CHAPTER XI — AN EVENING WITH DROOM
Several weeks later Eddie Deever announced, quite breathlessly, to Rigby that he was going over to visit Droom in his Wells Street rooms. The two had found a joint affinity in Napoleon, although it became necessary for the law student to sit up late at night, neglecting other literature, in order to establish anything like an adequate acquaintance with the lamented Corsican.
Rigby was now morally certain that James Bansemer was all that Harbert had painted. To his surprise, however, the man was not openly suspected by other members of the bar. He had been accepted as a man of power and ability. Certainly he was too clever to expose himself and too wary to leave peepholes for others engaged in that business. Rigby was debating the wisdom of going to Bansemer with his accusations and the secret advice to leave the city before anything happened that might throw shame upon Graydon. The courage to do the thing alone was lacking.
Graydon was full of his happiness. He had asked Rigby to act as his "best man" in September, and Bobby had promised. On occasions when the two young men discussed the coming event with Jane and Miss Clegg, Rigby's preoccupied air was strangely in contrast with the animation of the others. Graydon accused his liver and advised him to go to French Lick. Far from that, the old quarterback was gradually preparing himself to go to James Bansemer. To himself he was saying, as he put off the disagreeable task from day to day: "He'll kick me out of the office and that's all the reward I'll get for my pains. Graydon will hate me in the end."
James Bansemer had proposed a trip to Europe as a wedding journey, a present from himself, but Graydon declined. He would not take an extensive leave of absence from the office of Clegg, Groll & Davidson at this stage of his career.
The morning after his visit to the abode of Elias Droom, Eddie Deever strolled into the office of Bobby Rigby. He looked as though he had spent a sleepless night. Mr. Rigby was out, but Miss Keating was "at home." She was scathingly polite to her delinquent admirer. Eddie's visits of late to the office had not been of a social character. He devoted much of his time to low-toned conversations with Rigby; few were the occasions when he lounged affably upon her typewriting desk as of yore.
"You look as if you'd had a night of it," remarked Rosie. Eddie yawned obligingly. "Don't sit on my desk. Can't you see those letters?"
"Gee, you're getting touchy of late. I'll move the letters."
"No, you won't," she objected. "Besides, it doesn't look well. What if someone should come in—suddenly?"
"Well, it wouldn't be the first time I got out suddenly, would it?" He retained his seat on the desk. "Say, where's Rigby?"
"You mean MR. Rigby? He's out."
"Gee, you're also snippy. Well, give him my regards. So long."
He was unwinding his long legs preparatory to a descent from his perch.
"Don't rush," she said quickly. He rewound his legs and yawned. "Goodness, you're not affected with insomnia, are you?"
"I've got it the worst way. I got awake at eight o'clock this morning and I couldn't go to sleep again to save my soul. It's an awful disease. Will Rigby be back soon?"
"It won't matter. He's engaged," she snapped, cracking away at her machine.
"I've heard there was some prospect. She's a fine looker."
"Rubber-neck!"
"Say, Rosie, I'm going to ask a girl to go to the theatre with me," said Eddie complacently.
"Indeed! Well, ask her. I don't care."
"To-morrow night. Will you go?"
"Who? Me?"
"Sure. I—I wouldn't take anybody else, you know."
"What theatre?" she asked with her rarest smile.
At that instant Rigby came in. Without a word Eddie popped up, a bit red in the face, and followed the lawyer into the private room, closing the door behind him. Rosie's ears went very pink and she pounded the keys so viciously that the machine trembled on the verge of collapse.
"Gee, Mr. Rigby, that old Droom's a holy terror. He kept me there till after one o'clock. But I'm going back again soon some night. He's got an awful joint. But that isn't what I wanted to see you about. I ran across May Rosabel, that chorus girl I was telling you about. Saw her downtown in a restaurant at one this morning. She wanted to buy the drinks and said she had more money than a rabbit. There was a gang with her. I got her to one side and she said an uncle had just died and left her a fortune. She wouldn't say how much, but it must have been quite a bunch. I know all of her uncles. She's got three. They work out at Pullman, Mr. Rigby, and they couldn't leave thirty cents between them if they all died at once."
After hearing this, Rigby decided to confront Bansemer at once. It did not occur to him until later that the easiest and most effective way to drive Bansemer from Chicago without scandal was through Elias Droom. When the thought came to him, however, he rejoiced. The new plan was to sow the seeds of apprehension with Droom; Bansemer would not be long in reaping their harvest—of dismay. Ten apparently innocent words from Eddie Deever would open Droom's eyes to the dangers ahead.
Young Mr. Deever met with harsh disappointment when he came forth to renew his conversation with Rosie Keating. She was chatting at the telephone, her face wreathed in smiles.
"Thank you," she was saying, "it will be so nice. I was afraid I had an engagement for to-morrow night, but I haven't. Everybody says it's a perfectly lovely play. I'm crazy to see it. What? About seven-thirty. It takes nearly half an hour down on the Clark Street cable. Slowest old thing ever. All right. Good-bye." Then she hung up the receiver and turned upon Eddie, who stood aghast near the desk. "Oh, I thought you'd gone."
"Say, what was that you were saying over the 'phone? Didn't I ask you—"
"I'm going to the theatre with Mr. Kempshall. Why?"
"WHY? Why, you know I asked you to—"
"You didn't specify, Eddie, that's all. I'll go some other night with you. Good-bye." Clackety-clack went the machine, throwing insult into his very face as it were. He tramped out of the office in high dudgeon.
"Confound this detective business, anyhow," he might have been heard to remark. Three nights later, however, he took Rosie to the play, and on the fourth night he was Droom's guest again in the rooms across the river. He was well prepared to begin the campaign of insinuation which was to affect Bansemer in the end. Sitting stiff and uncomfortable in the dingy living-room overlooking Wells Street, he watched with awe the master of the place at work on the finishing touches of a new "invention," the uses of which he did not offer to explain.
He was without a coat and his shirt sleeves were rolled far above the elbows, displaying long, sinewy arms, hairy and not unlike those of the orang-outang Eddie had seen in Lincoln Park.
