Short Fiction

said, ‘is occupied by a Frenchman, and the adjoining room belongs to a man who registered from Boston. Why, that’s his picture there!’ he exclaimed, pointing to the picture of the grand duke. ‘I did not even know that they were acquainted. But they will be back; they have left their things; they haven’t even paid their bills.’ I did not wait for their return: if I had I might be waiting still. But I took the photograph, and down to Inspector Byrnes I posted. ‘That,’ said he, ‘that is the picture of one of the ’cutest rogues in the land. He has as many names as the Czar of Russia himself.’ And the original of that picture⁠—Gentlemen, here⁠—Mr. Leigh, here⁠—colonel, here is the picture itself. I have kept it with me ever since. The original of that picture sits before you. Hold on to him, colonel. Jones, if you move I’ll put a bullet through you. Mr. Leigh, do you ring for the police. Hold him, colonel. Disgorge, you scoundrel, disgorge! I have got you at last!” And then, before the astonished gaze of Alphabet Jones, Colonel Barker faded in a mist, Mr. Fairbanks lost his rotundity, his black coat changed to a blue swallowtail with brass buttons, he grew twenty years younger, and, so far from being violent, he seemed rather apologetic than otherwise.

“It’s six o’clock, sir,” he said. “Will you order anything before the bar closes?”

Alphabet blinked his eyes. He was lying in a cramped position on the sofa. He was uncomfortable and very hot. He pulled himself together and looked around. Save for the waiter and himself, the room was deserted.

“Is there any baccarat going on upstairs?” he asked.

“No, sir; the gentlemen are just going away.”

“Well, well,” he mused, “that was vivid. H’m! I’ll work it up as an actual occurrence and send it on to the Interstate: it will be good for the two hundred and fifty which I meant to make at baccarat.⁠—I say, waiter, get me a Remsen cooler, please.”

Eden

An Episode

“Perduto è tutto il tempo che in amar non si spende.”

Tasso

To
E⁠⸺⁠h
Amicissima

I

It was not until Miss Menemon’s engagement to John Usselex was made public that the world in which that young lady moved manifested any interest in her future husband. Then, abruptly, a variety of rumors were circulated concerning him. It was said, for instance, that his real name was Tchurchenthaler and that his boyhood had been passed tending geese in a remote Bavarian dorf, from which, to avoid military service, he had subsequently fled. Again, it was affirmed that in Denmark he was known as Baron Varvedsen, and that he had come to this country not to avoid military service, but the death penalty, which whoso strikes a prince of the blood incurs. Others had heard that he was neither Bavarian nor Dane, but the outlawed nephew of a Flemish moneylender whose case he had rifled and whose daughter he had debauched. And there were other people who held that he had found Vienna uninhabitable owing to the number of persistent creditors which that delightful city contained.

In this conflict of gossip the real facts were as difficult of discovery as the truth about Kaspar Hauser, and in view of the divergence of rumors there were people sensible enough to maintain that as these rumors could not all be true, they might all be false. Among the latter was Usselex himself. His own account of his antecedents was to the effect that his father was a Cornishman, his mother a Swiss governess, and that he had been brought up by the latter in Bâle, from which city he had at an early age set out to make his fortune. Whether or not this statement was exact is a matter of minor moment. In any event, supposing for argument’s sake that he had more names than are necessary, has not Vishnu a thousand? And as for debts, did not Caesar owe a hundred million sesterces? But however true or untrue his own account of himself may have been, certain it was that he spoke three languages with the same accent, and that a decennary or so after landing at Castle Garden his name was familiar to everyone connected with banks and banking.

At the time contemporaneous to the episodes with which these pages have to deal John Usselex had reached that age in which men begin to take an interest in hair restorers. In his face was the pallor of a plaster-cast, his features were correct and coercive, in person he was about the average height, slim and well-preserved. He carried glasses rimmed with tortoiseshell. He wore a beard cut fan-shape and a moustache with drooping ends. Both were gray. In moments of displeasure he smiled, but behind the glasses no merriment was discernible; when they were removed his eyes glowed luminous and shrewd, and in them was a glitter that suggested a reflection caught from the handling and glare of gold. In the financial acceptation of the term he was good; he was at the head of a house that possessed the confidence of the Street, his foreign correspondents were of the best, but in the inner circles of New York life he was as unknown as Ischwanbrat.

Miss Menemon, on the other hand, had no foreign correspondents, but in the circles alluded to she was thoroughly at home. Her father, Mr. Petrus Menemon, was not accounted rich, but he came of excellent stock, and her mother, long since deceased, had been an Imryck. Now, to be an Imryck, to say nothing of being a Menemon, is to be Somebody. Miss Menemon, moreover, was not quite twenty-two years of age. To nine people out of ten she represented little else than the result of the union of an Imryck and a Menemon; but to the tenth, particularly when the tenth happened to be a man, she