FLETCHER CUYLER was banging with all his might on the upright piano in one corner of the parlour of his handsome bachelor apartment. The door was thrown open and the servant announced in a solemn voice:
“His Grace, the Duke of Bosworth, sir.”
A bald crown and a broad grin appeared for a moment above the top of the piano.
“Sit down. Make yourself easy while I finish this. It’s a bravura I’m composing.” And he returned to the keys.
“I wish you’d stop that infernal racket,” said the Duke peevishly. “It’s enough to tear the nerves out of a man’s body. Besides, I want to talk to you.”
But Cuyler played out his bravura to the thundering end; then came leaping down the room, swinging his long legs in the air as if they were strung on wires.
The Duke was staring into the fire, huddled together. He looked sullen and miserable.
“Hallo!” cried his host. “What’s up? Anything wrong?”
“Nothing particular. I’ve made an infernal mess of things, that’s all. I hear on good authority that Creighton has never been worth more than a million or so at any time, and is losing money; and, without conceit, I believe I could have had Miss Forbes.”
“Conceit? You’d be a geranium-coloured donkey if you had the remotest doubt of the fact. She’s fairly lunged at you. I’ve known Augusta Forbes since she was in long clothes—she was called ‘Honey’ until she was ten, if you can believe it; but at that age she insisted upon Augusta or nothing. Well, where was I?—I never knew her to come off her perch before. She always went in more or less for the intellectual, and of late has been addling her poor little brain with the problems of the day. Well, the end is not yet. Have you spoken to Mr. Creighton?”
“No; I barely have the honour of his acquaintance. Upon the rare occasions when he graces his own table he’s as solemn as a mummy. I’m willing to admit that I have not yet summoned up courage to ask him for an interview. He’s polite enough, but he certainly is not encouraging.”
“Oh, all the big men are grumpy just now. The richer they are the more they have to lose. Well, whichever way it works out, you have my best wishes. I’d like to see Aire Castle restored.”
“I believe in my heart that’s all I’m in this dirty business for. I don’t enjoy the sensation of the fortune-hunter. If I have any strong interest left in life beyond seeing the old place as it should be I am not conscious of it.”
“Come, come, Bertie, brace up, for God’s sake. Have a brandy and soda. You’ll be blowing your brains out the first thing I know. Can’t you get up a little sentiment for Mabel Creighton? She’s a dear little thing.”
“I loved one woman once, and after she had ruined me, she left me for another man.” He gave a short laugh. “She didn’t have the decency to offer to support me, although she was making a good £60 a week. I don’t appear to be as fortunate as some of my brothers. Oh, we are a lovely lot.” He drank the brandy and soda, and resumed: “I have no love left in me for any woman. Mabel Creighton is a girl to be tolerated, that is all; and more so than Miss Forbes. Nevertheless, I wish I had taken things more slowly and met the latter before I was committed. You may as well be killed for a sheep as a lamb, and I am afraid I am not going to get enough with Miss Creighton to make it worth while. If he offered me two hundred thousand pounds, I don’t believe I’d have the assurance to refuse.”
The servant entered and thrust out a granitic arm, at the end of which was a wedgewood tray supporting a note.
“From Mrs. Forbes,” said Cuyler. He read the note. “She wants to see me at once,” he added. “I wonder what’s up. Well, I must leave you. Go or stay, just as you like. And good luck to you.”