"I've got a new way of inflicting the death penalty," the gaunt old man said, slipping into a heavy, quilted dressing-gown. "These rascals don't mind hanging or the penitentiary. But if they thought their bodies would be everlastingly destroyed by quicklime, they'd hesitate before killing their fellow-men."
"But they already bury them in quicklime in England," said Eddie loftily.
"Yes, but not until after they're dead," said Droom with a cackle. He grinned broadly at the sight of the youth's horror-struck face. "Go ahead and smoke, my boy. I'll light my pipe. Make yourself at home. I keep the window closed to keep out the sound of those Wells Street cars. It's good of you to come over here and cheer up an old man's evenings. I'm—I'm not used to it," he said with a wistful touch which was lost to Eddie.
"You ought to have a wife and a lot of children, Mr. Droom," said Eddie with characteristic thoughtlessness. Droom stirred the fire and scowled. "Were you ever married?"
"No. I don't believe in marriage," said Droom sullenly.
"Gee! Why not?"
"Why should I? It's the way I was brought up."
"You don't mean it!"
"Yes. My father was a Catholic priest."
"But, Great Scott, Catholics believe in marriage."
"They don't believe in their priests marrying."
"Well, they DON'T marry, do they?"
"No, they don't," answered Droom with a laugh that sounded like a snarl. It took Eddie two days to comprehend. "I saw the girl to-day that young Graydon Bansemer is to marry—Miss Cable."
"Say, she's swell, isn't she?" said Eddie. The old man slunk into his chair.
"She's very pretty. Mr. Graydon introduced me to her."
"Gee!" was all Eddie could say.
"They were crossing Wells Street down below here on the way home from a nickel-plater's in Indiana Street. I saw her years ago, but she didn't remember me. I didn't expect it, however."
"I—how could she have forgotten you?"
"Oh, she'd have forgotten her mother at that age. She was but three months old. I don't think she liked me to-day. I'm not what you call a ladies' man," grinned Elias, puffing at his pipe as he picked up the volumes on Napoleon. Eddie laughed politely but uncomfortably.
"How old are you, Mr. Droom?"
"I'm as old as Methuselah."
"Aw, go 'way!"
"When he was a boy," laughed Elias, enjoying his quip immensely. "Miss Cable seems to be very fond of Graydon. That will last for a couple of years and then she'll probably be like two-thirds of the rest of 'em. Other men will be paying attention to her and she looking for admiration everywhere. You'd be surprised to know how much of that is going on in Chicago. Women can't seem to be satisfied with one husband. They must have another one or two—usually somebody else's."
"You talk like a society man, Mr. Droom." "Well, I've met a few society men—professionally. And women, too, for that matter. Look out for a sensational divorce case within the next few weeks. It's bound to come unless things change. Terribly nasty affair."
"Is Mr. Bansemer interested?" asked Eddie, holding tight to his chair.
"Oh, no. We don't go in for that sort of thing." "I wonder if Mr. Bansemer knows about the mistake that came near happening to him a week or two ago. I got hold of it through a boy that works in the United States Marshal's office," said Eddie, cold as ice now that he was making the test. Droom turned upon him quickly.
"What mistake? What do you mean?" "It would have been a rich joke on Mr. Bansemer. Seems that some lawyer is likely to be charged with blackmail, and they got Mr. Bansemer's name mixed up in it some way. Of course, nothing came of it, but—I just wondered if anybody had told him of the close call he'd had."
Droom stared straight beyond the young liar and was silent for a full minute. Then he deliberately opened the book on his knee and began to turn the pages.
"That WOULD have been a joke on Mr. Bansemer," he said indifferently.
"I don't think he would have enjoyed it, do you?"
"No one enjoys jokes from the United States Marshal's office," said Droom grimly. "By the way, who is the lawyer that really was wanted?"
"I never heard. I believe it was dropped. The young fellow I know said he couldn't talk about it, so I didn't ask. Say, who was that swell woman I saw coming out of your office to-day? I was up at Mr. Hornbrook's."
Droom hesitated a moment. He seemed to be weighing everything he said.
"I suspect it was young Bansemer's future mother-in-law," he said. "Mrs. David Cable was there this afternoon about three."
"Gee," laughed Eddie. "Does she need a lawyer?"
"Mr. Bansemer transacted business for her some time ago. A very small matter, if I remember correctly. Here, listen to this. Now here's a little incident I found this evening that interests me immensely. It proves to my mind one of two points I hold in regard to Marshal Ney. Listen," and he read at length from his book, a dry, sepulchral monotone that grated on the ear until it became almost unendurable.
The little clock on the mantelpiece clanged ten before they laid aside Napoleon and began to talk about something that interested Eddie Deever far more than all else—Elias Droom himself and such of his experiences as he cared to relate. The rid man told stories about the dark sides of New York life, tales of murder, thievery, rascality high and low, and he told them with blood-curdling directness. The Walker wife-murder; the inside facts of the De Pugh divorce scandal; the Harvey family's skeleton—all food for the dime-novel producer. Eddie revelled in these recitals even while he shuddered at the way in which the old man gave them.
"Ah, this is a wicked old world," said Droom, refilling his pipe and showing his teeth as he puffed. "That's why I have those pictures of the Madonna on the wall—to keep me from forgetting that there are beautiful things in the world in spite of its ugliness and hypocrisy. I haven't much—-"
He stopped short and listened intently. The sounds of footsteps on the stairs outside came to his ears. They clumped upward, paused for a moment down the little hall and then approached Droom's doorway. Host and guest looked at the clock instinctively. Eddie heard Droom's breath as it came faster between puffs at his pipe. Then there was a resounding rap at the panel of the door. Eddie Deever never forgot the look that swept over the old man's face—the look of wonder, dread, desperation. It passed in an instant, and he arose unsteadily, undecidedly, to admit the late caller. His long frame seemed to shake like a reed as he stood cautiously inside the bolted door and called out:
"Who's there?"
"Messenger," was the muffled response. Droom hesitated a moment, looking first at Eddie and then toward the window. Slowly he unbolted the door. A small A. D. T. boy stood beyond.
"What is it?" almost gasped Elias Droom, drawing the boy into the room.
"Mr. Droom? No answer, sir. Sign here." The boy, snow-covered, drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to Droom.
