LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OP 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO 
 
 THE GALIGNANI LIBRARY 
 
 Kngl & Ameri;. Books 
 
 PARIS. 224, r. de Rivoli 
 

Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/caviaregOOrichiala 
 
CAVIARE 
 
CAVIARE 
 
 BY 
 
 GRANT RICHARDS 
 
 ^ 
 
 LONDON 
 GRANT RICHARDS LTD. 
 
 1912 
 
First Printed, September 1912. 
 Reprinted, September 1912. 
 Rejrrinted (again), September 1912. 
 
TO 
 
 MRS CHARLES BEDDINGTON 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK I— PARIS AND A RAID 
 
 OHAP. 
 
 1. TERy SHOKT ; THE AMIABLE CHARLES IS INTRODXTOED 
 
 2. BOOTPAD GALLANTRY 
 
 3. IN WHICH A GOOD DINNER IS ORDERED AND EATEN 
 
 4. IN WHICH THE HEROINE APPEARS 
 
 5. IN WHICH TWO FRENCHMEN ARE TAUGHT A LESSON AND 
 
 CHARLES BEGINS TO CAPITULATE 
 
 6. IN WHICH THE CAPITULATION CONTINUES AND PLANS ARE MADE 
 
 7. QUITE A LONG CHAPTER, ENDING UP AT THE ABBAYE AND 
 
 WITH CHARLES SUCCOURING BEAUTY IN DISTRESS 
 
 8. IN WHICH THE LITTLE BLUE TURBAN APPEARS 
 
 9. STILL IN THE ABBAYE AND PASSING THE TIME 
 
 10. THE BEAUTIFUL VIEW FROM THE SACR^ CCEUR 
 
 11. THE RUE LEPIC, A TAXI-AUTO, AND REAL DRAMA . 
 
 12. IN WHICH MR GORHAM EXPLAINS .... 
 
 13. PERHAPS MISS GORHAM HAS PNEUMONIA 
 
 14. IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES DECLARES HIS SUIT 
 
 15. THE STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF MR GORHAM 
 
 16. A BEATING OF THE AIR 
 
 17. IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES AT LAST LEAVES PARIS 
 
 18. IN WHICH APPEARS SIR PETER BAIN, COLLECTOR OF PICTURES 
 
 19. A HOT BATH AT THE h6TEL DE PARIS . 
 
 20. IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES PREPARES FOR AN EN 
 
 COUNTER WITH THE GODDESS OF CHANCE . 
 
 21. COLD FEET 
 
 22. IN WHICH CHARLES DINES AND LETS I DARE NOT WAIT UPON 
 
 I WOULD 
 
 23. A LITTLE PLAY, BREAKFAST, AND A JUSTIFICATION OF CON 
 
 NOISSEURSHIP 
 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS 
 
 IN WHICH IS DEMONSTRATED THE DULNESS OF GAMBLING 
 
 AND AN AWFUL EXAMPLE IS EXHIBITED . 
 IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES GETS AWAY WITH IT"~ 
 27. IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES IS CARRIED TOWARDS 
 
 LONDON 
 
 24. 
 25. 
 
