“It is absolute madness, dear,” she said, but her eyes were sparkling with the joy of recklessness. Away went the trap and the two light hearts. Mrs. Gray turned from a window in the house with tears in her eyes. To her troubled mind they were driving off into utter darkness.
“The queerest looking man came to the house to see you this afternoon, Monty,” said Peggy. “He wore a beard and he made me think of one of Remington’s cowboys.”
“What was his name?”
“He told the maid it did not matter. I saw him as he walked away and he looked very much a man. He said he would come tomorrow if he did not find you down town tonight. Don’t you recognize him from the description?”
“Not at all. Can’t imagine who he is.”
“Monty,” she said, after a moment’s painful reflection, “he—he couldn’t have been a—”
“I know what you mean. An officer sent up to attach my belongings or something of the sort. No, dearest; I give you my word of honor I do not owe a dollar in the world.” Then he recalled his peculiar indebtedness to Bragdon and Gardner. “Except one or two very small personal obligations,” he added, hastily. “Don’t worry about it, dear, we are out for a good time and we must make the most of it. First, we drive through the Park, then we dine at Sherry’s.”
“But we must dress for that, dear,” she cried. “And the chaperon?”
He turned very red when she spoke of dressing. “I’m ashamed to confess it, Peggy, but I have no other clothes than these I’m wearing now. Don’t look so hurt, dear—I’m going to leave an order for new evening clothes tomorrow—if I have the time. And about the chaperon. People won’t be talking before tomorrow and by that time—”
“No, Monty, Sherry’s is out of the question. We can’t go there,” she said, decisively.
“Oh, Peggy! That spoils everything,” he cried, in deep disappointment.
“It isn’t fair to me, Monty. Everybody would know us, and every tongue would wag. They would say, ‘There are Monty Brewster and Margaret Gray. Spending his last few dollars on her.’ You wouldn’t have them think that?”
He saw the justice in her protest. “A quiet little dinner in some out of the way place would be joyous,” she added, persuasively.
“You’re right, Peggy, you’re always right. You see, I’m so used to spending money by the handful that I don’t know how to do it any other way. I believe I’ll let you carry the pocketbook after tomorrow. Let me think; I knew a nice little restaurant down town. We’ll go there and then to the theater. Dan DeMille and his wife are to be in my box and we’re all going up to Pettingill’s studio afterward. I’m to give the ‘Little Sons’ a farewell supper. If my calculations don’t go wrong, that will be the end of the jaunt and we’ll go home happy.”
At eleven o’clock Pettingill’s studio opened its doors to the “Little Sons” and their guests, and the last “Dutch lunch” was soon under way. Brewster had paid for it early in the evening and when he sat down at the head of the table there was not a penny in his pockets. A year ago, at the same hour, he and the “Little Sons” were having a birthday feast. A million dollars came to him on that night. Tonight he was poorer by far than on the other occasion, but he expected a little gift on the new anniversary.
Around the board, besides the nine “Little Sons,” sat six guests, among them the DeMilles, Peggy Gray and Mary Valentine. “Nopper” Harrison was the only absent “Little Son” and his health was proposed by Brewster almost before the echoes of the toast to the bride and groom died away.
Interruption came earlier on this occasion than it did that night a year ago. Ellis did not deliver his message to Brewster until three o’clock in the morning, but the A.D.T. boy who rang the bell at Pettingill’s a year later handed him a telegram before twelve o’clock.
“Congratulations are coming in, old man,” said DeMille, as Monty looked fearfully at the little envelope the boy had given him.
“Many happy returns of the day,” suggested Bragdon. “By Jove, it’s sensible of you to get married on your birthday, Monty. It saves time and expense to your friends.”
“Read it aloud,” said “Subway” Smith.
“Two to one it’s from Nopper Harrison,” cried Pettingill.
