Harry, who had been looking out of the window, turned.
“The policy man? What of him?”
“Nothing. He occurred to me in connection with days—and nights—when living was less expensive. At the time, there were a number of gambling dens about here. The dealers represented a type which, like the epoch, has gone. They wore diamonds, dressed in black, and affected to be supremely apathetic. In those days Hank Jones was one of that sort.”
“Here is the ragout,” Harry, vaguely bored, interrupted.
“But there was,” Mr. Farquhar continued, helping his nephew to some truffles and game, “there was nothing apathetic about Hank Jones, except, of course, in appearance, and in appearance only for appearance sake. He was a great hand at making a stranger feel at home, and then in taking that stranger’s home away. A gift such as that is apt to lead to curious experiences. More than once it led him to jail.
“But he had other adventures. On one of those sumptuous April days of ours, which are not of the spring nor yet of the summer, but a mingling of both, a girl came sauntering before the Fifth Avenue Hotel where he stood. Whether or not she gave him so much of an invitation as may be conveyed in the quiver of an eyelid, I, for one, do not know. What I do know is that he followed her, spoke to her, joined her, and accompanied her to her parents’ home. In a week she was—”
“I think I will take some of the Moselle,” Harry, with a yawn, again interrupted.
“Help yourself, dear boy. Where was I? Oh, yes! In addition to the girl—whose name, if I have it correctly, was Arabella, and who, in becoming his wife, became also his cook—in addition to her he had an assortment of equally agreeable acquaintances. There was Johnny Slope, for instance, a plumber by trade, by practice a thief. There was Banjo Pete, a lively young fellow, who, after vacating the minstrel world, had passed initiate into the high art of illuminating with dark lanterns. There was also George Percival, a poet, born without scruples, and who had neglected to acquire any. These friends of Jones’ were all interested in policy. Through their aid, and through the aid of others similarly accomplished, he was multiplying joints all over town. If I am correctly informed, these amusements made him quite wealthy.
“Meanwhile, in the quarters over which Arabella presided, occasionally there were festivities. That brisk young Pete would bring his banjo, play he was Mr. Bones again, sing wonderful songs, and tell a rattling story. Johnny Slope—Mr. Slopely in private life—would sometimes come with his lady, sometimes with his father, as nice a looking old gentleman as ever cracked a crib. There also Percival, with his poetic ways, would lounge by the hour.”
“I’d like a bit of bread, please,” Harry once more interrupted.
“Now, it so happened,” Mr. Farquhar, reaching a plate to his nephew, continued, “that in the course of one of these festivities, Hank Jones was called away, and did not return until all the guests, save Percival, had gone. He was then just in time to hear Arabella call ‘Help!’ and to see Percival, with an arm about her. At once he was at him. Percival dropped the girl, caught up a bottle, and struck him. Later, when Jones came to, Arabella had washed the blood away, but not the wound. Time itself has not obliterated it. The scar was quite visible when he was in the hall here a few minutes ago. Have another truffle?”
“What!” Harry cried. His anger had gone, his boredom with it. “Do you mean—”
“That Mr. Tatum and Hank Jones are one and the same? Why, of course I do. But I have not finished. There is an epilogue to the story. A fortnight after the bottle incident, Percival was assisted out of the world. Your fat friend was arrested for it, he was tried, and—never say you don’t believe in miracles—was acquitted. It was then that he changed his name. Professionally he remained Hank Jones, but for the private purposes of private life he developed into Mr. Tatum. After all, there is no law against it. Though, if there were, I hardly fancy it would trouble him. A little more of the ragout?”
“A-a-and you say,” Harry stuttered. “Y-y-you say—” He did not seem to get any farther.
“Did you not hear me?” Mr. Farquhar asked. “Or would you wish me to tell it all over again? Yesterday, on receipt of the note in which you acquainted me with your engagement, I called on my old friend, the district attorney. It is the summary of his conversation that I have related to you.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” Mr. Farquhar, after a momentary interlude with knife and fork, resumed. “In any event, your future father-in-law is certainly a fine old party. Though I admit, in the hall here, he looked so wretchedly ill, so manifestly apoplectic, that I felt really sorry for him. Now I feel sorry for his daughter.”
“I’ll chuck it,” Harry morosely muttered. “And deuced hard luck it is. A nicer girl never lived.”
To this, Mr. Farquhar, fully occupied now with the ragout, said nothing. But the description of the girl seemed to him highly impressionistic. She was, he was convinced, both inane and vulgar. Inane, because she had accepted Harry, and vulgar because she could not help herself. The daughter of a cook, and also of a crook, how, he asked himself, could she be otherwise? None the less, ten million, and the father en route for the cemetery, after all, it did seem a pity.
“Yes,” Harry repeated. “I’ll chuck it.”
He threw a glance out of the window, and wished he could follow it. He was profoundly unhappy,