 26 
 
 PAQB 
 18 
 16 
 
 19 
 22 
 
 27 
 85 
 
 40 
 
 55 
 
 62 
 
 67 
 
 74 
 
 86 
 
 98 
 
 102 
 
 114 
 
 125 
 
 129 
 
 189 
 
 148 
 
 152 
 166 
 
 172 
 
 176 
 195 
 
 201 
 210 
 
 221 
 
CONTENTS 
 BOOK II— CRESCENT FORTUNE 
 
 CHAP. PAa£ 
 
 1. IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES OPENS HIS THREE BOXES . 229 
 
 2. MR PYEMAN— WHO ADVANCES NOTHING .... 234 
 
 3, IN WHICH THE " MAURETANIA" IS NOT DESCRIBED . . 240 
 
 4, IN WHICH THE AMAZEMENT OF THE AMIABLE CHARLES AT A 
 
 NEW YORK HOTEL IS NOT MADE ENOUGH OF . . . 244 
 6. DEAD MUSEUMS AND MILES OF MISERY 249 
 
 6. IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES TAKES HIS FIRST AMERICAN 
 
 COCKTAIL, AND A PERSON OF THE STORY REAPPEARS . 253 
 
 7. POOR HANDFUL OF BRIGHT SPRING-WATER .... 260 
 
 8. A LITTLE EXPLANATION 267 
 
 9. IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES PRESENTS HIS LETTER OF 
 
 INTRODUCTION AND GOES INTO WALL STREET . . . 272 
 
 10. IN WHICH THE LITTLE BLUE TURBAN PROVES HERSELF A 
 
 VERY MA8C0TTE 293 
 
 11. IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES HAS AN ENTIRELY NOVEL 
 
 SENSATION — AND ONE OF WHICH FEW OF US CAN BOAST . 299 
 
 12. IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES REFUSES TO HAVE HIS 
 
 BREAKFAST DISTURBED, AND ACCEPTS AN INVITATION TO 
 DINNER 305 
 
 13. in which the amiable charles receives a cable amp 
 
 celebrates a fictitious birthday by taking mr 
 capper to the waldorf .312 
 
 14. begins with a return to wall street, and ends in the 
 
 davison household 322 
 
 15. "oldmanpyle" 328 
 
 16. in which the amiable charles searches for the little 
 
 blue turban 335 
 
 17. in which a manet is bought, mr capper is pleased 
 
 and disappointed, and mr caeline gets charles's 
 privileges 341 
 
 18. in which the amiable charles finds mr gorham and 
 
 begins to unravel a very tangled skein . . . 350 
 
 19. in which the tangle is unravelled and the amiable 
 
 charles parts with five million dollars as if it 
 were half a croavn 359 
 
 20. happy love in the tuileries gardens .... 366 
 
 21. a clearing up 370 
 
 22. in which the amiable charles is told to forget restau- 
 
 rants, travel, new york, paris — and apparently 
 succeeds 376 
 
BOOK I 
 PARIS AND A RAID 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 VERY SHORT ; THK AMIABLE CHARLES IS INTRODUCED 
 
 THERE are people who like Paris even in the 
 winter. The Amiable Charles — nearly everyone 
 knew him as " the Amiable Charles,"" although his 
 letters were addressed to " The Hon. Charles Caerleon " — 
 was not one of them. It is true he preferred it to London, 
 but that was not saying much. London he hated nearly 
 all the time — disliked its muddiness, its pallid sun, its 
 fog. Perhaps — he was not quite sure — it was bearable in 
 October for a week : anyhow it had its uses then ; but it 
 was only pleasant for two days — one could never tell which 
 the days would be, unfortunately — in April, and, intermit- 
 tently, during May and June. And the worst of it was that 
 Paris, which he loved for many months in every year, was at 
 its best in May and June too. During those nine weeks 
 his was a divided allegiance. He would be in London for 
 the Derby, and in Paris for the Prix de Drags and the 
 Grand Prix ; then there were certain performances at the 
 Opera — in I^ondon, of course — which he could not miss ; 
 but he would have to run back to the Place Vendome for 
 some function, and then again to London because the 
 
14 CAVIARE 
 
 (vufs de pluviff were always inferior on the banks of the 
 
 Seine. Really he should have had a season ticket. 
 
 To-day, February 9th, 1912, the Amiable Charles was 
 in a state of mind that belied the epithet which the 
 affection, the observation, of his world had bestowed upon 
 him. For him, he was in a rage. Things had been going 
 badly for quite a long time. You cannot be amiable, not 
 really amiable, without a well-lined pocket and a snug 
 balance at your bank ; and you cannot, unless you are 
 either a worker or a millionaire, gain and keep the reputa- 
 tion of being amiable without in the long-run getting an 
 unpleasant reminder of the transitory nature of worldly 
 possessions. Messrs Coutts had sent him such a reminder, 
 and its presence in his pocket " didn't help matters any," 
 as they say in the States — not that I should quote the 
 language of that imperfectly civilised country in dealing 
 with Charles Caerleon, since if there was one country 
 the very idea of which he abominated it was New York. 
 You must not protest that New York is not a country. 
 What I am trying to do is to reproduce his habit of 
 mind : it was characteristic of him to think of America 
 as New York and of New York as America. 
 
 Charles was on his way South. To be exact, he was 
 on his way to Monte Carlo. For ten years it had been 
 his habit to go to Monte Carlo in the first week of 
 every February, and to stop in Monte Carlo until the 
 emptiness of hotel and restaurant told him more plainly 
 even than the calendar that Paris and London were 
 thinking again of their own beauties. But this was the 
 first year in which he had had to subject his person to the 
 discomfort of approaching Monte Carlo from the cold 
 
THE AMIABLE CHARLES IS INTRODUCED 15 
 North. His habit was to encounter winter in the farther 
 South — in Sicily, in Algiers, in Egypt — and then early in 
 January slowly to wend his way back to the white tables 
 and the green, to the little town where hecould sate his two 
 cold passions — his passion for romance, the romance of 
 which for him the symbols were the next season''s hats and 
 frocks, the fall of the cards, the roll of the ball ; and his 
 passion for the table, the white table, the white table 
 where he would sit by the hour and discuss wines and 
 salads and dishes with earnest vmitres (Fhotel, and where 
 sometimes — just often enough — he would capture the 
 rare feeling that he was not living in vain. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 FOOTPAD GALLANTRY 
 
