Yet he shouldn't whine. He was Home, wasn't he?
The chair was put down, the door opened.
189
"Clark's, your worship."
Now this, though a wooden pot was fastened above the door, was no typical coffee house. Technically it was public; it was licensed. You went in unchallenged, and paid your penny at the bar, but when you sat down you weren't served—not unless you were known. Clark's atmosphere was different, as was, too, its very appearance. There was no sand on the floor. No advertisements were pasted on unpainted walls. Spittoons were not scattered about. The ceiling wasn't low, grimy. The barmaid—barmaids and the nasty English habits of spitting and of picking the teeth were what most shocked Adam about London—was not called Phyllis, as she was virtually everywhere else. At Clark's there were no readings of the public prints, nor were there auction sales conducted by inch of candle. Nothing vulgar like that.
John Chumley was in his accustomed corner.
"Just sent for a bottle. You're in time to pay for it."
Adam nodded. He was getting used to this.
Chumley took the churchwarden out of his mouth, and yawned.
"Old Clark's pressing a bit for a couple of quid I owe him. Settle it up, won't you, my sweet chicken, my chick?"
Adam took the coins from a pocket, and he spun one on the table.
"We've been doing this for a week," he reminded Chumley.
The latter's smile was sleepy.
"I know, I know. But I've not doodled you, my dear, believe me. This sort of thing is much the best when it appears to be done by chance, so to say. If we sought out Jerve Johnston 'twould be too crude—and not public enough. A man likes to get credit, among his peers, for the number of times he's called out. You see?"
"But when is Johnston ever going to he here?"
"He's here right now. Came in five minutes ago."
What Adam saw at first was not the man he meant to kill. He saw a mist, through which gleamed the green-flecked eyes of Maisie.
"The longish one in blue, with the Mechlin cap."
It is the traditional delight of the lover in separation to keep the memory of the loved one fresh by turning it over and over, regarding fondly but attentively every aspect of it, seeking out each detail. Adam Long was not concerned with tradition. He loved Maisie all right, and he was sick for the sight of her again; but that was just it—he couldn't afford to be sick. As much as he was able, he must keep Maisie out of his mind. She was bad for his work.
Yet he saw her now as he looked across the smoke-filled room to the place where his mortal enemy sat. He saw her as first he'd known her, the long-legged lass who used to stand at the taffrail and look wistfully' across the emptiness of the sea.
He shook his head to clear it. He wiped his mouth.
Summoned by that effort of will, like a genie invoked by carefully concocted magic, Sir Jervis Johnston came into focus.
He was stick-thin and tall. His hands were beringed, his throat be-laced. He spoke in a high-pitched drawl. He waved his kerchief, and negligently took snuff. He rolled his eyes.
At a glance, then, a fool. But as Adam studied him, the man's restless strength somehow showed through. Johnston twitched with trivialities; vet despite these, and despite the fact that his every word and movement were thought out, he was a person to fear. How Adam sensed this he couldn't have said; but he did sense it.
Even at Clark's, where to be listless, to be languid, was almost a requirement for entrance, Johnston attracted attention. Though there was nothing so common as a craning of necks, Adam's ear, sharpened by a week's practice, caught the slight but significant change of tone. Jack-a-dandies in corners yawned in one another's faces and wearily swapped gossip; but they were out of eye-ends gazing at the newcomer.
Sir Jervis Johnston couldn't afford to gamble, had no interest in the life at court, wasn't military. There were two places where he shone, where his exploits were fabulous: on the field of honor or in a lady's bedchamber he was, they tittered, without a peer. His every triumph in each of these chosen fields was known to his fellow customers at Clark's —the only public that interested him.
"What do we do?" asked Adam in a voice that seemed to come from far away. "Do we pull his hat down over his eyes?"
"No, no, no, no! After an hour or so you and I'll drift over to his table, and I shall introduce you. Jerve'll undoubtedly ask us to have a glass of wine, and then when you fall to chatting you'll say that positively you don't swoon at the sight of his coat or that you would be glad to have your servant instruct his servant how to make up a proper cravat. That's all."
"I ain't got a servant."
"It doesn't matter."
"But will he know he's been mortally insulted then?"
"He'll know. He has a very keen ear for such things. Then we'll drift back here, and after maybe half an hour Jerve'll ask the waiter to fetch writing materials and he'll compose a note to you, asking you if you wouldn't care to retract your remark. You'll read this and toss it aside. Then later you'll call for writing materials and—" Chumley broke off to grip Adam's arm. "See here, you can write, can't you?" I can write.
"Good. So you simply tell him that you don't feel you should modify your remark, and you subscribe yourself his worship's most humble and most obedient servant—and send it by the waiter."
"Then what?"
"I take care of the rest. You don't have to do any more."
"Except fight the man."
"You won't fight. You'll meet but you won't jight. Remember that."
Adam nodded. He had no intention of making an apology, but neither did he have any intention of telling Chumley this.
"Then what do we do?"
"Then we all share another bottle of wine—"
"I pay for that one, too?"
"—and it's finished."
"Tarnation silly, if you ask me."
They sat in silence. Adam glared at the table. John Chumley made bread balls for a while, then caught himself and called for a pipe. When the waiter came, Adam, resisting the temptation to look again at Sir Jervis, ordered a sugar bun, which he pocketed.
"You do that every day," Chumley said accusingly.
"For a friend of mine, a lady."
"I take it not the same one you're meeting Jerve because of?'
"Who said anything about a lady there?"
"Forgive me, my dear." The fribble, for once, was sincere. "The challenge of course will be because of taste in clothing."
"Of course," said Adam.
Two pipes later John Chumley yawned and announced that he was going to what at Clark's was called the necessary, not the jakes.
Alone at last, Adam permitted himself to turn. Sir Jervis Johnston screeched on in that mincing high drawl. Watching him, Adam began to rage. That this simpering coxcomb, a disgrace to his sex as well as his class, should be the first—
Before he knew what he was doing he had crossed the room.
"Sir Jervis Johnston, I believe?"
The man looked up. His brows had been touched with something dark. The whole face was painted. A white paste larded it, while a triangular "shadow" had been made beneath each eye.
"May I speak to you privately, sir?"
Astounded, yet with a mechanical and not unpleasant smile, the man nodded and rose—and led the way to the corridor to the necessary. It was a narrow place, where they were unseen.
"Captain Long, schooner Goodwill to Men, Rhode Island colony."
"I am honored, sir, I guess."
"Sir Jervis, you once knew the Honorable Maisie Treadway?"
For a moment the man looked almost human.
"Extremely well, sir. You have a message from her?"
"Yes. She asked me to give you this—"
And he punched Jervis Johnston on the nose.