In Friendship's Guise Part 5

"Then, if you had this Rembrandt locked up in your safe, you would regard it as a sound and sure investment, to be realized on in the future?"

"Certainly. I should consider it as an equivalent for 10,000," Stephen Foster replied. "But there is not much of that sort of thing done--the ordinary burglar doesn't understand the game," he went on, carelessly.

"And a good thing for the dealers, too. With my knowledge of the place, I could very easily remove a picture from Lamb and Drummond's store-room any night."

"Yes, you know the ground thoroughly. Would you like to make 10,000 at a single stroke, without risk?"

"I don't think I should hesitate long, if it was a sure thing," Stephen Foster replied, laughingly. "Nevill, what are you driving at?" he added with sudden earnestness.

"Wait a moment, and I'll explain."

Victor Nevill stepped to the door, listened briefly, and turned the key noiselessly in the lock. He drew a chair close to his companion and sat down.

"I am going to tell you a little story," he said. "It will interest you, if I am not mistaken."

It must have been a very important and mysterious communication, from the care with which Nevill told it, from the low and cautious tone in which he spoke. Stephen Foster listened with a blank expression that gradually changed to a look of amazement and satisfaction, of ill-concealed avarice. Then the two discussed the matter together, heedless of the pa.s.sage of time, until the clock struck five.

"It certainly appears to be simple enough," said Stephen Foster, "but who will find out about--"

"You must do that," Nevill interrupted. "If I went, it might lead to awkward complications in the future."

"It's the worst part, and I confess I don't like it. But I'll take a night to think it over, and give you an answer to-morrow. It's an ugly undertaking--"

"But a safe one. If it comes off all right, I want 500 cash down, on account."

"It is not certain that it will come off at all," said Stephen Foster, as he rose. "Come in to-morrow afternoon. Oh, I believe I promised you some commission to-day."

"Yes; sixty pounds."

The check was written, and Nevill pocketed it with a nod. He put on his hat, moved to the door, and paused.

"By the by, there's a new thing on at the Frivolity--awfully good," he said. "Miss Foster might like to see it. We could make up a little party of three--"

"Thank you, but my daughter doesn't care for theatres. And, as you know, I spend my evenings at home."

"I don't blame you," Nevill replied, indifferently. "It's a snug and jolly crib you have down there by the river. And the fresh air does a fellow a lot of good. I feel like a new man when I come back to town after dining with you. One gets tired of clubs and restaurants."

"Come out when you like," said Stephen Foster, in a voice that lacked warmth and sincerity.

"That's kind of you," Nevill replied. "Good-night!"

A minute later he was walking thoughtfully down Wardour street.

CHAPTER VI.

A VISITOR FROM PARIS.

It was seven o'clock in the evening, ten days after Jack's second encounter with Madge Foster, and a blaze of light shone from the big studio that overlooked Ravenscourt Park. The lord and master of it was writing business letters, a task in which he was a.s.sisted by frequent cigarettes. A tray containing whisky, brandy and siphons stood on a Moorish inlaid smoking stand, and suggested correctly that a visitor was expected. At noon Jack had received a letter from Victor Nevill, of whom he had seen nothing since their meeting at Strand-on-the-Green, to say that he was coming out at eight o'clock that night to have a chat over old times. Alphonse, being no longer required, had gone to his lodgings near by.

"It will be a bit awkward if Nevill wants his dinner," Jack said to himself, in an interval of his letter writing. "I'll keep him here a couple of hours, and then take him to dine in town. He's a good fellow, and will understand. He'll find things rather different from the Paris days."

There was a touch of pardonable pride in that last thought, for few artists in London could boast of such luxuriously decorated quarters, or of such a collection of treasures as Jack's purse and good taste had enabled him to gather around him. The hard oak floor, oiled and polished by the hands of Alphonse, was spa.r.s.ely strewn with Oriental rugs and a couple of tiger skins. A screen of stamped leather hid three sides of the French stove. The eye met a picturesque confusion of inlaid cabinets with innumerable drawers, oak chests and benches, easy chairs of every sort, Chippendale trays and escritoires, Spanish lanterns dangling from overhead, old tables worn hollow on top with age, countless weapons and pieces of armor, and shelves stacked with blue delf china and rows of pewter plates. A long costume case flashed its gla.s.s doors at a cosy corner draped with art muslin. On the walls, many of them presented by friends, were scores of water-colors and oil paintings, etchings and engravings, no two of them framed alike. Minor articles were scattered about in profusion, and a couple of bulging sketch-books bore witness to their owner's summer wanderings about England.

