cried hotly:
"He's told! The little brute's told!"
Good lord! Minot felt his knees weaken. A shot in the dark—had it hit the target after all?
"If you refer to your husband," said Minot, "he has done just that."
"He's not my husband," she snapped.
Oh, what was the use? Providence was with Jephson.
"No, of course not—not since the divorce," Minot answered. "But he was when those letters were written."
The Gaiety lady's chin began to tremble.
"And he promised me, on his word of honor, that he wouldn't tell. But I suppose you found him easy. What honor could one expect in a Persian carpet dealer?"
A Persian carpet dealer? Into Minot's mind floated a scrap of conversation heard at Mrs. Bruce's table.
"But you must remember," he ventured, "that he is also a prince."
"Yes," said the woman, "that's what I thought when I married him. He's the prince of liars—that's as far as his royal blood goes."
A silence, while Miss Gabrielle Rose felt in her sleeve for her handkerchief.
"I suppose," Minot suggested, "you will abandon the suit—"
She looked at him. Oh, the pathos of that baby stare!
"You are acting in this matter simply as Harrowby's friend?" she asked.
"Simply as his friend."
"And—so far—only you know of my—er—ex-husband?"
"Only I know of him," smiled Minot. The smile died from his face. For he saw bright tears on the long lashes of the Gaiety lady. She leaned close.
"Mr. Minot," she said, "it is I who need a friend. Not Harrowby. I am here in a strange country—without funds—alone. Helpless. Mr. Minot. You could not be so cruel."
"I—I—I'm sorry," said Minot uncomfortably.
The lady was an actress, and she acted now, beautifully.
"I—I feel so desolate," she moaned, dabbing daintily at her eyes. "You will help me. It can not be I am mistaken in you. I thought—did I imagine it—this morning when I sang for you—you liked me—just a little?"
Nervously Minot rose from his chair and stood looking down at her. He tried to answer, but his voice seemed lost.
"Just a very little?" She, too, rose and placed her butterfly hands on his shoulders. "You do like me—just a little, don't you?"
Her pleading eyes gazed into his. It was a touching scene. To be besought thus tenderly by a famous beauty in the secluded parlor of a southern hotel! The touch of her hands on his shoulders thrilled him. The odor of Jockey Club—
It was at this instant that Mr. Minot, looking past the Gaiety lady's beautiful golden coiffure, beheld Miss Cynthia Meyrick standing in the doorway of that parlor, a smile on her face. She disappeared on the instant, but Gabrielle Rose's "big scene" was ruined beyond repair.
"My dear lady"—gently Minot slipped from beneath her lovely hands—"I assure you I do like you—more than a little. But unfortunately my loyalty to Harrowby—no, I won't say that—circumstances are such that I can not be your friend in this instance. Though, if I could serve you in any other way—"
Gabrielle Rose snapped her fingers.
"Very well." Her voice had a metallic ring now. "We shall see what we shall see."
"Undoubtedly. I bid you good day."
As Minot, somewhat dazed, walked along the veranda of the De la Pax he met Miss Meyrick. There was a mischievous gleam in her eye.
"Really, it was so tactless of me, Mr. Minot," she said. "A thousand apologies."
He pretended not to understand.
"My untimely descent on the parlor." She beamed on him. "I presume it happened because romance draws me—like a magnet. Even other people's."
Minot smiled wanly, and for once sought to end their talk.
"Oh, do sit down just a moment," she pleaded. "I want to thank you for the great service you did Harrowby and me—last night."
"Wha—what service?" asked Minot, sinking into a chair.
She leaned close, and spoke in a whisper.
"Your part in the kidnaping. Harrowby has told me. It was sweet of you—so unselfish."
"Damn!" thought Minot. And then he thought two more.
"To put yourself out that our wedding may be a success!" Was this sarcasm, Minot wondered. "I'm so glad to know about it, Mr. Minot It shows me at last—just what you think is"—she looked away—"best for me."
