Deeply meditating, endeavouring to account for the strange events of the early morning, I was heedless of those around me, and unconscious of the presence of any one I knew until I felt a smart slap on the back and heard a voice shout, —
“Hulloa, old fellow! Found you at last! Why, you look as glum as if you’d been to a funeral.”
It was Demetrius Hertzen.
“What! you in London?” I cried in genuine surprise, heartily glad to meet him.
“Yes, you left the Dene in such an uncommonly mysterious manner, and Vera is so cut up, that I thought I’d come to town, find you, and prevail upon you to return.”
Linking his arm in mine, he walked in my direction, as he added, “What’s the meaning of all this? Surely you can confide in me, my dear fellow; I am your wife’s cousin.”
I hesitated. Should I tell him? I longed to do so, and was on the verge of disclosing my secret feelings when suddenly I remembered the promise I had made to Vera to wait three weeks for her explanation.
“Well,” I replied endeavouring to smile, but scarcely succeeding, “it is all owing to a few hasty words. Husbands and wives will have little differences sometimes, you know.”
He laughed lightly, and regarding me critically for a moment, said, —
“Ah! I see. A lover’s quarrel, eh? Why don’t you return to Elveham and end all this unpleasantness? It would be far better.”
I felt his advice was well-meant, and from the bottom of my heart I thanked him, yet how could I act upon it? Three long anxious weeks must pass before any explanation.
“No,” I answered, “I’ll remain in London, at least for the present. I don’t know exactly when I shall return.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, don’t talk so despondently. Remember it’s only a petty quarrel, after all,” he declared, endeavouring to cheer me up.
I tried again to laugh, saying, “Yes, that’s true, but absence makes the heart grow fonder – we’re told.”
“Very well, old fellow, if you won’t take my advice I can’t help it,” he observed disappointedly.
By this time we were at the corner of Adam Street, and I exclaimed, “By the way, what are you doing with yourself this evening?”
“Nothing.”
“Come and have a bit of dinner with Bob Nugent and myself at the Junior Garrick; I’m on my way there.”
“Thanks, you’re very kind. By Jove, I’ve had nothing to eat since I left the Dene, and I’m getting a trifle peckish!”
“Then come along,” I commanded. We turned into the Adelphi, and entered the club.
In the pleasant oak-panelled dining-room, the windows of which commanded a view of the Embankment Gardens and the river, half-a-dozen men had assembled. At one of the tables Nugent and Rivers were awaiting me.
They both rose and gave me a hearty greeting on entering, and, in turn, I introduced Demetrius, who, by his ready wit and entertaining manner, soon ingratiated himself with my two old friends.
Rivers was, like most members of that Bohemian institution, a devil-may-care, erratic fellow, whom the outside world regarded as rather a shady character. Nobody knew exactly what was his profession. Since I first became acquainted with him, in the days when I was a working journalist, he had been, first, an actor, then manager of a touring dramatic company, a playwright, and afterwards traveller for a firm of wine merchants, besides executing commissions on the turf. Cards and billiards he played with skill acquired by long practice, and was usually victor whenever he took a hand at nap or baccarat.
I had not seen him since my Italian tour, as he had suddenly embarked for Australia, presumably upon business connected with a theatrical speculation, although compulsory exile had more than once been hinted at by those who were not his friends.
Be that how it may, he was back again. His age was about thirty, tall, dark, and not bad looking. The beard he had grown had considerably altered his appearance, and had I met him in the street I confess I should scarcely have recognised him.
Many were the whispers I had heard that Ted Rivers was not a model of uprightness; nevertheless, I had always found him a good-hearted, genial Philistine in my bachelor days, and now, over our meal, he cracked his jokes and beamed with that bonhomie as was his wont in times gone by.
Bob, Ted, Demetrius and myself, were a merry quartette, despite the anxiety and the many maddening thoughts gnawing constantly at my heart. The dinner passed off pleasantly, Ted giving a humorous description of life among Australian squatters. Although he asserted that dramatic business took him to the Antipodes, he admitted that he had been compelled to go up-country in search of work, and that his employment at one period had been that of a shepherd in Gippsland.
His description of the shifts which he had been put to in order to obtain a crust – he, a curled darling of Society, whilom actor at a West End theatre, and pet of the ladies – was very amusing, and caused us to roar with laughter.
“And how have you been all this time, Burgoyne?” he asked of me, when he had finished his narrative.
“Oh! Frank’s a Benedict now,” interposed Bob, laughing. “Married a fair Russian.”
“What!” exclaimed Ted in surprise. “Well, well, it’s what all of us must come to, sooner or later. But Burgoyne’s different from us poor beggars; he’s rich, and can afford matrimony.”
“I don’t see what money has to do with it,” I said. “Many poor men are happy with good helpmates.”
“Oh! don’t you,” exclaimed Rivers. “My idea is that marriage without money is suicide under an euphonious name.”
“Opinions differ on that point,” remarked Demetrius. “If I married a woman I loved, I think I should be happy with her, money or no money. But excuse me a moment, you fellows, I’ve left my cigar-case in my overcoat,” and rising, he left the table.
“Ah, cigars?” I said, suddenly remembering. “I’ve some somewhere,” and feeling in my pocket for my case, pulled forth a number of letters and papers with it.
I did so without a thought, but a second later I regretted, for from between the letters there fell a photograph, face upwards upon the table-cloth.
It was the picture the dead man had given me on the previous night.
I placed my hand upon it, but before I could do so, Bob had snatched it up, exclaiming, —
“Hulloa! carrying Vera’s photo about like a love-sick swain, eh? By Jove?” he ejaculated when he had glanced at it. “Ah! – I’ve caught you, have I? Why, this isn’t Vera, but some other woman! I’m surprised at you,” and he feigned the utmost indignation.
“Let’s look!” demanded Rivers, taking it from Bob’s hand, as I vainly endeavoured to regain possession of it.
“Ah – Heavens?” exclaimed Ted with a repugnant gesture, when his eyes fell upon it.
“What! you know her, then?” asked Bob.
“No – er – no, my dear fellow,” replied the other hurriedly, with a curious smile. “Never saw her in my life. The likeness is very like some one – some one I once knew,” he added hastily, as he scrutinised it carefully, looking upon the back at the name of the photographer. “But I see I – I’m mistaken, it isn’t she.”
And he returned the picture to me.
“Who’s the lady?” inquired Bob. “Pretty woman, without a doubt.”
“Ask no questions,” I replied, smiling mysteriously. “A purely private matter.”
“Hum! – those private matters are entertaining, sometimes,” remarked Ted, as he and Bob laughed at my confusion; but as Demetrius returned just at that moment, the subject dropped.
We went to the smoking-room and sat chatting over coffee and liqueurs, but I noticed a marked difference in the manner of Rivers. He was no longer gay, but gloomy and taciturn, and more than once I caught him regarding me with an evil, angry glitter in his dark eyes, and a scowl upon his features. The others noticed it also, but made no remark.