Blydenburg still held to his umbrella for support.
“I must go there,” he said.
“Yes, go by all means; he will see you, of course. Poor Incoul! I am heartily sorry for him. After all, wealth is not happiness, is it?”
At this platitude Blydenburg would have gone, but Mr. Wainwaring had more news to impart. “You know about young Leigh, Mrs. Manhattan’s brother, don’t you?” he continued.
Blydenburg looked down at his umbrella in a weary way.
“Yes, I was there,” he answered, “but I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, you mean that affair at the club. Well, it appears that it is true. From what I make out of the papers, he went to his hotel afterwards, and took a dose of morphine. It was his only way out of it. I couldn’t bear him, could you?”
Blydenburg nodded vacantly. “He must have been guilty.”
“As to that there is no doubt. De la Dèche says it is a wonder he was not caught before. Well, good day; tell Incoul how profoundly grieved we all are. Good day.”
Presently Blydenburg found himself in a cab. He was a trifle dazed at what he had heard. He was not brilliant; he was very tiresome at times, the sort of a man that likes big words and small dictionaries, yet somehow he was lovable and more human than many far cleverer than he. To his own misfortune he had a heart, and in disasters like these it bled. He would have crossed the Continent to bring a moment’s pleasure to the girl that had been asphyxiated in her bed, and he would have given his daughter to the man who had been choked down to the grave. Then, too, as nearly as he could see, he had wronged Incoul and Incoul was in great grief. As the Urbaine rolled on, his thoughts did not grow nimbler. In his head was a full, aching sensation; he felt benumbed, and raised the collar of his coat. Soon the cab stopped before the house in the Parc Monceau. He had no little set speech prepared; he wanted merely to take his friend by the hand and let him feel his sympathy unspoken, but when the footman came in answer to his ring, he was told that Mr. Incoul could see no one. He went back to his cab. It had begun to rain, but he did not notice it, and left the window open.
As the cab rolled down the street again, Mr. Incoul, who had been occupied with the morning paper, sent for the courier.
“Karl,” he said, when the man appeared, “I will go over your accounts.”
Colophon
Mr. Incoul’s Misadventure
was published in 1887 by
Edgar Saltus.
This ebook was produced for
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Portrait of a Man with a Cigarette,
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