"Where from?" demanded the old clerk, the paper rattling in his fingers.
"I don't know. I'm from Chicago Avenue," said the boy, with proper impudence. He took one look at Droom's face as the man handed the slip back to him and then hurried downstairs, far less impudent at heart than he had been.
Droom recognised the handwriting on the envelope as James Bansemer's. It was the first time his employer had communicated with him in this manner. He tore open the envelope and anxiously read the brief missive.
"I've got to go to the office," he said, surprise still lingering in his face. "It's important business—a consultation with—er—with an Eastern client."
"Gee, it's tough to turn out this kind of a night. I'm going your way, Mr. Droom. Come on, I'll take the car down with you."
"I—I won't be ready for some time."
"Oh, well, I'll say good-night, then."
Eddie Deever departed, chuckling to himself as he made his way to the U—— Building, determined to learn what he could of this unusual summons.
But Droom was too crafty. Bansemer's letter had asked him to come to Rector's restaurant and not to the U—— Building. The command was imperative.
Bansemer had been spending the evening at the home of David Cable.
CHAPTER XII — JAMES BANSEMER CALLS
Following close upon Mrs. Cable's visit to his office in the afternoon, Bansemer presented himself at her home in the evening, urbane, courtly, but characteristically aggressive. Her action in bearding him in his den was not surprising, even though it might have been considered unusual. He had been well aware for some time that she was sorely uneasy and that it was only a question of time when she would make the expected advances. Since the announcement of Jane's engagement Bansemer had been punctiliously considerate; and yet, underneath his faultless exterior, Mrs. Cable felt that she could recognise the deadly poise of other intentions. She lived in fear that they would spring upon her as if from the dark and that she would be powerless to combat them. Something stronger than words or even intuition told her that James Bansemer was not to be turned aside by sentiment.
Driven at last to the point where she felt that she must know his intentions, she boldly ventured into his consultation room, a trembling but determined creature whose flesh quivered with chill despite the furs that foiled the wintry winds. Elias Droom passed her on into the private room with a polite grin that set her teeth on edge.
She left the building fifteen minutes later, nursing a wild but forlorn hope that James Bansemer meant no evil, after all. Without hesitation she told him plainly that she came to learn the precise nature of his attitude toward herself and the girl. Bansemer's resentment appeared too real to have been simulated. He was almost harsh in his response to the inference. In the end, however, he was a little less than tender in his efforts to convince her that she had cruelly misjudged him. She went away with a chill in her heart dislodged, but not dissolved. When he asked if she and Mr. Cable would be at home that night for a game of cards, she felt obliged to urge him to come. It was not until she was in the carriage below that she remembered that David Cable was to attend a big banquet at the Auditorium that night, and that Jane would be at the theatre with friends.
Bansemer smiled serenely as he escorted her to the door. "We will not permit anything to happen which might bring misery to the two beings so dear to us," he assured her at parting.
Shortly after eight he entered the Cable home. He had gone to Chicago Avenue beforehand to send a telegram East. From the corner of Clark Street, he walked across town toward the lake, facing the bitter gale with poor grace. In Washington Place he passed two men going from their cab into the Union Club. He did not look at them nor did he see that they turned and stared after him as he buffeted his way across Dearborn Avenue. One of the men was Bobby Rigby; the other, Denis Harbert of New York.
"It's the same Bansemer," said Harbert as they entered the club. "I'd know him in a million."
At the Cables' a servant, on opening the door, announced that Mr. Cable was not at home.
"Is Mrs. Cable at home?" asked Mr. Bansemer, making no effort to find his cardcase.
"Yes, sir," responded the servant after a moment's hesitation. Bansemer passed through the vestibule.
"Say Mr. Bansemer, if you please."
He removed his coat and was standing comfortably in front of the blazing logs in the library when she came down.
"I thought the night was too dreadful for anyone to venture out unless—" she was saying as she gave him her hand.
"A night indoors and alone is a thousandfold more dreadful than one outdoors in quest of good company," interrupted Bansemer. He drew up chairs in front of the fireplace and stood by waiting for her to be seated.
"I had forgotten that Mr. Cable was to attend a banquet at the Auditorium," she explained nervously, confident, however, that he felt she had not forgotten.
"To be sure," he said. "This is the night of the banquet. I was not invited."
"I tried to telephone to ask you to come to-morrow night. The storm has played havoc with the wires. It is impossible to get connection with anyone." A servant appeared in the doorway.
"You are wanted at the telephone, Mrs. Cable, Shall I say you will come?"
Flushing to the roots of her hair, the mistress of the house excused herself and left the room. Bansemer leaned back in his chair and smiled. She returned a few minutes later with a fluttering apology.
"What a terrible night it must be for those poor linemen," she said. "I remember what it meant to be a railroad lineman in the West years ago. The blizzards out there are a great deal more severe than those we have here, Mr. Bansemer. Just think of the poor fellows who are repairing the lines to-night. Doesn't it seem heartless?"
"It does, indeed. And yet, I daresay you've been scolding them bitterly all evening. One seldom thinks it worth while to be merciful when the telephone refuses to obey. It's only a true philanthropist who can forgive the telephone. However, I am grateful to the blizzard and happy. Fair weather would have deprived me of pleasure."
"I am sorry Mr. Cable is not at home," she said quickly.
"I doubt if I shall miss him greatly," said he.
"He expects to leave early—he isn't well," she hastened to say. "Don't you want to smoke?"
"A cigarette, if you don't mind. By the way, where is my future daughter-in-law? Surely I may see her to-night."
"She is at the theatre—with the Fernmores. Graydon is one of the party. Didn't you know?" she asked suddenly.
"I do remember it now. He left the apartment quite early. Then I have Fernmore to thank for—we are alone." He leaned forward in his chair and flicked the cigarette ashes into the fire, his black eyes looking into hers with unmistakable intentness.
"You assured me to-day that you would be fair," she said with strange calmness, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.
"I am fair. What more can you ask?" with a light laugh.
"Why did you say to-day that I had nothing to fear from you?" she demanded.