 A ND being on his way South, the Amiable Charles 
 Zjk had thought it necessary to stop for a few 
 X JL. hours in Paris. Much as a woman might stop to 
 buy hats — and in the same place, the Rue de la Paix — 
 Charles Caerleon stopped to buy — shirts. Just as he held 
 that plovers' eggs and coats and the opera were best to 
 be had in London, so he held that the most attractive, the 
 most comfortable shirts were to be obtained in Paris. 
 And, being a person who had no reason to consider any 
 other taste than his own — I had forgotten to tell you, 
 although surely I had implied, that the Amiable Charles 
 was unmarried — the hosiers of Bond Street wooed his 
 custom in vain, and regularly twice a year he would spend 
 a couple of hours at a certain comer shop 
 
 But Charles was not to visit the haven of his taste 
 uninterrupted. He had left, I must tell you, his luggage 
 at the Gare du Nord with his man, who was to meet him 
 again later in the evening at the Gare de Lyon, first 
 dropping a suit-case for his master at the Chatham, where 
 Charles proposed to dress ; after that he would dine 
 
 i6 
 
FOOTPAD GALLANTRY ly 
 
 (but not at his hotel — oh, no !) * and then rejoin luggage 
 and man at the Lyons terminus. Now it was late in the 
 afternoon, the night drawing in, and he was wondering 
 whether he could properly order shirts in the electric 
 light, consoling himself the while with the thought that 
 after all, even should he stop till to-morrow, Paris might 
 wear one of those fogs which with her are becoming 
 almost as common as in London. 
 
 He had had an aperitif outside the Cafe de la Paix — 
 a vulgar custom and not a select place, but the corner 
 of the Place de TOpera was a habit with Charles, a habit 
 going back to his Eton days, when its very raffishness had 
 appealed to him — and now sauntered down the street, 
 looking first to the right and then to the left, wondering 
 vaguely where he should dine and what he should dine on, 
 more complacently now that for the moment he had for- 
 gotten Messrs Coutts's polite letter, a little troubled per- 
 haps — at the back of his mind — as to whether his coat 
 showed signs of his journey, but on the whole satisfied 
 with himself and with his world. At least he would enjoy 
 these evening hours even though they were to be followed 
 by the stuffy agonies of a packed wagon-lit^ and, later, 
 possibly to-morrow,an earnest consideration of a financial 
 position which it was never happy or convenient to con- 
 
 * Someone or other may suggest that this parenthesis rather dates 
 my book. Nowadays the Chatham has quite a good restaurant 
 as part of its ati pactions — or, counting its grill-room, a restaurant 
 and a half. But I shall let the sentence stand. You see, to stop in 
 a hotel and to dine out of it— well, that's a habit of life, of mind : 
 it betrays. It was Charles's way of seeking adventure — only culin- 
 ary adventure perhaps, but still there was always the possibility 
 of a new experience. 
 
 2 
 
i8 CAVIARE 
 
 sider. The thought of money came back to him thus, 
 but he repelled it, repelled it characteristically with the 
 sudden memory that at the Cafe des Trois Vertus — yes, 
 he would dine there — was a certain claret 
 
 !!....? 
 
 " / beg your pardon, sir. I am very sorry. It was my 
 fault entirely." 
 
 It was Charles's pardon which was being begged — and 
 well it might be. A large American — oh ! obviously an 
 American — large in every way, large in his clothes, 
 large in his double chin, pink-faced and glowing, white- 
 haired but with a vigour of action and appearance which 
 belied the white hair, turning to look appreciatively at 
 the lines and provocative carriage of a modiste whom a 
 porte cochere had just given to his view, had walked into 
 our hero, walked sideways into him, and had as nearly 
 knocked him down as would be seemly at so fashionable 
 an hour in so fashionable a thoroughfare. Had he been 
 entirely felled, Charles's equanimity would hardly have 
 recovered. Fortunately, his hat alone had touched the 
 ground, and had suffered little. It was handed him at once 
 by a prompt and sympathetic porter, so that he couldafFord 
 to smile at the stranger and put him at his ease with an 
 assurance that no harm had been done. The encounter 
 was at an end : the American passed on, more discreet in 
 his gait, and Charles continued his stroll, considering 
 vanity. Gallantry and white hair went ill together, he 
 thought. . . . But then, fortunately placed himself, with 
 the health of thirty-three well-cared-for years, always 
 attractive and nearly always successful, Charles had little 
 tolerance for, no sympathy with,, footpad gallantry. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 IN WHICH A GOOD DINNEE IS ORDERED AND EATEN 
 
