Deuces Wild/Chapter 6

ERE the letters valuable?” he asked, without realizing the impertinence of the question.

Her silence was rebuking enough.

“I beg your pardon!”

Forbes returned to the Sheraton. He was not so strong on his legs as he had believed. Having nothing else to do, he took inventory of his surroundings, and what he saw subdued him.

He was an amateur collector; but, shades of the old chap in Le Peau de Chagrin! A Salvator Rosa, a pencil-drawing by Da Vinci (a model of a bastion), a Corot with the original sketches surrounding it, a marvelous camp-scene in the Broad humor o£ Brouwer, a Teniers, a framed letter by Peter Paul Rubens with a fat Silenus in the corner; dozens of small canvases beyond price. And there was a vase of imperial ox-blood, a piece of Hirado worth a king's ransom, a Chinese wedding scene done in blue kingfisher-feather. Forbes glanced bewilderedly at the Bokhara embroidery which had been so ruthlessly wound about his ankles; fit to have graced the walls of the Dewan Khass, in Delhi, as a background for Shah Jehan's Peacock Throne. And there were Japanese silk tapestries, of the softest, most beautiful colors the world has yet known; a square of Gobelin hanging as a portiere between the living-room and the library; old armor, steel inlaid with gold, of the period of Charles V; Ispahans, Kirmans, Bokharas, Saruks, real, old shimmering rugs; a cabinet filled with apple-green jade snuff-bottles and flowers!

Small wonder she had never heard of J. Mortimer Forbes, of Piffle and Company! And from among all these treasures the beggar had taken only a leather box which he could have duplicated in the Via Guicciardini, in Florence, for less than fifty francs. Broken into the safe for it; overlooked a fortune in untraceable bank-notes, a ruby. Letters! Well, there were letters and letters, and there were certain kinds of inestimable value to the blackmailer; but this was not the place to come for them. Poor benighted beggar, when he might have taken away that Frans Hals, worth its size covered with Ural gold!

The girl was practically oblivious of his presence. He studied her face again. Why, there ought to be fire in it instead of that look of ashes. In a fury she would have been as magnificent as Judith. His heart sank a little; no romance here for J. Mortimer, however well he might come to know her.

“I ought to have risked a chance with the man,” he said; "but I was perfectly dumfounded at the sight of him.”

She turned her eyes upon him, surprisedly, as if he had suddenly burst into the room through a window or a hole in the wall. And she had never heard of J. Mortimer Forbes! Well, that was quite possible. A young and beautiful woman who went in for jade snuff-bottles and pieces of Shah Abbas rugs was not to be expected to bother about magazine covers, and heaven knew there were enough of them! Breakfast-foods and soaps and hair-tonics! He had thrown away a brilliant career because it was easier to earn money than to strive for good work. He and Piffle were in the same boat; too fond of Avocado pears and ten-year-old champagnes. Now it was too late.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No.”

“If you don't mind, I should like a drink of water.”

“Oh!” She got up quickly. The bills scattered about the floor again. Forbes was becoming more and more positive that he was in the middle of some wonderful nightmare. He expected nothing less than a goblet of Chinese bendable glass; but as she returned with an ordinary tumbler, he got himself in hand once more.

For the second time he retrieved the bills. This time she tossed them into the safe. Fifteen thousand dollars; as he would have tossed a tailor's bill into the waste-basket, and often did!

Then in came the young woman's father, Jillson and a very pale door-boy.

“Mort, you old vagabond, what the deuce have you been up to now?” cried Jillson. “Good evening, Miss Mearson.”

So her name was Mearson. Where had he heard that name before?

“Why, that imbecile of a boy there told me the third floor, left, and here it is.”

“I called up, sir, but you did not hear me, you were in such a hurry. I came on new to-day.”

Jillson smiled. “You may go. I shan't report you this time.” The boy vanished gladly enough. “Now, supposing we send for the police?”

“No,” said Miss Mearson determinedly. “It might attract other thieves. I do not want the police or the newspapers to know anything about the affair. The box will be returned when he finds nothing but letters in it.”