"You have nothing to fear. Why should you fear me? For twenty years your face has not been out of my memory. Why should I seek to hurt you, then? Why should I not rejoice in the tie that binds our interests—our lives, for that matter? Come, I ask if I am not fair?"
Her face became pale, her heart cold. She understood. The mask was off. He veiled his threat in the simplest words possible; the purpose looked through with greedy disdain for grace.
"I can offer no more than I offered to-day," she said.
"Do you suppose I would accept money in payment for my son's peace of mind?" declared Bansemer, with finely assumed scorn. "You offered me ten thousand dollars. You will never know how that hurt me, coming from you. Money? What is money to me in an affair like this? I care more for one tender touch of your fingers than all the money in the world! You—and you alone, can mould every impulse in me. For half my life I have been hated. No one has given me a grain of love. I must have it. For years you have not been out of my mind—I have not been out of yours."
"Stop!" she cried angrily. "You have no right to say such things to me. You have been in my mind all these years, but oh, how I have hated you!"
Like a flash, his manner changed. He had her in his power, and it was not in his nature to permit his subjects to dictate to him. Craft and coercion always had been his allies; craft could not win a woman's heart, but coercion might crush it into submission. It was not like James Bansemer to play a waiting game after it had been fairly started.
"Now listen to me," he said distinctly. "You cannot afford to talk like that. You cannot afford to make an enemy of me. I mean what I—"
"What would you do?" she cried. "You have promised that nothing shall happen to mar the lives of our children. You have given me your pledge. Is it worthless? Is it—"
"I wouldn't speak so loud if I were you," said he slowly. "The walls have ears. You have much to lose if ears other than those in the wall should hear what could be said. It would mean disaster. I know, at least, that you do not love David Cable—"
"What! I—I worship my husband," she cried, her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving. "I love him better than anything else in all the world. How dare you say that to me!"
"Control yourself," he cautioned calmly. "Permit me to say you love the position he has given you. You love the pedestal on which you stand so insecurely. You would rather hear his curse than to see the hand of social ostracism raised against you. Wait! A word from me and not only David Cable, but the whole world would turn against you."
"I have committed no crime," she flared back at him, "I have deceived my husband, but I have not dishonoured him. Tell the world everything, if you will."
"It would be a luscious tale," he said with an evil laugh. "The world, which is wicked, might forget the fact that Jane is not David's daughter; but David would not forget that she is yours."
"What do you mean?" starting from her chair.
"I think you understand," he said deliberately.
"My God, she is NOT my child!" she cried in horror. "You know she isn't. You know the entire story. You—"
"I only know that you brought her to me and that I did you a service. Don't ask me to be brutal and say more." She sank back and glared at him like a helpless, wounded thing, the full force of his threat rushing in upon her.
"You—you COULDN'T do THAT," she whispered tremulously.
"I could, but I don't see why I should," he said, leaning closer to her shrinking figure.
"You know it isn't true," faintly.
"I only know that I am trying to save you from calamity."
"Oh, what a beast you are!" she cried, springing to her feet. "Go! I defy you! Do and say what you will. Only go!"
He rose calmly, a satisfied smile on his face.
"I shall, of course, first of all, forbid my son to marry the young woman. It will be necessary for me to explain the reason to Mr. Cable. I am sorry to have distressed you. Really, I had expected quite a different evening, after your invitation. You can't blame me for misunderstanding your motive in asking me to come here when you expected to be utterly alone." His laugh was a sneer.
"Poor—poor little Jane!" murmured the harassed woman, clasping her hands over her eyes; then suddenly she cried out: "What a devil you are to barter with your son's happiness!"
"I'll not mince matters," he said harshly. "You and I must understand each other. To be perfectly frank, everything rests with you. Call me a beast if you like. As a beast I can destroy you, and I will."
"You forget that I can go to my husband and tell him everything. He will hate me, but he will believe me," she said, facing him once more.
"The world will believe me," he scoffed.
"Not after I tell the world that you tried to blackmail me—that you have demanded fifty thousand dollars."
"But I haven't made such a demand."
"I can SWEAR that you have," she cried triumphantly. He glared at her for a moment, his past coming up from behind with a rush that left him nothing to stand on.
"I am willing to run the risk of scandal, if you are, my dear," he said after a moment, his hands clenched behind him. "It will be very costly. You have much to lose."
"I think," she said shrewdly, guessing his weakness even as he saw it, "that we can talk sensibly of the situation from now on. I am not afraid of you."
He looked at her steadily for a moment, reading her thoughts, seeing her trembling heart. Then he said drily:
"I'll do nothing for a week, and then you'll send for me."
The door in the vestibule opened suddenly and someone—aye, more than one—came in from the outside. Mrs. Cable started to her feet and turned toward the library door. Bansemer was standing close by her side. He turned to move away as David Cable stepped to the door to look in. Cable's coat collar was about his ears and he was removing his gloves. For a moment he stood motionless, gazing upon the occupants of the room.
Then, for the first time, there flashed before him the sharp point of steel which was to pierce his brain later on with deadly suspicion and doubt. There was no mistaking the confusion of Mrs. Cable and her visitor. It was manifest that they had not expected him to appear so unexpectedly. He remembered now that on two other occasions he had found Bansemer at his house, and alone with Mrs. Cable, but he had not regarded it as extraordinary. But there was a startled look in her eyes to-night, an indecision in her greeting that caused him to knit his brows and lift his hand unconsciously to his temple before speaking. He heard Bansemer say that he was just going, but that he would stay for a short chat about the banquet. Mrs. Cable turned to stir the fire with the poker, an unusual act on her part he was not slow to observe. The seed was sown.
"I brought Bobby over from the club with me—and a friend, Frances," he said, after asking Bansemer to sit down for a while. His keen eyes noted that her hand shook as she put the poker back into its place. As he walked into the hall to throw aside his coat, Frances Cable turned to Bansemer with a significant look, shaking her head in mute appeal for silence.
Bobby Rigby came into the room, followed by a tall stranger, whom he presented to Mrs. Cable. Bansemer, standing near the library table, caught a glimpse of the stranger's face as he took Mrs. Cable's hand. He started violently, unable at first to believe his eyes. A chill ran through his frame and his expression changed from wonder to consternation.