 CHARLES, bound as he thought by the necessity 
 of catching the train to the South, arrived be- 
 times at the restaurant he had chosen. As the 
 door revolved and he reached its warm and smiling 
 interior, two mattres d'hotel, recognising him with a flush 
 that might pass for pleasure, came forward competing for 
 his custom. Charles always treated waiters well. It was 
 his policy. They always, in consequence, remembered 
 him — remembered him in the least likely places. Once 
 he had attended, at the request of his sister-in-law, a mis- 
 sionary reception where a cold collation was to be pro- 
 vided for the delegates from Balham, Darlington, and the 
 other sources of missionary effort. Charles, protesting, 
 was ordered to eat as an encouragement to the others — 
 and to his surprise he ate well : he was being looked after, 
 he afterwards discovered, by a waiter who had served him 
 in Rome. Once even he had secured a good meal at a Liver- 
 pool railway hotel because the maitre d'hotel knew his 
 taste from an acquaintance begun at Monte Carlo and 
 continued in Paris. 
 
ao CAVIARE 
 
 The Caf(^ des Trois Vertus is divided in two. One enters 
 at the apex of a triangle : one side is for the world, the 
 other for the half world — or so it is said. One need 
 not ask which side is the most chic^ the most desired. 
 Generally Charles, either to avoid his compatriots, or 
 to feed his romantic liking for large hats and pretty 
 gowns, chose the right. Had he done so to-day this 
 romance would never have been written — or it would have 
 had an entirely different plot. He chose the left on this 
 evening for two reasons : that being in a hurry, or what 
 for him, who never hastened, was a hurry, he felt that 
 all his attention must be given to plate and glass, and 
 that he had a slight preference for its head-waiter, the 
 impeccable Claude. And so, surrendering his coat and 
 hat to the brisk, black-garbed young lady of the cloak- 
 room, he sat himself near the door, and, glancing round 
 the still empty restaurant, turned to the carte and the 
 choice of his dinner. 
 
 Shall I bore you if I tell you what he ordered ? Six 
 marennes vertes, potage Jubilee (which he liked for its 
 delicate liaison of pea soup andcow-somwe), sole WalewsJca, 
 tournedos Rossini^ a quail en chemise, an artichoke, and 
 coffee. It was a meal of no particular distinction, but 
 Claude took the order as if its choice had really im- 
 pressed him. So the successful maitre d'hotel makes him- 
 self! 
 
 Then the sommelier : " Monsieur desire k meme vin ? " 
 
 " Oui, August,"" — and August knew that if the Haut 
 Brion came well to the table there would be a special two 
 francs for his own pocket. 
 
 The meal proceeded with leisurely order. Charles's one 
 
A GOOD DINNER 3i 
 
 eye watched the revolving door, to recognise here and 
 there an acquaintance of last year, or to judge of the 
 success of next season's fashions ; the other watched the 
 clock. He need not hurry — there would be time and 
 to spare for a fine de la maison and a cigar. 
 
 And it was this uninspiring moment that Fate chose 
 for the introduction into Charles's life of the flush of 
 real romance. To him, sunk for the time in material 
 joys, caring nothing for the spirit, appears the heroine 
 of this story. 
 
CHAFfER IV 
 
 IN WHICH THE HEEOINE APPEARS 
 
 MY chapters are — I know it — very short, but on 
 that fateful evening Charles''s moods were 
 short, his movements a little hastened, the 
 wheels turned swiftly. There was time, he thought, for 
 contemplation. Little he knew. Andlittle at the moment 
 — or at any moment, for the matter of that — did he reck 
 of the future. 
 
 Once more the door revolved. Charles looked up. A 
 coincidence. Here was his American of the afternoon, 
 still pink, still vigorous, dressed for the evening with that 
 florid good taste which Fifth Avenue demands. He was 
 followed by a lady, and Charles turned his head an eighth 
 of an inch to see of what stuff she might be made. Few 
 damsels came Charles's way without being subjects of that 
 careful, appraising, yet not disrespectful scrutiny. Few 
 resented it — least of all when the glance was continued 
 or repeated. Charles in his own turn would think always 
 that his gaze was unobserved — but, isn"'t it true that for 
 such matters women have eyes at the back of their heads ? 
 The American''s companion was a lady. That took 
 
THE HEROINE APPEARS 23 
 
 Charles but a second to decide. And in the same second 
 he knew that she was pretty — yes, very pretty. Later he 
 came to know that she was beautiful, lovely — but these 
 were qualities that he had learned to attribute slowly. 
 Women are deceptive. For the moment he satisfied him- 
 self with thinking that she was young, perhaps twenty- 
 two, that she was good, and that she was pretty. 
 