Brewster’s fingers trembled, he knew not why, as he opened the envelope. There was the most desolate feeling in his heart, the most ghastly premonition that ill-news had come in this last hour. He drew forth the telegram and slowly, painfully unfolded it. No one could have told by his expression that he felt almost that he was reading his death warrant. It was from Grant & Ripley and evidently had been following him about town for two or three hours. The lawyers had filed it at 8:30 o’clock.
He read it at a glance, his eyes burning, his heart freezing. To the end of his days these words lived sharp and distinct in his brain.
“Come to the office immediately. Will wait all night for you if necessary. Jones has disappeared and there is absolutely no trace of him.”
“Grant & Ripley.”
Brewster sat as one paralyzed, absolutely no sign of emotion in his face. The others began to clamor for the contents of the telegram, but his tongue was stiff and motionless, his ears deaf. Every drop of blood in his body was stilled by the shock, every sense given him by the Creator was centered upon eleven words in the handwriting of a careless telegraph operator—”Jones has disappeared and there is absolutely no trace of him.”
“JONES HAS DISAPPEARED!” Those were the words, plain and terrible in their clearness, tremendous in their brutality. Slowly the rest of the message began to urge its claims upon his brain. “Come to our office immediately” and “Will wait all night” battled for recognition. He was calm because he had not the power to express an emotion. How he maintained control of himself afterward he never knew. Some powerful, kindly force asserted itself, coming to his relief with the timeliness of a genii. Gradually it began to dawn upon him that the others were waiting for him to read the message aloud. He was not sure that a sound would come forth when he opened his lips to speak, but the tones were steady, natural and as cold as steel.
“I am sorry I can’t tell you about this,” he said, so gravely that his hearers were silenced. “It is a business matter of such vital importance that I must ask you to excuse me for an hour or so. I will explain everything tomorrow. Please don’t be uneasy. If you will do me the honor to grace the board of an absent host, I’ll be most grateful. It is imperative that I go, and at once. I promise to return in an hour.” He was standing, his knees as stiff as iron.
“Is it anything serious?” asked DeMille.
“What! has anything happened?” came in halting, frightened tones from Peggy.
“It concerns me alone, and it is purely of a business nature. Seriously, I can’t delay going for another minute. It is vital. In an hour I’ll return. Peggy, don’t be worried—don’t be distressed about me. Go on and have a good time, everybody, and you’ll find me the jolliest fellow of all when I come back. It’s twelve o’clock. I’ll be here by one on the 23d of September.”
“Let me go with you,” pleaded Peggy, tremulously, as she followed him into the hallway.
“I must go alone,” he answered. “Don’t worry, little woman, it will be all right.”
His kiss sent a chill to the very bottom of Peggy’s heart.
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE FLIGHT OF JONES
Everything seemed like a dream to Brewster as he rushed off through the night to the office of Grant & Ripley. He was dazed, bewildered, hardly more than half-conscious. A bitter smile crept about his lips as he drew away from the street-car track almost as his hand touched the rail of a car he had signaled. He remembered that he did not have money enough to pay his fare. It was six or seven blocks to the office of the lawyers, and he was actually running before he stopped at the entrance of the big building.
Never had an elevator traveled more slowly than the one which shot him to the seventh floor. A light shone through the
transom above the attorneys’ door and he entered without so much as a rap on the panel. Grant, who was pacing the floor, came to a standstill and faced his visitor.
“Close the door, please,” came in steady tones from Ripley. Mr. Grant dropped into a chair and Brewster mechanically slammed the door.
“Is it true?” he demanded hoarsely, his hand still on the knob.
“Sit down, Brewster, and control yourself,” said Ripley.
“Good God, man, can’t you see I am calm?” cried Monty. “Go on—tell me all about it. What do you know? What have you heard?”
“He cannot be found, that’s all,” announced Ripley, with deadly intentness. “I don’t know what it means. There is no explanation. The whole thing is inconceivable. Sit down and I will tell you everything as quickly as possible.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” said Grant, mechanically.