"Mr. Bansemer, my friend, Mr. Harbert."
"I have met Mr. Bansemer," said Harbert, with a cold stare straight into the other's eyes. They were on opposite sides of the table.
"In New York," said Bansemer firmly, his eyes unflinching in their return. He noticed that Harbert's look was uncompromisingly antagonistic, but that was to be expected. It troubled him, however, to see something like unfriendliness in Rigby's greeting.
Harbert was the man who had fought him to rout in New York. This keen, aggressive young barrister had driven him into a corner from which he escaped only by merest chance. He knew James Bansemer for what he was. It had not been his fault that the man crawled through a small avenue of technicalities and avoided the punishment that had seemed so certain. He had waged war bitterly against the blackmailer, and he missed complete victory by a hair's breadth.
Feeling the strain of the situation, Rigby talked with earnest volubility. He led the conversation into many lines—the war in the Philippines, the banquet, the play which Jane and Graydon were seeing. The thought of the play brought a shade of despair to his brow—pretty Miss Clegg was in the party with that "mucker" Medford.
James Bansemer had been cold with speculation every instant of the time; had felt that Harbert's condemning gaze had never left him. Apparently listening to the others, he found himself wondering what Harbert's trip to Chicago signified. Gradually it dawned upon him that his old-time foe was not through with his fighting. The look in Rigby's eyes meant something, after all—and Rigby was Graydon's best friend! Harbert was in Chicago to act—and to act first! This thought shot into the man's brain like burning metal. It set every nerve afire. His nemesis had already begun his work. Before he left the Cable home that night he would be asking his host and hostess what they knew of one James Bansemer's past.
As Bansemer arose to say good-night to the others, Harbert's eyes met his with deadly directness.
"Where are your offices, Mr. Bansemer?" asked the New Yorker. There was something significant in the question.
"Mr. Rigby and I have offices in the same building," he replied. "Will you come in and see me?"
"I shall try," said the other.
To have saved his life, Bansemer could not meet David Cable's questioning eyes as he shook hands with him. Cable's hands were like ice.
Outside the house, in the whirling gale, the tall lawyer breathed easier, but not securely. His brain was clogged with doubts, fears, prophecies—all whirling like mad around the ominous figure of Denis Harbert.
Suddenly, he stopped stockstill, the bitter scowl deepening in his eyes. With an oath he turned abruptly and hurried in the opposite direction. The time had come to make ready for battle. A few minutes later, he was writing the note which created so much commotion in the home of Elias Droom.
CHAPTER XIII — JANE SEES WITH NEW EYES
It was not until the hurrying Bansemer entered the door of Rector's that the apprehension of having committed a senseless blunder came to him.
"Good heavens!" he muttered, stopping short. "What a fool I'm getting to be-meeting old Elias, in a place like this! The theatre crowds—everybody in town will be here by eleven! Curse me, for a hopeless ass! I must get him away at once!"
Grumbling at himself, he passed into the restaurant. Gabe offered him the choice of various tables; he selected one which commanded a view of the entrances and ordered a perfunctory "Scotch." Nervous and anxious, he was more troubled than he cared to admit even to himself. Fortunately, there were not many people in the cafe; and his gaze, wandering about the place, soon halted before the small alcove in the east end containing a table with wine glasses, in waiting, set for a large party. The clock, back of the cigarstand, said it was five minutes after eleven. Bansemer impatiently watched the two doors leading to the street, and was beginning to wonder whether the message had reached the old clerk, when presently, the uncouth shape of Droom, appeared slinking through the so-called ladies' entrance, with the shrinking attitude of one unaccustomed to fashionable restaurants and doubtful of his reception. Bansemer motioned to him.
"Just as soon as I can get my check," he was saying, at the same time, beckoning to a waiter; "we'll move out of this. It will be crowded in—I never thought, a stall at Chapin & Gore's will be better. Here, waiter! My check! I'm in a hurry!—the devil!"
As the exclamation burst from his lips, there came down the narrow steps and through a door quickly thrown open by a waiter, a number of gay, fashionably dressed people, all smiling and trembling with the cold. Immediately, this party attracted the attention of the room. Waiters rushed hither and thither relieving the ladies of their costly lace and fur wraps, and the men of their heavy overcoats. Of the expected theatre-comers, these were the first to arrive; but presently others followed, and soon the quiet cafe of the early evening became transformed into one of bustle and excitement by the eager, animated throng. With dismay Bansemer noticed that those to whom his attention had been attracted were blocking his way to the doors; escape was out of the question. Reluctantly, he returned to his seat and ordered the clerk to take the one opposite him. Then, scanning the party making its passage to the alcove, he perceived three or four men whom he knew, and presently, to his surprise and consternation-his son. The recognition was mutual, Graydon making his way around a small table in order to affectionately greet him. As he approached, his eyes fastened themselves on his father's companion. With amazement, he recognised the queer figure of the lanky, gangling Droom; but too kind-hearted and well-bred to allow his features in the slightest degree to express the astonishment which he felt at sight of such a comic incongruity, the young man voiced a few kindly words to the old man, while from the table in the alcove, where the smart, little supper party were seating themselves, Miss Cable was smiling her cheery recognition to her prospective father-in-law; then Graydon made his way back to his seat by her side.
"Why did you come here?" asked Droom, feeling somewhat akin to the proverbial fish out of water.
"Because I thought—I thought you couldn't find any other place," replied Bansemer, confusedly.
The unexpected arrival of his son and party had disturbed his usual coolness; but with his order for supper his equilibrium returned, and he went on to explain:
"I supposed you knew only two streets in town—Wells and South Water."
"Humph! I know every street in town," Droom resented, drawing himself up in his chair; and then bluntly: "What's happened?"
"Not so loud! Harbert's here, but—-"
"Oho! Here?"
"In Chicago, yes—we'll talk about it later."
The present genial environment and convivial atmosphere were producing a most inspiriting effect on the lawyer. The delightful consciousness that the people with whom his son was supping were of the smartest set in town for the moment had banished all fears of exposure. From time to time he glanced proudly across to the alcove table where the men were engaged in unfolding their napkins and toying with their glasses, in lively anticipation of the enjoyment to come; while the women, with the hope of eliciting admiration for their hands and the sparkle of their rings, were taking off their gloves and spreading out their fingers on the table cloth.