Mr. Mearson jerked his shoulders; Jillson scratched his chin; Forbes sighed.

“Well, then, Forbes—but I beg pardon. Forbes, Miss Mearson and her father. Forbes, Miss Mearson, is an old friend of mine, an artist.”

“Sorry you've had all this inconvenience,” said Mearson decently. It was a clever scoundrel. Seemed to know about our affairs. Lured us down-town; false telephone call.”

“No harm done,” replied Jillson, locking his arm in Forbes'. “Good night. Hope the box is returned when the thief finds there's nothing valuable in it.”

The girl smiled in a detached way.

“Now, Jill, old man,” said Forbes on the way up to Jillson's, “a word about this, and I'll never forgive you. Did Mearson speak before the boys?”

"No. You're safe enough. Mum's the word if it will ease you. Mighty good joke on you, though. We've been waiting for you for an hour. Rang up your studio, your club and your favorite bar. Crawford's having his usual run of luck. Four-card draws and all that, and he's four hundred ahead of the game at this minute.”

He's always the devil's luck. But, lucky at cards, unlucky at love.”

Oh, punk! There's Wheedon; happiest married man in town, and he wins about five thousand a year. Only, Crawford's luck is uncanny.”

"Good old Crawffy! Who are the Mearsons? I've heard the name before.”

“He's a thorough-going clubman.”

“Hang it, I mean the girl. And all those museum pieces....”

“Oh, she's the niece of that ratty old codger Mearson, the curio-collector. Left his millions to the girl and the best of his collection. As I understand it, she must use the collection as furniture. He rowed with all the museums over a big ruby. But don't set your eye there, my boy. We call her the Frozen Lady.” Jillson flung open the door. “Here he is, boys; got into the wrong apartment. Koto, bring the brandy. There's your chair; and play 'em close!”

His friends greeted Forbes boisterously. They had made sundry wagers as to what had detained him, and the consensus of opinion was that he had seen a pretty face and followed it; which was indignantly denied.

Forbes sat down next to Crawford, who slapped him on the shoulder. He liked Crawford the best of all his friends; Crawford, the kindly, the loyal, the silent, the scholar who wrote brochures on ancient hieroglyphics, who was rich but who lived like a sensible lawyer's clerk; who was always agreeable and charming, whose eyes had that calm steady unchanging gray of the sea where it nears the horizon. He fought shy of women; but he was not one of those mentally deficient apes who call themselves woman-haters. He merely avoided them; why, no one knew. Many were after him for his money and many sought him for his own sake, but he was not to be caught.

Forbes was eager to get him alone and to recount his extraordinary adventure, for Crawford was an excellent judge of adventures, being a great hunter and a famed archeologist, his past bristling with the most amazing exploits which the newspaper writers had not yet stumbled upon. He lived alone in a barn of a house in a most unfashionable district, surrounded by mummies and waited upon by a valet who always looked to Forbes as if he had just stepped out of one of the cartonnages.

Strange, that the baw-baw man is generally as empty as a sucked egg, while the mum chap over there in the comer is Sindbad the Sailor in an ill-fitting contraption from Poole's. Though, Crawford's tailor was impeccable. More likely Tom and Company, of Yokohama. For Crawford had a mysterious way of turning up in strange places, of sailing without advising his friends, of returning as quietly as though he had been spending the week-end over in Connecticut.

He was very fond of the artist, knowing the real man below the egg-froth and crumbly pie-crust of popularity.

Wake up, old boy, wake up!” rallied Crawford, as he raked in the pot “This is deuces wild to-night, and an ace-full isn't worth the cardboard it's printed on. Get into the game; the night is young.” The chips rattled into Crawford's compartment

Early the winter before Forbes had broken his leg while riding to hounds over in Westchester. The surgeon had given him an anesthetic during the setting of the bone. The drug had not befuddled his brain, but it had taken away all sense of feeling from his body. Just now he experienced the same bewildering numbness. Jillson swept up the cards, riffled them prettily and dealt. Deuces wild! Forbes picked up his cards mechanically.... Crawford!... The cut knuckles!... Emeralds and pearls and rubies and Florentine boxes!... Crawford!