Murder in Any Degree Part 15

"My dear boy, I know! Down the coast to Rabat."

"Ah, now, you're sure? I think--"

"And I _know_," said Lightbody, raising his voice and a.s.suming possession of the atlas, which he struck energetically with the back of his hand. "I ought to know my own plan."

"Yes, yes," said De Gollyer, to egg him on. "Still you're thoroughly convinced about that, are you?"

"Of course, I am! My dear Jim--come, isn't this my pet idea--the one trip I've dreamed over, the one thing in the world I've longed to do, all my life?" His eyes took energy, while his forefinger began viciously to stab the atlas. "We go to Rabat. We go to Magazam, and we cut--so--long sweep, into the interior, take a turn, so, and back to Fez, so!"

This speech, delivered with enthusiasm, made De Gollyer reflect. He looked at the somewhat revived Lightbody with thoughtful curiosity.

"Well, well--you may be right. You always are impressive, you know."

"Right? Of course I'm right," continued Lightbody, unaware of his friend's critical contemplation. "Haven't I worked out every foot of it?"

"A bit of a flyer in the game country, then? Topple over a rhino or so.

Stunning, smart sport, the rhino!"

"By George, think of it--a chance at one of the brutes!"

When De Gollyer had seen the eagerness in his friend's eyes, the imps returned, ironically tumbling back. He slapped him on the shoulder as Mephistopheles might gleefully claim his own, crying, "Immense!"

"You know, Jim," said Lightbody, straightening up, nervously alert, speaking in quick, eager accents, "it's what I've dreamed of--a chance at one of the big beggars. By George, I have, all my life!"

"We'll polish it off in ripping style, regiments of porters, red and white tents, camels, caravans and all that sort of thing."

"By George, just think of it."

"In style, my boy--we'll own the whole continent, buy it up!"

"The devil!"

"What's the matter?"

Lightbody's mood had suddenly dropped. He half pushed back his chair and frowned. "It's going to be frightfully extravagant."

"What of it?"

"My dear fellow, you don't know what my expenses are--this apartment, an automobile--Oh, as for you, it's all very well for you! You have ten thousand a year and no one to care for but yourself."

Suddenly he felt almost a hatred for his friend, and then a rebellion at the renunciation he would have to make.

"No--it can't be done. We'll have to give it up. Impossible, utterly impossible, I can't afford it."

De Gollyer, still a little uncertain of his ground, for several moments waited, carefully considering the dubious expression on his friend's face. Then he questioned abruptly:

"What is your income--now?"

"What do you mean by _now_?"

"Fifteen thousand a year?"

"It has always been that," replied Lightbody in bad humor.

De Gollyer, approaching at last the great question, a.s.sumed an air of concentrated firmness, tempered with well-mannered delicacy.

"My dear boy, I beg your pardon. As a matter of fact it has always been fifteen thousand--quite right, quite so; but--now, my dear boy, you are too much of a man of the world to be offended, aren't you?"

"No," said Lightbody, staring in front of him. "No, I'm not offended."

"Of course it's delicate, ticklishly delicate ground, but then we must look things in the face. Now if you'd rather I--"

"No, go on."

"Of course, dear boy, you've had a smas.h.i.+ng knock and all that sort of thing, but--" suddenly reaching out he took up the letter, and, letting it hang from his fingers, thoughtfully considered it--"I say it might be looked at in this way. Yesterday it was fifteen thousand a year to dress up a das.h.i.+ng wife, modern New York style, the social pace, clothes that must be smarter than Thingabob's wife, compet.i.tive dinners that you stir up with your fork and your servants eat, and all that sort of thing, you know. To-day it's fifteen thousand a year and a bachelor again."

Releasing the letter, he disdainfully allowed it to settle down on the desk, and finished:

"Come now, as a matter of fact there is a little something consoling, isn't there?"

From the moment he had perceived De Gollyer's idea. Lightbody had become very quiet, gazing steadily ahead, seeing neither the door nor the retaining walls.

"I never thought of that," he said, almost in a whisper.

"Quite so, quite so. Of course one doesn't think of such things, right at first. And you've had a knock-down--a regular smasher, old chap." He stopped, cleared his voice and said sympathetically: "You adored her?"

"I suppose I could give up the apartment and sell the auto," said Lightbody slowly, speaking to himself.

De Gollyer smiled--a bachelor smile.

"Riches, my boy," he said, tapping him on the shoulder with the same quick, awakening Mephistophelean touch.

The contact raised Lightbody from revery. He drew back, shocked at the ways through which his thoughts had wandered.

"No, no, Jim," he said. "No, you mustn't, nothing like that--not at such a time."

"You're right," said De Gollyer, instantly masked in gravity. "You're quite right. Still, we are looking things in the face--planning for the future. Of course it's a delicate question, terrifically delicate. I'm almost afraid to put it to you. Come, now, how shall I express it--delicately? It's this way. Fifteen thousand a year divided by one is fifteen thousand, isn't it; but fifteen thousand a year divided by two, may mean--" He straightened up, heels clicking, throwing out his elbows slightly and lifting his chin from the high, white stockade on which it reposed. "Come, now, we're men of the world, aren't we? Now, as a matter of fact how much of that fifteen thousand a year came back to you?"

"My dear Jim," said Lightbody, feeling that generosity should be his part, "a woman, a modern woman, a New York woman, you just said it--takes--takes--"

"Twelve thousand--thirteen thousand?"

"Oh, come! Nonsense," said Lightbody, growing quite angry. "Besides, I don't--"

"Yes, yes, I know," said De Gollyer, interrupting him, now with fresh confidence. "All the same your whiskies have gone off, dear boy--they've gone off, and your cigars are bad, very bad. Little things, but they show."

A pencil lay before him. Lightbody, without knowing what he did, took it up and mechanically on an unwritten sheet jotted down $15,000, drawing the dollar sign with a careful, almost caressing stroke. The sheet was the back of his wife's letter, but he did not notice it.