 I will attempt to describe her to you — if for no other 
 reason than because it will prove to you that I who write 
 am no woman masquerading under masculine pseudonym. 
 A small head set well on shoulders that uncovered for the 
 evening would surely be slim, graceful, and finely drawn. 
 Hair of a darkish brown, caught up too loosely to be 
 fashionable, a little wayward perhaps, ample, rippling 
 naturally (Charles thought) under the broad brim of a 
 hat whose one black feather betrayed no Transatlantic 
 origin. Her figure, taller than the average, was slender, 
 with waist hinted at rather than expressed under dress 
 of white lace — a dress cut to the moment of fashion 
 but lacking those provocative, insistent graces that mark 
 the costume of the young Parisienne who frequents the 
 modish restaurant : in other words, it had been made for 
 a lady. From her neck hung a string of pearls — superb 
 pearls, Charles said to himself at once — to where white 
 roses lay beneath her bosom. I must content myself with 
 adding that her little feet were shod with white, and that 
 white gloves could not hide the smallness of her hands nor 
 their long grace. 
 
 And now her face. Charles, who realised at once that 
 she, too, was an American, congratulated himself — in 
 after years he never could make up his mind why his 
 
94 CAVIARE 
 
 thoughts had taken so instantly that form — that it was 
 neither unduly yellow — so many American faces are 
 yellow to sallowness — nor too rudely rosy. Blue eyes, 
 whose lurking laughter corrected a rather serious fore- 
 head, looked out from under lashes whose length and 
 regularity would have made the reputation of a far more 
 modest beauty. Her skin looked firm and soft and fine, 
 and where it curved out over her cheek-bones its colour 
 was of a rose-pink, transparent — exquisite was Charles's 
 word. And there to the best of my poor masculine ability 
 you have my heroine, Celia Alison Gorham. 
 
 The American recognised Charles and flushed, bowing 
 slightly. A table had been kept for him on the other side 
 from where Charles sat, so that as he smoked and sipped 
 his coffee he could watch the pair, wonder who they 
 were, and continue to admire the soft, appealing beauty 
 of the young girl, who seemed, he could not help think- 
 ing, a little out of place in these surroundings, a little 
 as if a wild rose had strayed by some accident into a 
 hothouse. 
 
 Let me pause to explain. Charles's character had 
 many sides, apparently contradictory sides. It chanced, 
 now and then, that one knowing this side of him or that 
 would swear some other had no existence save in the 
 imagination of the critic. It was not that he was pro- 
 found. Far from it. He was simple. But because he 
 was not profound, because he was simple and, harmlessly, 
 selfish, and because most of the time he was absorbed in 
 his own affairs, and the affairs of his not very important 
 
THE HEROINE APPEARS 25 
 
 friends, and his own clothes, and his own sensations, and 
 
 his own intellectual interests — the order is intentional — 
 
 because, in fact, he was himself and not another — because 
 
 of all this his separate friends came near to quarrelling 
 
 about the manner of man he was. He was in truth the 
 
 man that his education, the tastes of his first mentors, 
 
 and his patrimony, modest and yet sufficient — sufficient 
 
 had he only been a little more discreet, — had made him. 
 
 No, not very satisfactory — except to his intimates, to 
 
 whom he was loyal, and to himself, to whom he seldom 
 
 caused disquiet, his conscience being asleep as yet, and 
 
 his digestion being, as far as he knew, non-existent. For 
 
 the rest, he was " good-looking " in the best English way ; 
 
 healthy-looking, too, with more than a hint of pink in 
 
 his cheeks, and with clear, untroubled eyes. Good food 
 
 and good wine — partaken neither of them in too prodigal 
 
 a fashion — do little harm to the candid young. And 
 
 Charles still reckoned himself young, still cared to walk 
 
 and to swim, and was still able to sleep o' nights. 
 
 And as he sat in the Cafe des Trois Vertus his mind 
 wandered this way and that, sensuously rather than 
 happily, pleased rather than glad, satisfied rather than 
 joyful. He thought at one moment of the dark murk of 
 the London he had that morning left, of the depres- 
 sion that the drawing of the winter curtains day after 
 day in his flat in Mount Street brought to him, and 
 at the next, by contrast, of what he expected to find 
 when he pushed aside the blind of his sleeping com- 
 partment on the next morning under the Esterel. Then 
 his errant thoughts wandered back to the claret he had 
 
36 CAVIARE 
 
 drunk, and he wondered if it was worth while to ask the 
 sommelier if there was much of it, and he remembered 
 that rather than Bordeaux he should have drunk Burgundy 
 this evening, since there was no Burgundy worthy of the 
 name on the Cote d'Azur. Why was Burgundy so good 
 in Belgium ? That clubbing together of the Flemish 
 bourgeois explained it all, he thought. Then back his 
 mind came to the table opposite him, and he watched 
 through discreet eyes the flush of interest come and pass, 
 come and pass over the cheeks of the lady who had 
 attracted him, imagined subjects for her conversation, 
 asked himself — a favourite habit this when feminine 
 youth pleased him — what her mother was like. . . . 
 
