My Lady Valentine

A WEEK later, well before the appointed hour, Caleb Whitman was at the table, which he and Radding always occupied, under the cuckoo clock. From time to time he peered intently down the aisle between the rows of tables overhung with festoons of paper flowers, in search of his friend. He neglected to unfold the evening paper he had bought at the door. He ignored the menu which the German waiter had thrust before him. He merely waited, with impatience in which there was no ill nature, but only eager expectancy. And then, at last, he saw Radding leisurely strolling down the room.

“Well,” said Whitman, as his friend drew out the chair opposite. “I had about given you up.”

Radding consulted his watch. “I am late,” he said dryly, “three minutes.”

“Three minutes seems an eternity when a fellow is hungry,” Whitman defended himself.

“If you are as hungry as that,” Radding drawled, his mouth twisted into a whimsical smile, “I’ll wait until later to show you what I have in my pocket.”

“What is it, Rad? Show it to me and quit your kidding.”

“Nothing of importance; just a letter.”

“Let’s see it. Hand it over.”

Radding turned to the waiter, deliberately. “Well, Otto, what shall we have to-night? And, Caleb, what do you feel like eating?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry? That’s good; because this dinner’s to be on you.”

“Like thunder it is.”

“Yes. I’ll produce the evidence that wins me the bet with the coffee.”

“Then I’ll have my coffee with my dinner,” Whitman threatened.

Radding was not to be hurried. He ordered the dinner with the care and the interest of a man whose time is abundant and whose palate is discriminating, stopping continually to consult the young man opposite as to details, ignoring the indifferent shrugs with which his questions were received.

When the waiter had gone, Whitman leaned across the table. “I call your hand,” he said. “I hold a better one.”

“If you have, we’d better wait. Then each of us can enjoy his dinner in the pleasant belief that it’s on the other fellow.”

“All right,” agreed Whitman, with no very good grace; and with well assumed indifference he applied himself to his dinner.

“Want a demi-tasse?” Radding asked, when the end of the meal had at last been reached.

“No, I don’t. Look here, Rad, if you think you are teasing me, you are mistaken.”

“Teasing!” Radding protested. “Am I teasing? You like coffee, don’t you?”

For answer, Whitman held out his hand. “Come on, Rad; what have you? Hand it over.”

Radding searched his coat pockets. “By Jove,” he muttered, “I must have forgotten it.”

“No, you didn’t. Look again.”

“Ah, here it is.”

As Radding drew forth the letter, Whitman caught a glimpse of the writing. “That’s not her writing,” he said.

“Whose writing?”

“You know—Lady Valentine’s.”

Radding feigned surprise. “Oh, no, I haven’t a letter from ‘Henry.’”

“The deuce you haven’t. Have you been stringing me for the last half hour? Did you think I was interested in your general correspondence?”

“I thought you might like to see this letter, I confess.” Radding’s tone conveyed a sense of injury. “It can wait, however, for some other time.”

“Of course I’m interested, old man, in anything that interests you,” Whitman cried in quick contrition. “Who’s the letter from? What’s it about?”

“It’s from Deep Harbor,” Radding remarked casually, adjusting his glasses, “and it’s about—Henry.”

Whitman’s interest instantly revived. “You old fraud,” he said. “Give it to me. Honestly, you ought to have a job operating a rack.”

“Here it is,” Radding said at last, passing the letter across the table, deep-seated amusement hovering in his eyes; and Whitman read:

“Well,” Radding’s voice recalled Whitman from the perusal of the letter. “It looks as if you paid for the dinner.”

“It does, does it?” Whitman retorted. “I’ve a little evidence myself. I’ve been holding it back until you produced yours.” Whitman reached into his own pocket and drew out a second letter. “This came yesterday,” he said. “I did a little detective work myself. I’m not very proud of it, either. If that little girl wants to go incognito”—

“What girl?” Radding asked innocently.

“What girl! My girl; Lady Valentine.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Here’s my letter. Listen to this, and tell me if a ferryman, aged fifty, wrote it.” There was challenge in the toss of Whitman’s red head.

“What’s the prologue to this one?”

“When I thanked her for the wristlets, I sent her a box of candy and a box of cigars.”

“That sounds promising. What was the result?”

“This was the result;” and Whitman began to read:

Radding chuckled appreciatively, while Whitman’s smile was not wholly one of amusement. “Rad,” he said, “does the man live who would call cigars ‘perfectly lovely’ or forget to mention them until the postscript?”

His friend’s amusement had not yet spent itself.

“What are you laughing at?” Whitman demanded.

“To think”—

“To think what? Stop laughing.”

“To think—to think,” gasped Radding, “you should spend your good money—”

“Yes; go on; I never begrudged money less.”

“On a middle aged ferryman who happens to have a sweet tooth.”

Compassionate silence was the only answer Whitman deigned to make.

At last Radding controlled himself sufficiently to say, “Well, it’s plain we shall have to call it a tie.... The next step I suppose is to run up there and make a personal investigation. Too bad that you are going to that camp for your vacation. Engaged a place there some time ago, didn’t you?”

“Y-e-s, I’m off Monday.”

“Well, it makes no difference especially. I can get away myself in another week. I’ll hunt up Deep Harbor in the ‘Blue Book,’ and run up there in my machine. I won’t mind the jaunt in the least.”

“What are you going to do when you get there?” Whitman demanded. “Nothing to make it embarrassing for the girl, remember that.”

“I’ll be careful. I expect to get a lot of fun out of it. If the valentine poet proves to be the ferry man, I’ll sail with him. If the poet proves to be a girl, I’ll persuade her to sail with me.”

“You will, will you? Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, Rad?”

“Yes,” Radding admitted, after thinking the matter over for a few moments; “yes, I suppose that I am; but you see, Caley, even though I’m hard on forty I still enjoy girls. I have none of your prejudice against them.”

“So that’s it,” said Whitman dryly, and he pushed back his chair from the table and rose decisively. “I’m getting tired of this joint,” he said. “I think I’ll take a walk. I don’t know when I’ve felt so restless.”