CHAPTER XX.
AT A NIGHT CLUB.
Victor Nevill called for his uncle at nine o'clock the next morning--itwas not often he rose so early--and after breakfasting together the twowent on to Lamb and Drummond's. Sir Lucius carried the unlucky pictureunder his arm, and he thumped the Pall Mall flagstones viciously withhis stick; he walked like a reluctant martyr going to the stake.
Mr. Lamb had just arrived, and he led his visitors to his privateoffice. He listened with amazement and rapt interest to the story theyhad come to tell him, which he did not once interrupt. When the canvaswas unrolled and spread on the table he bent over it eagerly, then drewback and shook his head slightly.
"I was not aware of the robbery until my nephew informed me last night,"explained Sir Lucius. "I have lost no time in restoring what I believeto be your property. It is an unfortunate affair, and a mostdisagreeable one to me, apart from any money considerations. Butit affords me much gratification, sir, to be the means of--"
"I am by no means certain, Sir Lucius," Mr. Lamb interrupted, "that this_is_ my picture."
"There could not be two of them!" gasped Sir Lucius.
"As a matter of fact, there _are_ two," was the reply. "It is a curiousaffair, Sir Lucius, but I can speedily make it clear to you."
Very concisely and briefly Mr. Lamb told all that he knew about theduplicate Rembrandt, giving the gist of his interview months before withJack Vernon.
"Then you mean to say that this is the duplicate?" asked Nevill.
"No; I can't say that."
Sir Lucius brightened suddenly. The loss of his prize was a heavy blow,but it would be far worse, he told himself, if he had been tricked intobuying a false copy. He hated to think of such a thing--it was a woundto his pride, an insult to his judgment.
"I have reason to believe that the duplicate was a splendid replica ofthe original, otherwise it would not have been worth the trouble ofstealing," Mr. Lamb went on. "Mr. Vernon assured me of that. So, underthe circumstances, I cannot be positive which picture lies here beforeus. My eyesight is a little bad, and I prefer not to trust to it. Mr.Drummond might recognize the canvas, but he is out of town. I amdisposed to doubt, however, that this is the original Rembrandt."
"You think it is more likely to be the duplicate?" inquired Sir Lucius.
"I do."
Sir Lucius swelled out with indignation, and his cheerfulness vanished.
"I am sorry to hear that" he said. "I can scarcely believe that I havebeen imposed upon. I am somewhat of an authority on old masters, Mr.Lamb."
The dealer smiled faintly; he had known Sir Lucius in a business way fora number of years.
"The price you paid--eleven hundred pounds--favors my theory," hereplied. "Your Munich Jew, whom I happen to know by repute, is a veryclever scoundrel. It is most unlikely that he would have parted with areal Rembrandt for such a sum. But I will gladly refund you the amountif this proves to be the original."
"I don't want the money," growled Sir Lucius. "I dare say you are right,sir; and if so, it is not to my discredit that I have been taken in bysuch a perfect copy. Gad, it would have deceived Rembrandt himself! Butthe question still remains to be settled. How can that be done, and asquickly as possible?"
"Mr. Vernon, the artist, is the only person who can do that. He put aprivate mark on the duplicate--"
"Vernon--John Vernon?" interrupted Sir Lucius. "Surely, Victor, I haveheard you mention that name?"
"Quite right, uncle," said Nevill. He made the admission promptly,foreseeing that a denial might have awkward consequences in the future."I know Jack Vernon well," he added. "He is an old friend. But I amsorry to inform you that he is not in England at present."
This was false, for Nevill had noted in the morning paper that Jack wasone of the passengers by the P. and O. steamship _Ismaila_, which haddocked on the previous day. Mr. Lamb, it appeared, was not aware of thefact.
"Your nephew is correct, Sir Lucius," he said. "Mr. Vernon has been inIndia for some months, acting as special war artist for the _Universe_.But he is expected home very shortly--in the course of a week, Ibelieve."
"I shall not be here then," said Sir Lucius. "I am to leave Londonto-day. What would you suggest?"
"Allow the canvas to remain in my hands--I will take the best of careof it," replied Mr. Lamb. "I will write to you as soon as Mr. Vernonreturns, and will arrange that you shall meet him here."
"Very well, sir," assented Sir Lucius. "Let the matter rest at that.When I hear from you I will run up to town."
He still hoped to learn that he had bought the original picture, and hewould have preferred an immediate solution of the question. He was in adejected mood when he left the shop with his nephew, but he cheered upunder the influence of a good lunch and a pint of port, and he was infairly good spirits when he took an afternoon train from Victoria to hisstately Sussex home.
"Hang the Rembrandt!" he said at parting. "I don't care how it turnsout. Run down for a few days at the end of the month, Victor--I can giveyou some good shooting."
Glancing over a paper that evening, Mr. Lamb read of Jack Vernon'sreturn. But to find him proved to be a different matter, and at the endof a week he was still unsuccessful. Then, meeting Victor Nevill onRegent street, he induced him to join in the search for the missingartist. The commission by no means pleased Nevill, but he did not seehis way to refuse.