 And so the hour passed, and Charles looking at his 
 watch called for his bill, and as he called, glancing after 
 the retreating waiter, he observed something 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 IN WHICH TWO FRENCHMEN ARK TAUGHT A LESSON AND 
 CHARLES BEGINS TO CAPITULATE 
 
 WHAT Charles saw happens not once or twice 
 but all the time in that Paris or, not to be too 
 particular, in that whole world, which finds its 
 pleasure, its pastime, in public. One cannot sit in a res- 
 taurant or in a theatre and expect the reserve and reticence 
 of private life. One is looked at, criticised, appraised. 
 A woman : her age, her looks, her virtue, her frock, her 
 jewels — all are discussed. A man : someone, be it only the 
 head-waiter,looksanddecides — decides all sorts of things : 
 whether you will be worth special attention with a view 
 to the future, with the idea of turning you into a client de 
 la maison ; whether your clothes indicate the ability to 
 pay such a bill as should be prepared ; whether you are 
 English or German or a rich Brazilian. Sit alone in the 
 nearer stalls of the theatre of folly and the appraisement 
 is based on the same values. All, or most, of these charm- 
 ing young ladies who posture and prance in the first and 
 second row of the chorus wonder for which of them you 
 
 sit there, to which of them you aspire. . . . 
 
 27 
 
a8 CAVIARE 
 
 So what Charles saw was not unusual, not to be wondered 
 at, not indeed, all things considered, a thing in such a 
 place to raise the ire of the average man. He had seen 
 such things before — oh ! often — and his blood had not 
 boiled. Rather — sometimes — had he been amused, in- 
 terested. But this time wasdifferent — altogetherdifferent, 
 Charles would have said to himself if he had stopped to 
 think. But he did not stop to think — and so the mischief 
 began. But first let me tell you what he did see, or rather 
 what he saw and heard. His table was near the comer of 
 the restaurant, the next did occupy the comer, and next 
 to it, at right angles to his own, sat two Frenchmen side 
 by side, raking the room with their glances. They were fat, 
 heavy-coloured, wearing moustaches that looked as if they 
 had been stuck on after their faces had been shaved and 
 reshaved and oiled. The blue of beards that would not be 
 repressed shone through the flesh of their heavy jowls. 
 Unlike in everything but unessentials, they still appeared 
 as if they had come from the same mould. Both, of course, 
 wore evening-dress and soft-fronted shirts, and one had 
 a velvet collar to his coat. I wonder if such men are not 
 nature''s homage to art. Rossetti and Burne Jones drew 
 and painted, and lo ! drawing-rooms of West Kensington 
 and Fulham were filled with full-lipped, large-throated 
 damsels. So now do Augustus John and Henry Lamb 
 alter the feminine young of Chelsea. Perhaps if Albert 
 Guillaume had never drawn, France might have been saved 
 such men as Charles now watched. He had seen them look 
 at each newcomer, had imagined rather than heard their 
 comments. For a moment between two sticks of asperges 
 Lauris they had discussed him. He paid no attention. 
 
TWO FRENCHMEN ARE TAUGHT A LESSON 29 
 He did not set up to be particular, but the type dis- 
 pleased him. Now, however, they had found something 
 more to their fancy than a young Englishman. They had 
 seen and were discussing the young girl who was with 
 Charles's American, discussing her with that ingenuous 
 lack of concealment which Frenchmen affect. She would 
 not have heard, but had she looked up she would have 
 seen. Fortunately, however, her companion andamacddoine 
 de fruits held her attention. Anyhow, Charles thought, 
 she was a child and would not have understood. 
 
 There is a type of Parisian who prides himself on his 
 enterprise — enterprise, be sure, exercised almost invari- 
 ably in one direction. Unhappily, the men whom Charles 
 watched were of this type. It is a defect of a quality that 
 the Latin cannot always distinguish between a gentleman 
 and a cad ; and, more, that one cannot always tell with 
 convenient readiness whether a Latin himself is a gentle- 
 man or a cad. The distinction is drawn far less sharply 
 in France and in Italy than in England. One supposes 
 that it is a result of a looser social system, of grades less 
 clearly defined, of castes less in number and yet merging 
 more naturally the one into the other. On the other 
 hand, in France or in Italy it is generally easy enough 
 to tell immediately that a lady is a lady and not a demi- 
 mondaine ; seldom, if ever, would a Frenchman make a 
 mistake about a countrywoman of his own. So, too, can 
 he tell generally that a woman is at heart virtuous, un- 
 approachable. But when he comes to consider the woman 
 of England or of the United States he is at sea. Largely it 
 is her own fault. Her clothes have often that note of ex- 
 travagance which he does not associate with the femme 
 
30 CAVIARE 
 
 dM monde ; and her very frankness, her courage, deceives 
 
 him. 
 
