“Oh, I assure you, there are others in plenty. The people at the Morrow House, and more at the White River, good chaps with rough names—Ootona, Keok, Adlooat, Iyatunk—”
Camille moistened her lips.
“Who are these dears?”
Revell turned to her.
“I’ll introduce them properly. Before Mike left here, he intended to go to France; he had even obtained a passport. Meanwhile, I had written, outlining possibilities with which I was familiar and asking him to join me. He had made money at cards, more in Wall Street—enough, at least, for a while—and he started West. In San Francisco, he learned about his father and made a will—though why in my favor is momentarily unimportant—and went on and up to where I had told him he would find me, but where he contracted pleurisy and where, for medicine, there was only drink. The effect of both was such that I brought him back. When he reached San Francisco, he was dying, and at the Morrow House he died.”
To it all Camille listened with an air of such visibly absorbed interest that Glendenning, seeing that in drinking it in she was accepting it wholly, laughed.
“Where did this occur?”
Revell turned to him.
“On and about the White River.”
Glendenning grunted.
“I never heard of it.”
“No, possibly not. Before the war, you may not have known whether Verdun was in Poland or Peru. The White River is in Alaska. The climate did not agree with Mike, though it did agree with others who knew and liked him there—with, for instance, Iyatunk, Adlooat, Keok, and Ootona.”
“Confound him!” thought Glendenning, who thought, too: “What evidence could be got out of these savages even if one could get at them?”
But he said:
“I infer that you are a prospector.”
“The meanest of us have our little talents,” Revell, in his agreeable way, replied. “I was applauding yours only a moment ago.”
“You quite turn my head,” Glendenning retorted. “But you would clarify it if you can tell me why Mike made his will in your favor.”
Camille flushed and motioned:
“Arthur, that is none of your business.”
“Forgive me, Camille. I have had to make it my business. Mr. Revell will not misunderstand my attitude, either. Mike knew that rightfully the property was yours. In spite of which, he turns it over to this gentleman, and frankly I don’t understand why.”
In that same pleasant way, Revell considered him.
“I follow you there. But don’t you think that there are mysteries that are better ignored than elucidated?”
It was a moment before Glendenning could unravel the remark, and when he did, he almost whinnied:
“Ha! Yes! If there were no lawyers to do so for us.”
“And have they succeeded?” Revell, with an air of eating nougat, inquired.
The thrust, keen and prompt as the point of a sword, pricked before it could be parried. From it Glendenning backed.
“May I ask you a question, Mr. Revell?”
“I am entirely at your service.”
Glendenning braced himself and straight at him threw it.
“Then where is Mike now?”
Camille sprang up. She was not red, but she saw it.
“Arthur, I am ashamed of you! Mr. Revell is my guest. I won’t permit him to be insulted!”
But Revell, who seemed perplexed, merely, and not insulted in the least, intervened.
“Mr. Glendenning has probably some good reason for asking that.”
“I should say so!” Glendenning exclaimed. “And with no reason to conceal it—or anything else—either.”
Camille stamped a foot.
“Then what is it?”
Glendenning twisted and fired:
“The fact that the Mike Vulper who died in San Francisco was not Mike at all.”
Camille went white. She stared at Revell, who was looking at something that she could not see—a flying picture that showed dawn, drizzling rain, and the feverish and friendless derelict who, accosting him then, had begged for the love of God the price of a night’s lodging. A moment only. The picture faded. Revell was looking at Camille, who was staring at him.
From her he turned with a smile to Glendenning.
“You remind me of Hegel. Hegel propounded contradictory propositions. That is what you have done. It is very difficult. Let me applaud you for it.”
“He is swamping me with words,” thought Glendenning, who fired again:
“The man in the Morrow House was a tramp with a beard.”
Pleasantly, but indifferently, Revell nodded.
“There are no barbers on the White River. No tailors, either. Life there has its penalties.”
“And its rewards.”
“Undoubtedly, and you may share them if you care to go and join my friends there.”
“He has an answer for everything,” thought Glendenning.
But he said:
“What became of Mike’s effects?”
“Together with my own, they went down from an overturned canoe. When we reached civilization, we had only the rags we stood up in. The coat that Mike then wore I still have. In the inside pocket is a tag that reads ‘Johnson & Jordan, Fifth—’ ”
“Avenue,” Camille cut in. Relieved and appeased, she had reseated herself. “I went with him there once when he was ordering a suit. He wanted me to select the material.”
“May I smoke?” Revell asked.
The girl nodded.
“Yes, and you, too, Arthur, if you want it. Only, for Heaven’s sake, let it be the pipe of peace.”
But Glendenning was on his feet.
“I’m off. Good night.” And he pranced himself out.
Camille turned with a smile to her lover.
“He acted like a wild boar, didn’t he?”
Revell approached her.
“No, not wild exactly. I should say that he has lucid intervals in which he is merely tedious.”
Then at once they were in each other’s arms.
IX
From Broadway’s blazing cereals, glittering corsets, coruscating gums, and fiery cats; from its pandemonium of lights, people, and bellowing motors, Glendenning entered the taproom where he was to meet Tatum.
He looked about, and not seeing his lawyer among the men there who were talking money in thousands, in hundred thousands, talking money noisily and talking nothing else, he seated himself at a table and ordered a whisky and soda.
When, with a pop, it was produced, he swore deeply, tossed it off, lit a cigar, and through the smoke of it
