VI
KENYON HAS ANOTHER ODD EXPERIENCE
“And when darkness fell, he stopped at a caravansary
where there were other travelers also.”
—The Amazing Adventures of Mansour Bi.
THE two young men sat regarding one another, vexedly.
“Now was there ever such an aggravating thing before,” cried Webster, at last. “I felt sure that it would contain the old man’s name, and that our guessing was at an end.”
He took the check from Kenyon’s hand and inspected it closely.
“Whew!” he whistled. “Your services are placed at a pretty high figure, Kenyon. This calls for as many as ten thousand dollars. Apparently the parties whom you visited last night are not at all stinted for money.”
“It looks that way, to be sure,” answered Kenyon, dryly. “And upon second thought we may glean some information from the check, after all. The bank will surely know something of Hong Yo.”
“Unquestionably. But will they tell it to you?”
“Very likely not. Banks are rather disposed to be noncommittal, I have found. But I can call there and inquire, at any rate.”
“Moritze & Co.,” read Webster thoughtfully, still examining the check. “Somehow it seems to me that I’ve heard of that house before.” He pondered awhile, then suddenly said:
“Ah, I have it. It’s a Seattle concern, and is much favored by the Pacific trade—steamship companies, exporters, and the like. Webster & Seybold have done business through them; they have branches in Hong Kong and Tokio, and the Orientals seem to rely greatly upon them.” He handed the slip of paper back to Kenyon and inquired: “But what are you going to do with this!”
“It’s a puzzle,” returned Kenyon. “Of course the thing’s not mine. Perhaps the best thing for me to do would be to pay another visit to 98 Selden’s Square, make a brief, vigorous statement of facts, and wash my hands of the whole affair.”
“Do you really want to do that last?” asked Webster, with a shrewd look.
Kenyon colored; but his embarrassment was only of a moment’s duration.
“I’m not quite sure that I do,” he answered, quietly. “The adventure is not without its interest. And then there is the girl. I rather fancy that the desire to see her once more will begin to grow upon me shortly; and I’m also of the opinion that I shall not put up much of a fight against it.”
“Spoken like a courageous and candid soul,” laughed Webster. “Stick to it; don’t be beaten. If she’s anything like your limning of her, she’s worth some sort of an effort.”
In a little while Kenyon arose.
“I must get some sleep,” said he. “I begin to feel a bit tired.”
“Where are you stopping? Why not make a shift here, where we can keep in touch with each other.”
“I’m putting up at a clean little German place down town; in fact it’s very much down town. I can see the trees of Battery Park from my window.”
“You’re broke,” stated Webster, firmly.
Kenyon gestured his admission of the charge.
“Otherwise, why the job in the stoke-hole of the Blenheim on my way up?” said he.
Webster assumed the countenance of delight.
“Now, by all that’s providential,” he cried, “I’ve got you, at last. When we were at college and I’d go down the line, scattering my change, you’d lend me yours in a fatherly, patronizing way that was peculiarly aggravating. And this is my first chance to get back; I’ve never caught you broke before.”
He lit a third cigarette and grinned widely.
“How much do you want?” asked he.
“How strong a jolt can you stand?”
“Since I entered the firm of Webster & Seybold, I’ve planted something like fifty thousand dollars. What part of it do you want, Ken? I’ll cut it anywhere you say.”
“Good boy, Garry!” Kenyon looked at his friend with smiling eyes; but the corners of his mouth, usually so firm, twitched a little. “A couple of hundred will do.”
Webster regarded him disgustedly.
“Oh, behave,” said he. “This isn’t a dime-saving fund. If you want to hit the institution at all, you must do it big.”
“No, no.”
“He’s down and out,” thought the young man from Chicago, “and a man in that shape needs a fair-sized dose if it’s to do him any good at all.” Then he said aloud. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do in the way of a compromise. We’ll make it two thousand, and not a damned cent less.”
Kenyon protested, but the other was firm. “It’s just like this,” continued the latter, “I’ve got a reputation to uphold; and I can’t afford, for business reasons, to have my friends live over German beer saloons in the neighborhood of the Battery. Webster & Seybold are above such things.”
Kenyon slept deeply all that day. Darkness was already thickening above the city when he climbed out of bed and began to douse himself with a huge sponge dipped in a pail of cold water.
“A dollar a day hotel doesn’t offer many conveniences,” said he, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. “But, then, I’ve seen more limited accommodations for the morning—or evening—bath, in more pretentious places. It was always a dreadful question with me whether my fellow strugglers for liberty in Uruguay ever bathed or no.”
He donned his dress clothes and took a cab to the Waldorf, where he had engaged to dine with Webster.
