“And this,” he said, softly, holding up a second gold piece, “is for—discretion! You comprehend?”
The boy shot a swift glance, not unmixed with terror, at the still, recumbent figure in the corner, mumbled an assent and withdrew. Out in the dampness of the fog, he took a long, deep breath.
As the door closed behind him, the door of an inner room opened and Farrington came out. He had preceded the messenger by five minutes. The young exquisite leaned back in his chair, and smiled into the sombre eyes of his companion.
“At last!” he breathed, softly. “The thing moves. The wheels are beginning to revolve!”
The other nodded gloomily, his glance straying off toward the corner of the room.
“They’ve got to revolve a mighty lot more before the night’s done!” he replied, with heavy significance.
“I needn’t tell you,” he continued, “that we must move in this venture with extreme caution. A single misstep at the outset, the slightest breath of suspicion, and pff! the entire superstructure falls to the ground.”
“That is doubtless true, Mr. Farrington,” murmured his companion, pleasantly. He leaned down to inhale the fragrant scent of the violets. “But you forget one little thing. This grand superstructure you speak of—so mysteriously”—he hid a slight smile—“I don’t know it—all. You have seen fit, in your extreme caution, to withhold complete information from me.”
He paused, and regarded his companion with a level, steady gaze. A faint, ironical smile played about the corners of his mouth; he spoke with a slightly foreign accent, which was at once pleasant and piquant.
“Is it not so, my friend?” he asked, softly. “I am—how you say—left out in the cold—I do not even know your immediate plans.”
His countenance was serene and unruffled, and it was only by his slightly quickened breathing that the conversation held any unusual significance.
The other stirred uneasily in his chair.
“There are certain financial matters,” he said, with a light air.
“There are others immediately pressing,” interrupted his companion. “I observe, for example, that your right hand is covered by a glove which is much larger than that on your left. I imagine that beneath the white kid there is a thin silk bandage. Really, for a millionaire, Mr. Farrington, you are singularly—shall I say—‘furtive’?”
“Hush!” whispered Farrington, hoarsely. He glanced about half-fearfully.
The younger man ignored the outburst. He laid a persuasive hand upon his companion’s arm.
“My friend,” he said gravely, “let me give you a bit of good advice. Believe me, I speak disinterestedly. Take me into your counsel. I think you need assistance—and I have already given you a taste of my quality in that respect. This afternoon when I called upon you in your home in Brakely Square, suggesting that a man of my standing might be of immense value to you, you were at first innocently dull, then suspicious. After I told you of my adventures in the office of a certain Society journal you were angry. Frankly,” the young man shrugged his shoulders, “I am a penniless adventurer—can I be more frank than that? I call myself Count Poltavo—yet the good God knows that my family can give no greater justification to the claim of nobility than the indiscretions of lovely Lydia Poltavo, my grandmother, can offer. For the matter of that I might as well be prince on the balance of probability. I am living by my wits: I have cheated at cards, I have hardly stopped short of murder—I need the patronage of a strong wealthy man, and you fulfill all my requirements.”
He bowed slightly to the other, and went on:
“You challenged me to prove my worth—I accepted that challenge. Tonight, as you entered the theatre, you were told by a messenger that T. B. Smith—a most admirable man—was watching you—that he had practically surrounded the Jollity with detectives, and, moreover, I chose as my messenger a small youth who has served you more than once. Thus at one stroke I proved that not only did I know what steps authority was taking to your undoing, but also that I had surprised this splendid rendezvous—and your secret.”
He waived his hand around the sordid room, and his eyes rested awhile upon the silent, ulster-covered figure on the bed; his action was not without intent.
“You are an interesting man,” said Farrington, gruffly. He looked at his watch. “Join my party at the Jollity,” he said; “we can talk matters over. Incidentally, we may challenge Mr. Smith.” He smiled, but grew grave again. “I have lost a good friend there”—he looked at the form on the bed; “there is no reason why you should not take his place. Is it true—what you said today—that you know something of applied mechanics?”
“I have a diploma issued by the College of Padua,” said the other promptly.
VI
At precisely ten o’clock, as the curtain came reefing slowly down upon the first act of The Strand Girl, Lady Dinsmore turned with outstretched hand to greet the first of the two men who had just entered the box.
“My dear Count,” she exclaimed, “I am disappointed in you! Here I have been paying you really quite tremendous compliments to these young people. I presume you are on Gregory’s ‘business’?”
“I am desolated!”
Count Poltavo had a way of looking at one gravely, with an air of concentrated attention, as if he were seeing through the words, into the very soul of the speaker. He was, indeed, a wonderful listener, and this quality, added to a certain buoyancy of temperament, accounted perhaps for his popularity in such society as he had been able to penetrate.
“Before I ask you to name the crime, Lady Dinsmore,” he said, “permit me to offer my humblest apologies for my lateness.”
Lady Dinsmore shook her head at him and glanced at Farrington, but that dour man had drawn a chair to the edge of the box, and was staring moodily down into the great auditorium.
“You are an incorrigible!” she declared, “but sit down and make your excuses at your