"Best for you? What do you mean?"
"Can't you understand? From some things you've said I have thought—perhaps—you didn't just approve of my—marriage. And now I see I misconstrued you—utterly. You want me to marry Harrowby. You're working for it. I shouldn't be surprised if you were on that train last Monday just to make sure that—I'd—get here—safely."
Really, it was inhuman. Did she realize how inhuman it was? One glance at Minot might have told her. But she was still looking away.
"So I want to thank you, Mr. Minot," she went on. "I shall always remember your—kindness. I couldn't understand at first, but now—I wonder? You know, it's an old theory that as soon as one has one's own affair of the heart arranged, one begins to plan for others?"
Minot made a little whistling sound through his clenched teeth. The girl stood up.
"Your thoughtfulness has made me very happy," she laughed. "It shows that perhaps you care for me—just a little—too."
She was gone! Minot sat swearing softly to himself, banging the arm of his chair with his fist. He raged at Thacker, Jephson, the solar system. Gradually his anger cooled. Underneath the raillery in Cynthia Meyrick's tone he had thought he detected something of a serious note—as though she were a little wistful—a little hurt.
Did she care? Bitter-sweet thought! In the midst of all this farce and melodrama, had she come to care?—just a little?—
Just a little! Bah!
Minot rose and went out on the avenue.
Prince Navin Bey Imno was accustomed to give lectures twice daily on the textures of his precious rugs, at his shop in the Alameda court-yard. His afternoon lecture was just finished as Mr. Minot stepped into the shop. A dozen awed housewives from the Middle West were hurrying away to write home on the hotel stationery that they had met a prince. When the last one had gone out Minot stepped forward. "Prince—I've dropped in to warn you. A very angry woman will be here shortly to see you."
The handsome young Persian shrugged his shoulders, and took off the jacket of the native uniform with which he embellished his talks.
"Why is she angry? All my rugs—they are what I say they are. In this town are many liars selling oriental rugs. Oriental! Ugh! In New Jersey they were made. But not my rugs. See! Only in my native country, where I was a prince of the—"
"Yes, yes. But this lady is not coming about rugs. I refer to your ex-wife."
"Ah. You are mistaken. I have never married."
"Oh, yes, you have. I know all about it, There's no need to lie. The whole story is out, and the lady's game in San Marco is queered. She thinks you told. That's why she'll be here for a chat."
"But I did not tell. Only this morning did I see her first. I could not tell—so soon. Who could I tell—so soon?"
"I know you didn't tell. But can you prove it to an agitated lady? No. You'd better close up for the evening."
"Ah, yes—you are right. I am innocent—but what does Gabrielle care for innocence? We are no longer married—still I should not want to meet her now. I will close. But first—my friend—my benefactor—could I interest you in this rug? See! Only in my native country, where—"
"Prince," said Minot, "I couldn't use a rug if you gave me one."
"That is exactly what I would do. You are my friend. You serve me. I give you this. Fifty dollars. That is giving it to you. Note the weave. Only in my—"
"Good night," interrupted Minot. "And take my advice. Hurry!"
Gloomy, discouraged, he turned back toward his own hotel. It was true, Gabrielle Rose's husband at the time of the letters was in San Marco. The emissary of Jephson was serving a cause that could not lose. That afternoon he had hoped. Was there anything dishonorable in that? Jephson and Thacker could command his service, they could not command his heart. He had hoped—and now—
At a corner a negro gave him a handbill. He read:
WHO HAS KIDNAPED
THE REAL
LORD HARROWBY?
AT THE OPERA-HOUSE TO-NIGHT!!
Mr. Henry Trimmer Will Appear in
Place of His Unfortunate Friend, Lord
Harrowby, and Will Make a Few
WARM, AND SIZZLING
REMARKS.
NO ADVANCE IN PRICES.
Mr. Minot tossed the bill into the street. Into his eyes came the ghostlike semblance of a smile. After all, the famous Harrowby wedding had not yet taken place.