The Maker of Opportunities Part 19

"I know I ought to be called a beggar on horseback, because I really have ridden rather--rather fast this winter----"

"Two thousand?" he questioned.

"No, Mort, you see, it isn't only the dresses and the hats. I'm afraid I've been losing more than I should have lost at auction."

"Bridge!" he said, pitilessly, "I thought----"

"Yes--bub--bridge."

"I thought my warning might be sufficient. I'm sorry----"

"So am I," she whispered, her head lowered, now thoroughly abased. "I am not going to play any more."

"How much--three thousand?" he asked again.

"No," she said, desperately, "more. I'm afraid it will take five thousand dollars to pay everything."

"Phew!" he whistled. "How in the name of all that's expensive----"

"Oh, I don't know----" helplessly, "money adds up so fast--I suppose that father might help me if you can't--but I didn't want to ask him if I could help it; you know he----"

"Oh, no," said Crabb, with a sudden move of the hand. "It can be managed, of course, but I admit I'm surprised--very much surprised that you haven't thought fit to take me closer into your confidence."

"I'm sorry, Mort," she muttered, humbly. "It won't happen again."

Crabb pushed back his chair and rose. "Oh, well, don't say anything more about it, Patty. It must be attended to, of course. Just give me a list of the items and I'll send out the checks."

"But, Mort, I'd like to----"

"I'll just stop in at Madame Jacquard's on the way uptown and----"

Patty started up and then sank back weakly.

"Oh, Mort, dear," she faltered, "it isn't worth while. It would be so much out of your way----"

"Not a bit," said Crabb, striding cheerfully to the door. "It's only a step from the subway, and then I can come on up the Avenue----"

But Patricia by this time had fastened tightly upon the lapels of his coat, and was looking half tearfully up into his face.

"I--I want to see Madame about some things she hasn't sent up yet--I must go there to-day. I'll--I'll tell her, Mort, and then if you'll arrange it, I'll just send it to her to-morrow."

Mortimer Crabb looked into the blue eyes that she raised to his and relented.

"All right," he said, "you shall have your own way." And then, with the suspicion of a smile, "Shall I make a check to your order?"

"To--to mine, Mort--it always makes me feel more important to pay my bills myself--and besides--the bub--bridge, you know."

When Patricia heard the front door shut behind her husband, she gave a great sigh and sank on the divan in a state of utter collapse.

The next day Patricia dressed herself in a plain, dark skirt, a long grey coat and wore two heavy veils over an un.o.btrusive sailor hat. In her hand she clutched a small hand satchel containing the precious check and the odious letter of John Doe. First she went to the bank and converted the check into crisp thousand dollar notes. Then walking rapidly she took the elevated for that unknown region which men call down-town. There was little difficulty in finding the place. The narrow doorway she had imagined was wide--even imposing, and an Irish janitor with a cheerful countenance, was sweeping the pavement and whistling. It was not in the least d.i.c.kens-ish, or Machiavellian. The atmosphere was that of a very cheerful and modern New York and Patricia's spirits revived. A cleanly boy in b.u.t.tons ran the elevator.

But as the elevator shot up, Patty's heart shot down. She had hoped there would be stairs to climb. The imminence of the visit filled her with alarm, and before she realized it, she was deposited--a bundle of quivering nerves, before the very door. Gathering her shattered forces together, she knocked timorously and entered. It was a cheerful room with a bright carpet and an outlook over the river. A small boy who sat inside a wooden railing, sprang up and came forward.

"I wish to see Mr. Doe," stammered Patty, "Mr. John Doe."

"Must be a mistake," said the youth. "This is Fairman & Brookes, Investments. n.o.body that name here, ma'am."

At that moment an elderly man of very proper appearance came forward from an inner office.

"Mrs. Crabb?" he inquired, politely. "That will do, d.i.c.k, you may go inside," and then rather quizzically: "You wished to see Mr.--er--Mr.--Doe? Mr. John Doe? I think he was expecting you. If you'll wait a moment I'll see," and he entered a door which led to another office.

Patricia dropped into a chair by the railing completely baffled. This villainous creature expected her! How could he expect her? It was only Friday and the appointment was not until the Wednesday of the following week. She looked at her surroundings, trying to find a flaw in their prosperous garb of respectability. That such rascality could exist under the guise of decent business! And the benevolent person who had carried her name might very properly serve upon the vestry of St. ----'s church! Truly there were depths of iniquity in this vile community of business people that her little social plummet could never seek to sound. The little red-headed man with the ferret eyes had vanished from her mind. In his place she saw a type even more alarming--the sleek, well-groomed man with dissipated eyes that she and Mort had often seen dining at popular restaurants. Her mission would not be as easy to accomplish as it had seemed. Her speech to the ferret-eyed man which she had so carefully rehea.r.s.ed had gone completely from her mind. What she should say to this other man, whom she both loathed and feared, her vagrant wits refused to invent. So in spite of a brave poise of the head she sat in a kind of syncope of dismay, and awaited--she knew not what.

The benevolent vestryman returned smiling.

"Mr. Doe has just come in, Mrs. Crabb. If you'll kindly come this way."

He opened the door and stood aside with an old-world courtliness that all but disarmed her. He followed her into the inner corridor and opened another door, smiling the while, and Patricia, trembling from head to foot, yet resolute, went in, while the elderly person carefully closed the door behind her. A tall figure in an overcoat and soft hat was bending over the fireplace upon the opposite side of the room adjusting a log.

"Mr. Doe?" came in a small, m.u.f.fled voice from behind Patricia's veil.

The man at the fireplace still poked at the logs and made no move to take off his hat.

"The brute--the utter brute," thought Patricia--and then aloud, "Mr.

Doe, I believe."

"Yes, madam," said a voice at last. "I'm John Doe--what can I do for you?"

"I came about the letters--the letters, you know, you wrote me about. I am prepared to--to redeem them."

"H--m," growled the overcoat. "It's Crabb, isn't it? Mrs. Crabb? I'm always getting the Cobb and Crabb letters mixed--six of one and half a dozen of the other----"

"I beg pardon," faltered Patty.

"Cases very similar. Bad man--good woman. Trusting husband--hey? Well,"

he muttered brutally, "did you bring the money?"

"It is here," said Patricia, trembling. "Now the letters--and let me go."

The man moved slowly toward a desk against the wall with his back still turned, took out a package, rose and, turning, handed it to Patricia.

Had her gaze not been fixed so eagerly upon the handwriting on the package she could not have failed to note the smiling gray eyes above the upturned coat collar.

"Why, it is sealed and addressed to me!" she cried, in surprise. "The package hasn't even been opened."

"I never said it had," said the man in the overcoat, removing his hat.

"I didn't want to read the stuff, Patty."

The package fell to the floor amid the fluttering bills. Patricia's knees trembled and she would have fallen had not a pair of strong arms gone about her and held her up.