The letters finished and stamped, Jack closed his desk with a sigh of relief. The evening was chilly, and he had started a small fire of coals in the grate--he used his stove only in wintry weather. He pulled a big chair to the blaze, stretched his legs against the fender, and fell straightway into a reverie; an expression that none of his English companions had ever seen there softened his handsome face.

"I wonder what she is doing now," he thought. "I fancy I can see her sitting opposite to her father, at the dinner table, with the soft lamplight on her lovely cheeks, and that bewitching look in her eyes.

I am a conceited fool to believe that she cares for me, and yet--and yet--By Jove, I would marry her in a minute. She is the most winsome girl I ever saw. It is not like the pa.s.sion I had for Diane--I was a foolish, hot-headed boy then. Madge would be my good angel. In spite of myself, she has come into my life and taken a deep hold on my heart--I can't put her out again. Jack, my boy, you had better have gone on that sketching tour--better have fled to Devonian wilds before it was too late."

But was it too late now? If so, the fact did not seem to trouble Jack much, for he laughed softly as he stirred the fire. He, the impregnable and boastful one, the woman-hater, had fallen a victim when he believed himself most secure. It was unutterably sweet to him--this second pa.s.sion--and he knew that it was not to be shaken off.

During the past ten days he had seen Madge frequently. Nearly every afternoon, when the fading sun glimmered through a golden haze, he had wandered down to Strand-on-the-Green, confident that the girl would not be far away, that she would welcome him shyly and blus.h.i.+ngly, with that radiant light in her eyes which he hoped he could read aright. They had enjoyed a couple of tramps together, when time permitted--once up the towing-path toward Richmond, and again down the river to Barnes.

They were happy hours for both. Madge was unconventional, and would have resented a hint that she was doing anything in the least improper.

She had left boarding school two years before, and since then she had rejoiced in her freedom, not finding life dull in the sleepy Thames-side suburb of London. As for Jack, his conscience gave him few twinges in regard to these surrept.i.tious meetings. It would be different, he told himself, had Stephen Foster chosen to receive him as a visitor. But he had gathered, from what Madge told him, that her father was eccentric, and detested visitors--that he would permit nothing to break the monotonous and regular habits of the secluded old house. Madge admitted that one friend of his, a young man, came sometimes; but she intimated unmistakably that she did not like him. Jack was curious to know what business took Stephen Foster to town every day, but on that subject the girl never spoke.

As the young artist sat watching the fire in the grate, his fancy painted pleasing pictures. "Why should I not marry?" he mused. "Bachelor life is well enough in its way, but it can't compare with a snug house, and one's own dining-table, and a charming wife to drive away the occasional blue-devils. I have money put aside, and it won't be long till I'm making an easy twelve hundred a year. By Jove, I will--"

A noisy rap at the door interrupted Jack's train of thought, and brought him to his feet.

"Come in!" he cried, expecting to see Nevill.

But the visitor was a telegraph boy, bearing the familiar brown envelope. Jack signed for it, and tore open the message.

"Awfully seedy," Victor Nevill wired. "Sorry I can't get out to-night.

Am going to bed."

"No answer," said Jack, dismissing the boy. With his hands in his pockets he strolled undecidedly about the studio for a couple of minutes. "I hope nothing serious is the matter with Nevill," he reflected. "He's not the sort of a chap to go to bed unless he feels pretty bad. What shall I do now? I must be quick about it if I want to get any dinner in town. It's past eight, and--"

There was the sound of slow footsteps out in the pa.s.sage, followed by the nervous jingling of the electric bell.

"Who can that be?" Jack muttered.

He pulled a cord that turned the gas higher in the big circlet of jets overhead, and opened the door curiously. The man who entered the studio was a complete stranger, and it was certain that he was not an Englishman, if dress and appearance could decide that fact. He was very tall and well-built, with a handsome face, so deeply tanned as to suggest a recent residence in a tropical country. His mustaches were twisted into waxed points, and there was a good deal of gray in his beard, which was parted German fas.h.i.+on in the middle, and carefully brushed to each side. His top hat was unmistakably French, with a flat rim, and his boots were of patent leather. As he opened his long caped cloak, the collar of which he kept turned up, it was seen that he was in evening dress.

"Do I address Monsieur Vernon, the artist?" he asked in good English, with a French accent.

"Yes, that's right."

"Formerly Monsieur John Clare?"

"I once bore that name," said Jack, with a start of surprise; he was ill-pleased to hear it after so many years.

The visitor produced a card bearing the name of M. Felix Marchand, Parc Monceaux, Paris.

"I do not recall you," said Jack. "Will you take a seat."