“Yes, yes,” he exclaimed, and gave a twist to his light mustache. He had caught her ultimate words, and with them a cue.
“Yes, I remember in Nepal—”
And thereupon he carried his listener through a series of scenes and adventures which he made graphic by sheer dexterity in the use of words. His speech, colored and fluent, was of exactly that order which must be heard, not read. It was his intonation which gave it its charm, the manner in which he eluded a detail that might have wearied; the expression his face took on at the situations which he saw before describing, and which he made his auditor expect; and also the surety of his skill in transition—the art with which he would pass from one idea to another, connect them both with a gesture, and complete the subject with a smile. The raconteur is usually a bore. When he is not, he is a wizard. And as Roland passed from one peak of the Himalayas to another, over one of the two that listened he exerted a palpable spell. At last, the end of his tether reached, he turned to the cousin, and, without a hesitation intervening, asked of him, as though the question were one of really personal interest, “Dr. Thorold, have you ever been in the East?”
Thorold, thrown off his guard, glared for an instant, the scowl still manifest; then he stood up. “No, sir; I have not,” he answered; and each of the monosyllables of his reply he seemed to propel with tongue and teeth. “Good night, Justine.” And with a nod that was rather small for two to divide, took himself from the room.
He reached the portiere before Justine fully grasped the discourtesy of his conduct. She stared after him wonderingly, her lips half parted, her clear eyes dilated and amazed, the color mounted to her cheeks, and she made as though to leave her seat.
But this Roland thought it wise to prevent. “Miss Dunellen,” he murmured, “I am afraid Dr. Thorold was bored. It is my fault. I had no right—”
“Bored! How could he have been? I am sure I don’t see—”
“Yes, you do, my dear,” thought Roland; “you think he was jealous, and you are wrong; but it is good for us that you should.” And in memory of the little compliment her speech had unintentionally conveyed he gave another twist to his mustache.
The outer door closed with a jar that reached him where he sat. “Thank God!” he muttered; and divining that if he now went away the girl would regret his departure, after another word or two, and despite the protestation of her manner, he bade her good night.
It is one of the charms of our lovely climate that the temperature can fall twenty degrees in as many minutes. When Roland entered the Dunellen house he left spring in the street; when he came out again there was snow. Across the way a lamp flickered, beneath it a man was standing, from beyond came a faint noise of passing wheels, but the chance of rescue by cab or hansom was too remote for anyone but a foreigner to entertain. Roland had omitted to provide himself with any protection against a storm, yet that omission affected him but little. He had too many things to think of to be anxious about his hat; and, his hands in his pocket, his head lowered, he descended the steps, prepared to let the snow do its worst.
As he reached the pavement the man at the lamppost crossed the street.
“Mistrial,” he called, for Roland was hurrying on—“Mistrial, I want a word with you.”
In a moment he was at his side, and simultaneously Roland recognized the cousin. He was buttoned up in a loose coat faced with fur, and over his head he held an umbrella. He seemed a little out of breath.
“If,” he began at once, “if I hear that you ever presume to so much as speak to Miss Dunellen again, I will break every bone in your body.”
The voice in which he made this threat was gruff and aggressive. As he delivered it, he closed his umbrella and swung it like a club.
“A nous deux, maintenant,” mused Roland.
“And not only that—if you ever dare to enter that house again I will expose you.”
“Oh, will you, though?” answered Roland. The tone he assumed was affectedly civil. “Well now, my fat friend, let me tell you this: I intend to enter that house, as you call it, tomorrow at precisely five o’clock. Let me pick you up on the way, and we can go together.”
“Roland Mistrial, as sure as there is a God in heaven I will have you in the Tombs.”
“See here, put up your umbrella. You are not in a condition to expose yourself—let alone anyone else. You are daft, Thorold—that is what is the matter with you. If you persist in chattering Tombs at me in a snowstorm I will answer Bloomingdale to you. You frightened me once, I admit; but I am ten years older now, and ten years less easily scared. Besides, what drivel you talk! You haven’t that much to go on.”
As Roland spoke his accent changed from affected suavity to open scorn. “Now stop your bluster,” he continued, “and listen to me. Because you happen to find me in there, you think I have intentions on the heiress—”
“It’s a lie! She—”
“There, don’t be abusive. I know you want her for yourself, and I hope you get her. But please don’t think that I mean to stand in your way.”
“I should say not.”
“In the first place, I went there on business.”
“What business, I would like to know?”
“So you shall. I took some papers for Mr. Dunellen to examine—papers relative to