"Graydon seems to be right in the swim, eh, Droom?" he said. The irony of it all appealed strongly to his sense of humour. "I don't suppose you know those swells?" he added, patronisingly. Droom was listening intently to the bursts of merriment which were enlivening the restaurant. Like a small boy at a circus who fears that something will happen that he will not see, he was continually turning his head and letting his eyes travel critically over the company at the neighbouring table.
At this speech of Bansemer's the eyes of the old clerk returned; they expressed no little resentment at the inference.
"Certainly, I do;" and leaning over the table and covertly indicating with his long, bony finger the man at the head of the table, he answered succinctly: "That's Fernmore—he's—"
A particularly loud burst of laughter cut him short. At the adjoining tables conversation had abruptly ceased; heads were turned and inquisitive eyes were fastened on the brilliant coterie at the alcove table.
Few men in Chicago were better known or better liked than the stout, florid complexioned, jovial-looking Billy Fernmore, the host of this entertainment. His social adventures and the headlong follies in which his fun-loving proclivities invariably enmeshed him were only surpassed by his fondness for ridding himself of his unlimited wealth.
To his inherited five millions marriage had added the colossal fortune of a beautiful heiress, whose extravagances aggregated less than his own solely through the limitations of her sex. Yet, were it not for the self-imposed handicap of adhering strictly to the somewhat old-fashioned precept that jewels should be acquired only through affectionate beneficence, Mrs. Fernmore might have succeeded in surpassing the princely prodigalities of her lord and master.
"It was this way," Billy was saying, in his own inimitable manner, and awake to the realisation of having a "good one" to tell; "a few days ago the lady of my house took wings for New York—a little spree of her own, you understand. And, for Billy Fernmore, I kept out of mischief, for a time, fairly well. After waiting days, lamb-like, for her return, restlessness—;" and here Fernmore's shameless affectation of the neglected husband became so irresistibly funny that it provoked prolonged laughter from his listeners, even Droom showing his yellow snags and stretching his mouth to the fullest extent of the law, as he joined in the general chorus; "restlessness gave way to recklessness, and in desperation I invited a half dozen of the oldest and most distinguished widowers in town to dine with me, at the hotel, where they were informed they were to be honoured by the presence of a bevy of the season's prettiest debutantes. My stars, but they were a fine collection of old innocents!" Fernmore threw himself back in his chair and roared at the recollection.
"Billy's a wonder when he's wound up!" Medford's whispered aside to the lady on his right met with a simple nod of the head; for despite Miss Clegg's well-feigned interest in Mr. Medford when Rigby was present, on other occasions there was no pretence of enjoyment of his society.
"Among those present—to use the correct phrase," said Billy, after having refreshed himself with sufficient champagne to proceed; "were two retired merchants, a venerable logician, a doddering banker, and a half-blind college professor. Of course, I had to make some excuse for Mrs. Fermnore's absence. For the life of me I cannot now remember what yarn I told them; but they were too anxious to be presented to the gay, young women not to swallow it—whole. The old boys fairly swamped the girls with their senile attentions. It was a lively supper party—my word! And they went home unanimously declaring that the debutantes of the present day discounted, at least in dash and go, the charmers of fifty years ago."
Amidst the confusion of peals of merriment which greeted the genial raconteur, Miss Cable, to whom the story did not especially appeal, whispered in awed tones:
"Graydon, who on earth is that queer, spectacular looking man with your father?"
"Oh, that's Droom—isn't he a character? He's been with the governor since I was a child. In those days his looks used to frighten me almost to death. I fancy he's had a sad life, don't you know."
"There is something positively awful in his face," returned the girl, as her eyes faltered and dropped to her plate on unexpectedly meeting those of the subject of her remark.
"Sh-h!" came from Medford; and then: "Come, Billy—what's the point—or the moral, as they say in novels?"
"Fernmore is a rattling good chap, at heart," Graydon was saying to Jane; "but I can't stand that Med—"
"Yes, yes, go on, Mr. Fernmore," broke in several voices in eager expectancy.
"The moral?" Billy's eyes were twinkling. "The joke, rather, is on me. When Mrs. Fernmore reached home I thought it wise to say nothing about the affair; but I had completely underestimated the persistency of these rejuvenated venerables. They were not satisfied—wanted to know more about the girls; and the next day in deep but joyous simplicity, half a dozen old men asked their married daughters and close friends at the clubs what family of Brown a certain debutante belonged to; who was the father of Miss Jones; and how long had the family of Miss Robinson lived in the city, together with a lot of amazing questions. And failing to derive even the remotest satisfaction from the Social Register, the women members of their families besieged my innocent wife with more or less shocked inquiries as to an entertainment of mine at which their aged relations were present. Well, the game was up! I owned up—confessed to the girls being actresses and begged for mercy."
"And I forgave him," supplemented Mrs. Fernmore, smilingly. "Boys will be boys."
"Whew!" whistled Billy, in conclusion. "It was no end of a lark! I would not have missed it for the world; but the old chaps will never, never forgive me."
As the gentleman finished, Bansemer was looking at Droom with amusement. The old clerk was shaking his head in a manner that signified disapproval.
"How's that for doings in swagger society, eh, Droom? If anyone but Billy Fernmore had done that, he would have been ostracised forever. Nothing like millions—"
"I don't believe true aristocrats would do that," interrupted Droom, half angrily.
"These are the aristocrats—money aristocrats; the others have lost the name—forgotten. Come, let's go over yonder—we can talk there."
Bansemer called for the bill and settled it; then slowly rising, ostentatiously waved his adieus to the alcove and deserted the scene for Chapin & Gore's Droom meekly followed him employer.
For some time, neither spoke. In their stall, each was busy with his own thoughts and speculations.
"I think I've made a mess of it with Mr. Cable," began Banseemer. "She—-"
"I wouldn't mention names," cautioned Droom, with a look at the top of the partition.
"She's very likely to fight back, after all."
"What was your demand?"
"Money," said Bansemer, quietly.
"Humph!" was Broom's way of saying he lied.