“We’ll do the thing with all proper ceremony to-night,” said the latter, “for it is probably our last chance. I’ve made arrangements for the first hardware dinner; it’s to come off to-morrow night and is to be followed by a long succession of others. They all fall for it, Ken; there is something about free food and champagne that men past middle age just can’t resist.”
“Are the samples all ready?” asked Kenyon, as they made their way among the tables in the glittering restaurant.
“They came this afternoon; and I’ve had two men unpacking at top speed ever since. You never saw such a brave display of useful goods in your life. There will be a riot when the trade gets its first look.”
The restaurant was fairly well filled; and as the two passed along on their way to a secluded nook, Kenyon’s air of elegant distinction as usual attracted much attention.
“A short fellow with red hair could never do it,” mused Webster, as he became aware of this. “How Providence does dump its gifts at the feet of some people.”
A low exclamation drew his attention swiftly to a table quite near the one they had selected; he saw a woman in a sombre motoring dress draw a thick, dark veil about her face; a man who sat at the table with her was regarding her with obvious surprise.
“What is it?” asked the man as Webster passed.
But the woman placed her hand upon his arm in a gesture that asked for silence; and all the time her gaze was fixed upon the two, who were by this time some yards away.
ALL THE TIME HER GAZE WAS FIXED UPON THE TWO
“You can order for me, too,” said Webster. “I have the utmost confidence in your taste. Meantime, I’ll watch a small comedy which is going on behind you. No, no,” hastily, “don’t look around, because it has struck me as being just a little queer, and I want to see the finish.”
Kenyon laughed and said, “Well, if it’s a matter of interest, I depend upon you to keep me posted.”
With that he gave his attention to the selection of the dinner, while Webster, with a great assumption of carelessness, watched the couple to whom his attention had been drawn a few moments before.
They had the appearance of having stopped during a motoring journey, for dinner; for the man, too, wore the costume affected by that cult. But they, apparently, had lost all interest in the meal; they bent toward each other and conversed in low, eager tones.
“She’s telling him something, and it’s about us,” thought Garry. “And, by George, doesn’t he seem pleased to hear it, though. I never saw a man’s face light up so much before.”
He continued to give the couple his attention while Kenyon gave his orders to the waiter; after the man had gone he said:
“I say, Kenyon, do you know that we seemed to startle that young woman as we came in. Now, don’t look around, I tell you,” sharply. “They are not yet aware that I’ve noticed them, and I’d rather they wouldn’t be.”
“Startled her, did you say?” Kenyon leaned toward the other, and his eyes narrowed expectantly. “What does she look like?”
“I did not have a chance to see. She drew her veil instantly upon sight of us; and it’s really the most competent veil I ever saw. It hides her completely.”
“And the man!”
“He is elderly. His head is half bald and he has craggy, prominent features. I wouldn’t like to be positive, but from this distance he seems to have the coldest and most vulture-like eye I ever saw.”
“A most interesting person, indeed,” smiled Kenyon.
“Interested, you mean. If you don’t feel his eyes boring through your back, you are absolutely without that sense. He seems upon the point of devouring you. I can’t make out just how the girl is taking it, not being able to see her face; but it’s what she is saying that’s exciting her companion and causing him to radiate so. They must be people who know you.”
“I told you this morning, that I knew no one in New York.”
“You made some acquaintances last night,” said Webster, meaningly.
“The man is not one of them.”
Again Kenyon’s eyes narrowed; there were little puckers about their corners.
“About her I cannot say.” He paused for a moment, and then asked, eagerly: “What is the color of her hair. Is she light or dark?”
“The veil conceals everything, and she holds it in place in a way that plainly shows that she intends it to go on doing so.”
When their dinner began to arrive Webster took his eyes from the pair for a few moments; and when he looked up again they had gone.
“Why, I really thought they were good for an hour,” said the young Chicagoan. “It does not seem possible that their interest could slacken enough in that time to permit of their going away.”
Kenyon did not reply, but sat staring moodily before him. He had maintained this attitude for some time before Webster noticed it; and then the latter grew suddenly silent.
“It’s the girl,” he told himself. “Poor chap! She’s got him, whoever she is. He’ll never see a woman in the distance again without thinking it’s she; nor he’ll never see another sun arise without thinking that it’s going to witness his meeting with her. That is, not for a while. It’s comforting to think that such things don’t last long.”
He had reached this stage in his reflection when a boy approached.
“Mr. Kenyon?” inquired he.
“Yes,” replied Webster. “Here, wake up, old chap; there’s a message for you.”
“From a man who just left in an automobile,” the boy informed Kenyon, as he handed him the message. “He said there was no answer.”
Kenyon tore open the envelope. The note was written upon a sheet of hotel stationery, and contained but two lines of writing. A glance took this in, and with a laugh he tossed it over to Webster. The message read:
“Your progress is wonderful! But don’t forget that boldness can be carried too far.”
And underneath this was the signature: “Farbush.”