 The Frenchmen continued to look, and they continued 
 to talk and to appraise. Suddenly one drew a gold- 
 mounted letter-case from his pocket and took out a card. 
 Writing on it a few words, he called a maitre d'hote! with 
 whom evidently he was on terms. I confess that Charles, 
 scenting what was to happen, attempted to listen to what 
 passed. The maitre d'hofel was discretion itself: he did not 
 turn as one less used to such traffic might have done ; but 
 Charles caught a glance directed at the reflection of the 
 American and his companion in the looking-glass. Such 
 readiness is a French birthright. 
 
 " Oui, monsieur,"" he answered, " parfaitement.'''' 
 A minute passed, and Charles, hoping he was mistaken, 
 saw his American call for and pay his bill, and rise. For 
 a moment he and his companion waited for their cloaks. 
 As the man was helped into his by the woman of the cloak- 
 room and fumbled for a franc, the maitre dhotel covered 
 the shoulders of the lady and, as he did so, slipped quietly 
 into her hand the card he had been given. Now that it 
 had happened as he had expected, Charles could hold 
 himself hardly at all. Jumping to his feet he crossed the 
 restaurant quickly and touched the American on the 
 shoulder. What he was going to say he hardly knew ; all 
 he did know was that this girl, this lady, should be pro- 
 tected from such an insult as was offered her, and that she 
 must be protected without a scene. Her very innocence 
 saved her, however. Not looking at the card, she passed 
 it to her father just as he realised that Charles was 
 speaking to him. 
 
TWO FRENCHMEN ARE TAUGHT A LESSON 31 
 
 "Poppa" [Let the English reader scofF; but even the 
 word " Poppa " from red, fall, youthful lips has charms 
 which the printed letters could never convey] " Poppa, 
 this waiter has given me this : for you evidently, or in 
 mistake." 
 
 " One second, dear" — and then to Charles : " I am glad, 
 sir, to have this second opportunity of apolo " 
 
 " No, sir ; it is not of that I want to speak. The maitre 
 (Fhotel here has made a mistake. Your daughter has been 
 given something which is not for her. Will you take it 
 from her now at once ? I will explain afterwards if you 
 will allow me." 
 
 The American turned again to his daughter and took 
 the card she held out and glanced at it. At once his hair 
 seemed to bristle ; thunder descended on his brow ; for a 
 moment, so rapid was the flow of deep red blood to his 
 face, Charles feared he would have a fit ; his jowl 
 hardened : sometime primitive surged up . . . and then 
 suddenly he calmed, turning to Charles and addressing 
 him as if nothing had occurred to shake his equanimity : 
 " Thank you, sir ; I am deeply obliged to you. Perhaps 
 you will add to your kindness by taking my daughter to 
 our car. Alison, this gentleman will look after you for 
 one minute." 
 
 And Charles had to go, had no choice, although he 
 would have given all he had at that moment to have sent 
 the child off with her father and himself have waited. 
 That, however, was impossible. Above all, a scene must 
 be avoided, or even argument, till she was safe outside the 
 restaurant. He had no right to interfere further ; and 
 unless her father's rage, only damped back momentarily, 
 
32 CAVIARE 
 
 Charles was sure, did bring on a fit, there was no danger 
 for him. Such people as these Guillaumesque Frenchmen 
 were not dangerous — not dangerous, certainly, to an 
 Englishman or an American. But, as he escorted his 
 charge through the revolving door and installed her in 
 the waiting coupe^ Charles thought furiously, and longed 
 to icnow what was happening. 
 
 Not at once did he learn. Three minutes passed and 
 the door revolved again and the American was to be seen, 
 being bowed out as if nothing had happened or could 
 have happened. And Charles almost thought that 
 nothing could have happened. But, glancing down by 
 accident at the strong hand that turned the handle of the 
 carriage door, he saw that its knuckles were bruised and 
 marked with blood, that the skin was broken. It was 
 clear, though, that whatever had happened had happened 
 in some seemly manner. The Americano's knuckles might 
 have suffered, but his equanimity remained undisturbed. 
 His voice was unshaken as he turned to Charles : 
 
 " Sir, I should like to know to whom I have cause to be 
 grateful. Thankyou. And you will let me give you my card. 
 Weare stopping,my daughter and I, at the Meurice. May 
 we hope to see you again ? Alison, my dear, Mr Caerleon 
 has placed me under a great obligation — No, nothing 
 you'd understand, just now, at all events. Why not ask 
 Mr Caerleon to have lunch with us to-morrow ? Could 
 you come, Mr Caerleon ? At half-past twelve ? Do try. 
 I have an idea I knew an uncle of yours, Lord Bodmin — 
 a regular sport he was — some years ago out West." 
 