"Harbert has a purpose in coming here, Elias. We must prepare for him."
"We are as well prepared as we can expect to be. I guess it means that we'll have to get out of Chicago."
"Curse him!" snarled Bansemer. "I don't care a rap about myself; but it will be all up with Graydon if anything—er—unpleasant should happen to me," said Bansemer, with a wistful glance at his glass. Then, in subdued tones, he told of the meeting with Harbert. Droom agreed that the situation looked unpleasant, and all the more so in view of what Eddie Deever had mentioned in connection with the Marshal's office. He repeated the story as it had come from the babbling, youngster's lips, utterly deceived by the guileless emissary from the office downstairs.
"What do you expect to do?" he asked, studying the tense face of his employer.
"I'm going to stand my ground," said Bansemer, steadily drumming on the table with his stiff fingers. "They can't prove anything, and the man who makes a charge against me will have to substantiate it. I'll not run a step."
"Then," said Droom, coarsely, "you must let Mrs. Cable alone. She is your danger signal. I tell you, Mr. Bansemer, she'll fight if you drive her into a corner. She's not a true aristocrat. She comes of a class that doesn't give up."
"Bah! She's like the rest. If Harbert doesn't get in his nasty work, she'll give in like all the others."
"I thought you said you'd do nothing to mar the happiness of Graydon," sneered Droom.
"I don't intend to, you old fool. This affair is between Mrs. Cable and me. If she wins, I'll give up. But, understand me, I'm perfectly capable of knowing just when I'm beaten."
"I only know your financial valour," said Elias drily.
"That's all you're expected to know, sir."
"Then, we won't quarrel about it," said the other with his sweetest grin.
"Umph! Well, pleasantries aside, we must look ourselves over carefully before we see our New York friend. He must not find us with unclean linen. Elias, I'm worried, I'll confess, but I'm not afraid. Is there anything that we have bungled?"
"I have always been afraid of the chorus-girl business. I don't like chorus girls." Bansemer, at another time, would have smiled.
It was past midnight when the two left the stall and started in separate ways for their North Side homes. The master felt more secure than when he left the home of David Cable earlier in the night. Elias Droom said at parting:
"I don't like your attitude toward Mrs. C. It's not very manly to make war on a woman."
"My good Elias," said Bansemer, complacently surveying himself in the small mirror across the stall, "all men make war on women, one way or another."
He did not see Droom's ugly scowl as he preceded that worthy through the doorway.
The next morning Bansemer walked down the Drive. It was a bright, crisp day and the snow had been swept from the sidewalks. He felt that a visit from Harbert during the day was not unlikely and he wanted to be fresh and clear-headed. Halfway down he met Jane Cable coming from the home of a friend. He never had seen her looking so beautiful, so full of the joy of living. Her friendly, sparkling smile sent a momentary pang of shame into his calloused heart, but it passed with the buoyant justification of his decision to do nothing in the end that might mar his son's happiness.
She was walking to town and assured him that she rejoiced in his distinguished company. They discussed the play and the supper party.
"Now that I'm engaged to Graydon, I'm positively beginning to grow sick of people," Miss Cable declared and as they all declare at that age and stage.
"Well, you'll soon recover," he smiled. "Marriage is the convalescence of a love affair, you know."
"Oh, but most of the men one meets are so hopelessly silly-tiresome," she went on. "It's strange, too. Nearly all of them have gone to college-Yale, or Harvard."
"My dear Jane, they are the unfortunate sons of the rich. You can't blame them. All Yale and Harvard men are not tiresome. You should not forget that a large sprinkling of the young men you meet at the pink teas were sent to Yale or Harvard for the sole purpose of becoming Yale and Harvard men-nothing more. Their mothers never expected them to be anything else. The poor man sends his son to be educated; the rich man usually does it to get the boy away from home, so that he won't have to look at him all the time. I'm happy to say that I was quite poor when Graydon got his diploma."
"Oh, Graydon isn't at all like the others. He is a man," cried Jane, her eyes dancing.
"I don't mean to say that all rich men's sons are failures. Some of them are really worth while. Give credit unlimited to the rich man's son who goes to college and succeeds in life in spite of his environment. I must not forget that Graydon's chief ambition at one time was to hunt Indians."
"He couldn't have got that from his mother," said she accusingly. Bansemer looked at her sharply. He had half expected, on meeting her, to observe the first sign that the Cable family had discussed him well but not favourably. Her very brightness convinced him that she, at least, had not been, taken into the consultation.
"I am afraid it came from his horrid father. But Graydon is a good boy. He couldn't long follow the impulses of his father. I dare say he could be a sinner if he tried, too. I' hate an imbecile. An imbecile to my mind is the fellow without the capacity to err intentionally. God takes care of the fellow who errs ignorantly. Give me the fellow who is bright enough to do the bad things which might admit him to purgatory in good standing, and I'll trust him to do the good things that will let him into heaven. I often wonder where these chaps go after they die—I mean the Yale and Harvard chaps who bore you. It takes a clever chap to have any standing at all in purgatory. Where do they go, Jane? You are wise for your years and sex. There surely must be a place for the plain asses?"
"Oh," said she, "I suppose they have a separate heaven, just as the dogs have."
"No doubt you're right," he agreed, smiling, "but think how bright the dogs are as a rule."
"Bobby Rigby says a dog is worth more than his master. People will steal a dog, he says."
"I saw him at your house last night. Did you meet Mr. Harbert?"
"No. Mother said he came in with Bobby."
"How is Mrs. Cable this morning? I think she—er—complained of a sick headache last night?"
"She has such a frightful headache that she couldn't get up this morning."
"Indeed? Will you carry my respects and sympathy to her?"
"Thank you, yes. But why don't you come in and see us, Mr. Bansemer?"
"In a day or so, gladly."
Bansemer was not approached by Harbert that day nor the next—nor any other day soon, in fact. It was not until after the third day had expired that he heard from Mrs. Cable. Her silence was gratifying and significant; it meant that she was struggling with herself—that she had taken no one as yet into her confidence. He was too wary to feel secure in his position, however. He abandoned every case that could not be tried in the cleanest light and he destroyed his footprints in those of the past more completely than ever. David Cable was disposed to be agreeable when they met, and Rigby's manner had lost the touch of aloofness. Altogether the situation did not look so dark as it had on the night of the blizzard.