“I can take it better standing,” declared Brewster, shutting his jaws tightly.
“Jones was last seen in Butte on the third of this month,” said Ripley. “We sent several telegrams to him after that day, asking when he expected to leave for New York. They never were claimed and the telegraph company reported that he could not be found. We thought he might have gone off to look after some of his property and were not uneasy. Finally we began to wonder why he had not wired us on leaving for the east. I telegraphed him again and got no answer. It dawned upon us that this was something unusual. We wired his secretary and received a response from the chief of police. He asked, in turn, if we could tell him anything about the whereabouts of Jones. This naturally alarmed us and yesterday we kept the wires hot. The result of our inquiries is terrible, Mr. Brewster.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Brewster.
“There can be no doubt that Jones has fled, accompanied by his secretary. The belief in Butte is that the secretary has murdered him.”
“God!” was the only sound that came from the lips of Brewster.
Ripley moistened his lips and went on:
“We have dispatches here from the police, the banks, the trust companies and from a half dozen mine managers. You may read them if you like, but I can tell you what they say. About the first of this month Jones began to turn various securities into money. It is now known that they were once the property of James T. Sedgwick, held in trust for you. The safety deposit vaults were afterward visited and inspection shows that he removed every scrap of stock, every bond, everything of value that he could lay his hands upon. His own papers and effects were not disturbed. Yours alone have disappeared. It is this fact that convinces the authorities that the secretary has made away with the old man and has fled with the property. The bank people say that Jones drew out every dollar of the Sedgwick money, and the police say that he realized tremendous sums on the convertible securities. The strange part of it is that he sold your mines and your real estate, the purchaser being a man named Golden. Brewster, it—it looks very much as if he had disappeared with everything.”
Brewster did not take his eyes from Ripley’s face throughout the terrible speech; he did not move a fraction of an inch from the rigid position assumed at the beginning.
“Is anything being done?” he asked, mechanically.
“The police are investigating. He is known to have started off into the mountains with this secretary on the third of September. Neither has been seen since that day, so far as any one knows. The earth seems to have swallowed them. The authorities are searching the mountains and are making every effort to find Jones or his body. He is known to be eccentric and at first not much importance was attached to his actions. That is all we can tell you at present. There may be developments tomorrow. It looks bad—terribly bad. We—we had the utmost confidence in Jones. My God, I wish I could help you, my boy.”
“I don’t blame you, gentlemen,” said Brewster, bravely. “It’s just my luck, that’s all. Something told me all along that—that it wouldn’t turn out right. I wasn’t looking for this kind of end, though. My only fear was that—Jones wouldn’t consider me worthy to receive the fortune. It never occurred to me that he might prove to be the—the unworthy one.”
“I will take you a little farther into our confidence, Brewster,” said Grant, slowly. “Mr. Jones notified us at the beginning that he would be governed largely in his decision by our opinion of your conduct. That is why we felt no hesitation in advising you to continue as you were going. While you were off at sea, we had many letters from him, all in that sarcastic vein of his, but in none of them did he offer a word of criticism. He seemed thoroughly satisfied with your methods. In fact, he once said he’d give a million of his own money if it would purchase your ability to spend one-fourth of it.”
“Well, he can have my experience free of charge. A beggar can’t be a chooser, you know,” said Brewster, bitterly. His color was gradually coming back. “What do they know about the secretary?” he asked, suddenly, intent and alive.
“He was a new one, I understand, who came to Jones less than a year ago. Jones is said to have had implicit faith in him,” said Ripley.
“And he disappeared at the same time?”
“They were last seen together.”
“Then he has put an end to Jones!” cried Monty, excitedly. “It is as plain as day to me. Don’t you see that he exerted some sort of influence over the old man, inducing him to get all this money together on some pretext or other, solely for the purpose of robbing him of the whole amount? Was ever anything more diabolical?” He began pacing the floor like an animal, nervously clasping and unclasping his hands. “We must catch that secretary! I don’t believe Jones was dishonest. He has been duped by a clever scoundrel.”
