Thereupon, for some little time, nephew and uncle discussed matters of personal and common interest; and when at last these matters had been satisfactorily determined, the afternoon had begun to wane. At last the ex-Minister stood up to go.
“By the way,” he said, his hand on the door, “who was it that Petrus Menemon’s daughter married? I looked for her last night. When I saw her at the opera I could have sworn it was her mother. Same type, same eyes, same carriage of the head. She made me feel twenty years younger, I give you my word she did.”
“She is pretty,” Maule answered, negligently.
“Pretty? She is more intoxicating than the dream of a fallen angel. She is better looking than her mother. Hum, hum. You don’t see such women in France. What did you say her name is?”
“She married a man named Usselex.”
“Usselex? What Usselex?”
“What Usselex I can’t tell you. But there seems to be only one, and she caught him. He has more money than Incoul, Jerolomon, and Bleecker Bleecker put together.”
“You don’t mean John Usselex, the banker?”
“Oh, but I do, though.”
The ex-Minister opened the door and looked out into the outer room, then, assured that no one was listening, he resumed his former seat, crossed his legs, and meditatively beat his knee. In his face was an expression which a psychologist would have admired, a commingling of the vatic and the amused, accentuated by sarcasm.
“Well, what of it?” Maule asked shortly, perplexed at the mummery.
The ex-Minister leaned forward and for four or five minutes addressed his nephew in a monotone. As he spoke Maule’s perplexity changed to surprise, then to bewilderment, and ultimately into jubilation. “Are you positive of this?” he exclaimed. “Tell me that you are. You must be positive!”
“I give you the facts—”
“I am off, then;” and he sprang from his seat. “I haven’t a minute to lose,” he added; and taking his uncle by the arm he led him from the office.
In the outer room the corpulent dwarf still sat. “Dere was dot morhgige—” he stammered.
“Accepted,” Maule shouted, and turned to the clerk. “Look over the papers, will you? If they are right, get a check ready. As for you, my slim friend,” he said to the German, “remember that business men have business hours.” And laughing as though he had said something insultingly original, he hurried down the stairs, and jumping into a hansom, he presently rolled up town.
In a trifle over half an hour he was at Eden’s door. “There is no time like the present,” he told himself, as he rang the bell. But when, in answer to his ring, a servant appeared, he learned that Eden was not at home.
“Does Mrs. Usselex dine out, do you know?” Maule asked.
“I don’t think Mrs. Usselex is coming back, sir,” was the answer.
“You mean that Mrs. Usselex will not return until late, I suppose.”
To this the man made no reply; he scratched the end of his nose reflectively. In his face was an expression that arrested Maule’s attention.
“What do you mean?” he asked, a sudden suspicion entering his mind.
But still the man made no answer. He raised his arms, the elbows crooked, and assumed the appearance of an idiot.
“It is worth five dollars,” Maule continued. “Here they are;” and with that he extended a bill of the nation, which the servant took, and then, glancing over his shoulder, whispered:
“Mrs. Usselex has gone to her father’s, sir. I distrust something’s hup.”
“That man ought to be dismissed,” Maule decided, as he hurried down the steps. “I say, cabby,” he called to the hansom; “Second Avenue and Stuyvesant Square.”
“Damn it all,” he muttered, as he seated himself in the vehicle. “I am afraid I am late for the ball.”
It took the hansom but a few minutes to reach its destination, and presently the door of Mr. Menemon’s house was opened. As Maule entered he caught the sound of Eden’s voice. “I want to see Mrs. Usselex,” he said, and without waiting for a reply, he pushed the portiere aside.
“It is false,” he heard Usselex exclaim.
For a second Maule hesitated. He would have preferred to have found Eden alone. Indeed, the possibility of encountering her husband had not occurred to him; but he felt that it was too late to recede, and visited by that prescience which comes to the alert, he divined that the blow which he intended to strike must be struck then or never. He let the portiere fall, and taking his courage in both hands, he stepped forward. As he did so, Eden, in annoyance at the intrusion, moved back, and Usselex, with a query on his tongue, turned to him. But before the latter could frame his words, Maule had spoken.
“Mr. Usselex,” he said, with the air of one ventilating a conventional platitude, “are you aware that a man who insults a woman is a coward?”
At this speech Eden’s hands fluttered like falling leaves; she made as would she speak, but Usselex motioned to her to be silent, and flicking a speck of dust from his sleeve as though the speck represented the reproof, he answered in a tone as conventional as Maule’s. “And are you aware, sir, that a man who permits himself to interfere between husband and wife is—”
But whatever he may have intended to say, the sentence remained unfinished. Maule did not wait for its completion. He advanced yet nearer to where Usselex stood, he looked him in the face, and without raising his voice, he said: “This lady, Mr. Usselex, is not your wife, nor are you her husband.” Then, turning to Eden, he added with the grace of a knight-errant, “Miss Menemon, allow me to present my congratulations.”
The old legends tell of disputants ossified by one glance of Jove’s avenging stare; and when Maule made his melodramatic announcement, both Usselex and Eden stood transfixed and motionless with surprise. Of the little group Maule alone preserved any semblance of animation. The palms