He guessed at Mrs. Cable's frame of mind during the three days just past by the tenor of her message over the telephone. She did no more than to ask him to drop in before five for a cup of tea; but he saw beyond the depth of her invitation.
He went and had a few minutes alone with her because he was shrewd enough to drop in before five. No one else came until after that hour had struck. He was studiously reserved and considerate. There was nothing in his manner to indicate that he was there as anything more than the most casual sipper of the beverage that society brews. It was left for her to make the advances.
"We must come to an understanding," she said abruptly. "I cannot endure the suspense, the uncertainty—"
Bansemer raised his brows with grave condescension.
"Then you have not confessed to Mr. Cable?" he asked, with perfect unconcern. "Do you know, I was rather hoping that you would have saved me the trouble of doing so."
"It means so much to—"
"Ah, I see you find it hard to lose the ground you have gained socially." He stirred his tea steadily.
"It isn't that—I don't care for that. It's for Jane and David. I can only offer to buy your silence; nothing more," she said with hurried words. "I own shares in the railroad; they're worth twenty thousand dollars. Will you take them?"
"My dear," he said, leaning quite close to her, "I am not seeking to blackmail you as you seem to imagine. I have only tried to tell you that I love you."
"Oh," she exclaimed, with a shudder of disgust. His face was quite close to hers; she could feel his warm breath on her cheek and she drew away quickly. His hand hovered close to hers as it lay in her lap.
There was an eye-witness to this single picture in the brief scene. Jane had started downstairs. From the upper steps she could look into the drawing-room below. She could not help seeing Bansemer's fervent attitude; she heard nothing that he said. The girl paused in surprise; a feeling as of dread—she could not explain—crept over her. A chill struck into her heart.
It was as if she had awakened from a sweet sleep to look out upon a bleak, horrid morning.
Involuntarily she shrank back, quite beyond the actual vision but not free from it. She stood straight and tense and silent at the top of the stairs, her hand clasping the rail. She could hear her heart throbs plainly. There was no mistaking the picture as it had burst upon her unsuspecting eyes. With a quavering smile she tried to throw it from her. But cold and damning there arose to support her apprehensions the horrid stories of Mrs. Blanckton and her affair with Rellick. With her own eyes she had seen Rellick talking to Mrs. Blanckton just as Bansemer was talking to her mother in the dim doom below. The Blanckton scandal, as everyone knew, was one of the most infamous the city had known. Jane, with other girls, had been shocked by the boldness of the intrigue; she had loathed Rellick for his unprincipled love-making; she had despised and denounced Mrs. Blanckton. Here now was her own mother listening just as Mrs. Blanckton had listened; here was James Bansemer talking just as Rellick had talked. A great fear, a dark uncertainty, welled up in her heart.
It was not until the butler admitted other callers that she found the courage to turn her eyes toward the drawing-room. She was never to forget the dread that grew with the thought of what she might have seen had she remained a voluntary witness during the minutes which followed her first look below. That single vision effected a sharp, complete change in Jane Cable's life. From that moment she never saw the world as it had appeared to her before.
Although she succeeded in, hiding the fact, it was difficult to approach and greet James Bansemer with the naturalness of the unsuspecting. His manner was beyond reproach, and yet, for the first time, she saw the real light in his black eyes. She talked to him as if nothing had happened to make her distrustful, but no self-control in the world could have checked the growth of that remorseless thing called suspicion. For her own sake, for her mother's, for Graydon's, she tried to put it down. Instead, it grew greater and stronger as she looked into his eyes, for in them she saw the light that heretofore had escaped her notice.
And this was the father of the man whom she was to marry, the one whom she loved with all her heart and soul! This, the man who would degrade her own mother! Her mother—she looked at her with a new question in her eyes. She looked for the thing which had marked Mrs. Blanckton. It was not there, and she rejoiced in that discovery. Her mother did not possess the bold, daring, defiant air of the other woman. Hers was tender, sweet, even subdued; the girl clutched hopefully at this sign and began to build upon it.
Half a dozen people came and went. James Bansemer was the last to leave. He met the girl's tense, inquiring look from time to time, but he could not have felt its meaning. There was nothing in her voice which might have warned him, although it sounded strained and without warmth on her own ears. In spite of herself she wondered how he would act in saying good-bye to her mother. Although she tried with all the might of her will to look away, she could not take her eyes from the pair as Bansemer arose to depart.
His manner was most circumspect. The handclasp was brief, even formal and there was no look in his eyes to indicate the presence of anything but the most casual emotions. After his departure, Mrs. Cable turned to Jane and complained of a frightful headache and went to her room to lie down for a while before dinner. Jane's gaze followed her steadily as she ascended the stairs. Then she walked to the window and looked out upon the street, a hundred perplexities in her mind.
Her father was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, looking down the darkening street. His cab was turning the corner below, showing that he had been standing there for longer than a minute. She watched him with interest. What had happened in the street to hold his interest so closely? It was Jane who opened the door and let him in. As she kissed his cold cheek she noticed the frown on his brow and caught the strange gleam in his eyes. His greeting was less warm than usual, and he went to his room upstairs without removing his hat or coat below. But not before he sent a quick, keen glance about the drawing-room to find if James Bansemer had been the single visitor of the afternoon.
"Where is your mother?" he asked from the stairs, without looking back.
"She has just gone to her room," Jane replied, a chill shooting through her veins. Some strange, unnatural impulse compelled her to add, as if the explanation were just and necessary: "We have had a lot of people in drinking tea, and mother has a headache."
She watched him ascend the steps and turn into his smoking-room. The door closed sharply and a wave of inexplicable relief rushed over her. Her hands were cold. She went to the fireplace and held them out to the blaze. Her ears were alert for sounds from above—alert with a strange fear which choked her with its persistence. She dreaded the opening of her father's door and his footsteps as they crossed to her mother's room. She waited for these sounds, minute after minute, but they did not come. The fire would not give warmth to her hands; the chill seemed to spread. In her new consciousness she felt that a tragedy was just begun.