“The strangest circumstance of all, Mr. Brewster, is that no such person as Golden, the purchaser of your properties, can be found. He is supposed to reside in Omaha, and it is known that he paid nearly three million dollars for the property that now stands in his name. He paid it to Mr. Jones in cash, too, and he paid every cent that the property is worth.”
“But he must be in existence somewhere,” cried Brewster, in perplexity. “How the devil could he pay the money if he doesn’t exist?”
“I only know that no trace of the man can be found. They know nothing of him in Omaha,” said Grant, helplessly.
“So it has finally happened,” said Brewster, but his excitement had dropped. “Well,” he added, throwing himself into a deep chair, “it was always much too strange to be true. Even at the beginning it seemed like a dream, and now—well, now I am just awake, like the little boy after the fairy-tale. I seem like a fool to have taken it so seriously.”
“There was no other way,” protested Ripley, “you were quite right.”
“Well, after all,” continued Brewster, and the voice was as of one in a dream, “perhaps it’s as well to have been in Wonderland even if you have to come down afterward to the ordinary world. I am foolish, perhaps, but even now I would not give it up.” Then the thought of Peggy clutched him by the throat, and he stopped. After a moment he gathered himself together and rose. “Gentlemen,” he said sharply, and his voice had changed; “I have had my fun and this is the end of it. Down underneath I am desperately tired of the whole thing, and I give you my word that you will find me a different man tomorrow. I am going to buckle down to the real thing. I am going to prove that my grandfather’s blood is in me. And I shall come out on top.”
Ripley was obviously moved as he replied, “I don’t question it for a moment. You are made of the right stuff. I saw that long ago. You may count on us tomorrow for any amount you need.”
Grant endorsed the opinion. “I like your spirit, Brewster,” he said. “There are not many men who would have taken this as well. It’s pretty hard on you, too, and it’s a miserable wedding gift for your bride.”
“We may have important news from Butte in the morning,” said Ripley, hopefully; “at any rate, more of the details. The newspapers will have sensational stories no doubt, and we have asked
for the latest particulars direct from the authorities. We’ll see that things are properly investigated. Go home now, my boy, and go to bed. You will begin tomorrow with good luck on your side and you may be happy all your life in spite of tonight’s depression.”
“I’m sure to be happy,” said Brewster, simply. “The ceremony takes place at seven o’clock, gentlemen. I was coming to your office at nine on a little matter of business, but I fancy it won’t after all be necessary for me to hurry. I’ll drop in before noon, however, and get that money. By the way, here are the receipts for the money I spent tonight. Will you put them away with the others? I intend to live up to my part of the contract, and it will save me the trouble of presenting them regularly in the morning. Good night, gentlemen. I am sorry you were obliged to stay up so late on my account.”
He left them bravely enough, but he had more than one moment of weakness before he could meet his friends. The world seemed unreal and himself the most unreal thing in it. But the night air acted as a stimulant and helped him to call back his courage. When he entered the studio at one o’clock, he was prepared to redeem his promise to be “the jolliest fellow of them all.”
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE LAST WORD
“I’ll tell you about it later, dear,” was all that Peggy, pleading, could draw from him.
At midnight Mrs. Dan had remonstrated with her. “You must go home, Peggy, dear,” she said. “It is disgraceful for you to stay up so late. I went to bed at eight o’clock the night before I was married.”
“And fell asleep at four in the morning,” smiled Peggy.
“You are quite mistaken, my dear. I did not fall asleep at all. But I won’t allow you to stop a minute longer. It puts rings under the eyes and sometimes they’re red the morning after.”
“Oh, you dear, sweet philosopher,” cried Peggy; “how wise you are. Do you think I need a beauty sleep?”
“I don’t want you to be a sleepy beauty, that’s all,” retorted Mrs. Dan.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 19