CHAPTER XI
WORD OF HONOUR
I
An hour and a half later, with the cheers of a vast audience in her ears and tears of proud gratification in her large blue eyes, Geraldine Tilford excused herself to her smilingly acquiescent guests and accompanied Tom Winter, by the private way, back-stage to the Artistes’ Parlour. Here they found the sub-manager of the Hall.
‘Where is Captain Conway?’ asked Geraldine eagerly.
‘I guess he’s saying good-bye to the Chairman. I saw them going downstairs together. There’s a considerable bunch outside asking for the Captain’s autograph. I’m here to ascertain his general feeling on the matter. I’ll go after him now—else the General will keep him talking all night.’
‘Tell him that Mrs. Tilford is waiting for him, will you?’ said Winter.
‘Sure! That ought to bring him!’ replied the manager gallantly.
The door closed behind him, and the pair sat down.
‘Isn’t he perfectly wonderful?’ said Geraldine, referring presumably to the recent lecturer.
‘He’s a marvel!’ replied Winter, with perfect sincerity.
‘That gift of his,’ continued Geraldine, with shining eyes—‘how rare!’
‘Perhaps it’s just as well,’ replied Winter. He was answering mechanically.
The thought of the blow which was shortly to be dealt to this radiant creature at his instance was trying his fortitude to the uttermost. His was a generous spirit; he felt thoroughly mean and despicable. How would she take it, he wondered? What would she do? Would she utter reproaches? Would she forswear men for ever? Would she follow Conway into exile? Or would she allow the incident to crush her completely, like the fragile blossom that she was? He did not know. He had little experience in the workings of a woman’s soul. But one thing was tolerably certain—that friendship between Geraldine Tilford and the British Assistant Provost Marshal of New York City was hereafter impossible.
Suddenly he became aware that she was speaking again, this time in a soft, shy, appealing voice.
—‘You’ve always been so sweet and chivalrous to me, Colonel, and I want to tell you the news before any one else.... You see, you are one of those quiet, protective men that all women must come to sometimes—when they are very happy, or very sad. A woman simply has to take her big joys and her big sorrows around to a man—sort of big-brother-man—in the end. Well, Dale and I—’
Tom Winter, suddenly conscious that he was about to be made the recipient of a confidence—a confidence as galling as it was unnecessary—rose to his feet.
‘I say, Mrs. Tilford,’ he began awkwardly. ‘I don’t think—’
A footstep sounded outside the door.
‘Talk of angels!’ he said, with a forced smile. ‘Here is Conway!? He braced himself. It would be all over in a minute now. On the whole, he was glad he had not tried to justify himself to her. Duty required—should require—no justification.
But it was not Conway. The sub-manager stood in the doorway. In his hand was a note.
‘There has been some mix-up, Mrs. Tilford,’ he said. ‘Captain Conway drove away ten minutes ago. Gone back to his hotel, I guess. He left this for you.’ He laid the note upon the table. ‘Now I’ll go back and break up that crowd of autograph hounds. Good-night!’ The door closed again.
Geraldine took up the note.
‘That’s strange,’ she said, with a puzzled glance at Winter. She started. ‘Why, Colonel, you look all white and scared. What has happened?’
‘I expect that document will tell you,’ said Tom Winter, through his teeth.
Geraldine unfolded the note.
Gerry, my dear, it said, I have broken the Eleventh Commandment, which means the open road again for me—as it would for most people. Moreover, it means the end of you, so far as I am concerned. Forgive me if you can, and never trust a hard-luck story-teller again. I advise you to marry Tom Winter, to whose mistaken chivalry I owe my present getaway. He is a solid citizen, and will never let you down. Good-bye, my dear, dear Gerry, and think as kindly of me as you can.
II
Meanwhile, in the cold and glimmering darkness of one of the subterranean platforms of the Pennsylvania Station, beside the night sleeper to Pittsburgh, Mr. Moon was furtively handing over certain monies and documents to his employer.
‘There is your transportation, guv’nor,’ he said, ‘and your upper-berth ticket. And here’s the money—twenty-one hundred bucks that I had already, and about seven hundred, in this other bag, that I managed to collect from the Hall to-night. Some of the takers weren’t too willing to part, so I didn’t press them.’
‘That’s all right, Moon. We’ve done very well to hop it at all. By the way, what are you going to do with yourself now?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Moon miserably.
‘Well, clear out of New York. Chicago’s the best place for you—or farther west. Got any money?’
‘About seventy-five cents, sir.’
‘You poor old fish! It’s a rotten world for small-time rogues. Here, take these!’ He began to count out ten-dollar bills from the lesser bag. ‘You’ll have to keep pretty quiet wherever you go, or you’ll get conscripted for a certainty; and with your rabbit’s heart you’ll have a bad time.’
Mr. Moon shivered.
‘All abo-o-oard!’ The melodious chant of the negro Pullman porters echoed down the platform, and the brakes came off the wheels with a reluctant sigh. Suddenly Conway thrust the money back into the bag.
‘Here, take the whole outfit!’ he said. ‘You’re a decent little chap, and I got you into this. Good-bye, Moon!’ He thrust seven hundred dollars into Moon’s limp hands, and swung on to the moving train.
‘God bless you, guv’nor!’ said the little man, with a sob.
Five minutes later, Denis Cradock, alias Dale Conway, and Heaven knows what else, late Army Pay Corps, rolling stone, soldier of fortune, and human chameleon, rolled into his upper berth—a much maligned resting-place, by the way—and composed himself to slumber.
‘Good-bye, little Gerry!’ he said. ‘You’ll be happy enough with old Tom Winter—and you’d have bored me stiff in a fortnight! Still—’
He sighed, and fell sound asleep.