* * * * *
For thirteen days Sir Lucius Chesney had been back at Priory Court,happy among his horses and dogs, his short-horns and orchids; hispictures rested temporarily under a cloud, and he was rarely to be foundin the spacious gallery. In London, Victor Nevill enjoyed life with asmuch zest as his conscience would permit; Madge Foster dragged throughweary days and duller evenings at Strand-on-the-Green; and the editor ofthe _Illustrated Universe_ wondered what had become of his bright youngwar-artist since the one brief visit to the office.
At two o'clock on a drizzling, foggy morning a policeman, walking upthe Charing Cross Road, paused for a moment to listen to some remotestrains of music that came indistinctly from a distance; then heshrugged his shoulders and went on--it was no business of his. Thesounds that attracted the policeman's attention had their source in across street to the left--in one of those evil institutions known as a"night club," which it seems impossible to eradicate from the fast lifeof West End London.
It was a typical scene; there were many like it that night. The househad two street doors, and behind the inner one, which was fitted with asmall grating and kept locked, squatted a vigilant keeper, equally readyto open to a member or deny admittance to any one who had no businessthere. On the first floor, up the dingy stairs, were two apartments. Theouter and smaller room had a bar at one side, presided over by a bright,golden-haired young lady in _very_ conspicuous evening dress, whosepowers of _repartee_ afforded much amusement to her customers. Thesewere, many of them, in more or less advanced stages of intoxication, andthey comprised sporting men, persons from various unfashionable walks oflife, clerks who wanted to soar like eagles, and a few swell young menwho had dropped in to be amused. A sprinkling of women must be added.
Both apartments were hung with engravings and French prints anddecorated with tawdry curtains, and in the larger of the two dancing wasgoing on. Here the crowd was denser and of the same heterogeneous kind.It was a festival of high jinks--a sway of riotous, unbridled merriment.A performer at the piano, with a bottle of beer within easy reach,rapped out the inspiriting chords of a popular melody. Couples glidedover the polished floor, some lightly, some galloping, and all recklessof colliding with the onlookers. There was a touch of the _risque_ inthe dancing, suggesting the Moulin Rouge of a Casino de Paris carnival.Occasionally, during a lull, songs were sung by music-hall _artistes_ ofpast celebrity, who were now glad of the chance to earn a few shillingsbefore an uncritical audience. The atmosphere was charged with the scentof rouge and powder, brandy and stale sherry. Coarse jest and laughter,ringing on the night, m
ocked at go-to-bed London.
Two young men leaned against the wall of the dancing-room, close tothe door, both smoking cigars. They wore evening dress, considerablyrumpled, and their attitudes were careless. The elder of the two wasTony Mostyn, a clever but dissipated artist of the decadent school, whosteered his life by the rule of indulgence and worked as little aspossible.
"It's rather dull," he said; "eh, old chap?"
"It gives one a bad taste," his companion replied. "I don't see why youbrought me here."
The second speaker was Jack Vernon. He looked bored and weary, but hischeeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled; the women who glanced pertlyat him as they swung by inspired him merely with disgust. He had come tothe club with Mostyn, after a dozen turns at the Alhambra, followed by aprolonged theater supper. He had drunk more than was good for him duringthe course of the evening, but the effects had about worn off.
The story of the past two weeks--since Jack's return from India--was asad one. He tried his best to drown the bitter memories of Madge, ofwhat he had lost. He cut loose from Jimmie and other old friends, tooklodgings in an out-of-the-way quarter, and turned night into day. He hadplenty of money, and he had not been near the office of the _Universe_.He found boon companions among the wildest acquaintances of his Parisdays, including Tony Mostyn and his set. But a fortnight had dispelledthe glamour, and life looked blacker to him than it had ever lookedbefore. Courage and manhood were at a low ebb. He laughed recklesslyas he wondered what the end would be.
"Let us go and get a drink," he said to his companion.
As he spoke a tumult broke out at the far end of the room. Scufflingfeet and men's angry voices mingled with cries of protest and women'sshrill screams. Then followed a heavy fall, a groan, and a rush ofpeople. The music had stopped and the dancers were still.
"There's been a row," exclaimed Mostyn. "It's bad for the club."
Idle curiosity led Jack to the spot, and Mostyn accompanied him.They elbowed their way through, and saw a flashily-dressed man withblue-black cheeks and a curling black mustache lying on the floor. Hewas bleeding from an ugly wound on the forehead, where he had beenstruck by a bottle. His assailant had slipped away, scared, and wasbeing smuggled out of the room and down stairs by his friends.
"What a shame!" ejaculated a terrified woman.
"It's no fair fighting," added another.
"Shut up, all of you!" angrily cried a harsh-voiced man--clearly one inauthority--as he elbowed his way to the front. "Do you want to bring thepolice down on us?"
The warning had a prompt effect, and comparative silence ensued. Theinjured man tried to rise, but his potations had weakened him more thanthe loss of blood.
"Where's the bloke what hit me?" he feebly demanded.
His maudlin speech and woe-begone manner roused Jack's sympathy. Heknelt down beside him, and made a brief examination.
"It's nothing serious--the bottle glanced off," he said. "Fetch waterand a sponge, and I'll soon stop the bleeding. Who has a bit ofplaster?"
No sponge was to be had, but a basin of water was quickly produced. Jacktore his handkerchief in two and wet part of it. He was about to beginoperations when a hand tapped him on the shoulder and a familiar voicepronounced his name.
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