 Of course Charles couldn't accept. His train would by 
 midday to-morrow have landed him at Monte Carlo. In- 
 
TWO FRENCHMEN ARE TAUGHT A LESSON 33 
 deed, there was only just time for him to catch it. Still, 
 he was a quick thinker. That reputation he had earned, 
 and deserved, at school. 
 
 " Thank you, Miss Gorham ; I shall be delighted. I 
 shall look forward to half-past twelve to-morrow," and 
 closing the coupe door, he stepped back, and went again 
 into the restaurant to pay his bill and to get his coat. 
 
 There were still such signs of riot as the hustling 
 waiters had not time to remove. A table was overturned ; 
 an ice-pail lay on the floor, its contents and those of a 
 bottle of champagne mingling together in a dirty puddle ; 
 a tablecloth with red stains was being folded quickly by 
 a waiter, who deserved praise for doing an unusual thing 
 with the air of its being a daily custom. He, too, was not 
 to be disturbed. The two ignoble warriors were nowhere 
 to be seen. Charles addressed himself to the maitre 
 d'hote!. 
 
 " Ask for my bill at once,"" he said, " I am in a hurry ; and 
 my coat and hat, too, quickly. And now, you, my friend, 
 it seems you have been let off. I've a good mind to give 
 you a hiding myself. What do you mean by insulting an 
 Englishwoman .? ■" (Charles, it will be noticed, already 
 thought of Miss Gorham as an Englishwoman !) " What 
 do you mean by not knowing a lady when you see her ? 
 IVe a good mind to have you turned out of your job " — 
 and Charles did not speak at random, ^he patron valued 
 his custom too highly to keep a servant who had made 
 a mistake of that kind if he could please his customer by 
 dismissing him. " But, after all, what's the use ? " thought 
 Charles. " The poor devil only acted according to his 
 kind." And the " poor devil's" reply almost amused him : 
 
 3 
 
34 CAVIARE 
 
 " I am very sorry, monsieur. I made a mistake. I did 
 not know. Never have I made such a mistake before. 
 How could I tell ? I did what I was told. Another time 
 
 I shall be more careful "" Charles picked up his change 
 
 and, turning on his heel, left him still protesting. 
 
 Evidently there was to be no railway journey that 
 night. The blue eyes of Miss Alison Gorham were for 
 the moment more attractive than the azure skies of the 
 South. Charles had thought quickly, but now he did 
 not think honestly nor proudly. Perhaps he was a little 
 ashamed of himself. Anyhow, he must hurry — yes, per- 
 haps there was just time — to the Gare de Lyon and stop 
 his man and rescue his luggage, or such of it as had not 
 been booked through to Monte Carlo. For a moment, as 
 he stepped into the taxi-auto,he thought that he had been 
 a fool and that he would catch his train and would 
 telegraph his regrets from Marseilles. After all, for what 
 should he stop in Paris .'* He had received Mr Gorham''s 
 thanks. What more could follow ? And yet he knew that 
 he would stop in Paris, and that — well, he would for the 
 moment make no more plans. 
 
CHAPTER VT 
 
 IN WHICH THE CAPITULATION CONTINUES AND PLANS 
 ARE MADE 
 
 THE MEURICE is a nice amiable hotel, and 
 Charles was in a nice amiable mood when he 
 arrived there sharp to the hour the next morn- 
 ing. The Parisian sky was blue and there was neither wind 
 nor fog. Such days in February are rare, rarer in London 
 than in Paris, less rare in New York than in Europe. 
 But they do happen. And when they happen they are 
 days on which one is destined to do divinely foolish things, 
 to err wisely, to make love with indiscretion, to sin with 
 forgiveness. All Charles"'s doubts had vanished with the 
 night. Sleep brings prudence, but sleep on the night 
 that had passed had given him no fresh misgivings. Since 
 when had he slept so long in Paris .? Since when, indeed ? 
 Rather his habit had been to dine and to linger, and then 
 if it were too late for the play — and it usually was unless 
 the dinner was bad ! — to visit a music-hall of the outer 
 boulevards, to visit afterwards this restaurant or that (or 
 both). . . . The very thought of such a tour had nause- 
 ated him when he had failed by one minute to retrieve 
 
36 CAVIARE 
 
 his hand baggage at the Gare de Lyon on the previous 
 
 evening. He had returned to the Chatham — and he had 
 
 slept. 
 
 And now as he turned into the Meurice Charles 
 thought only of his hostess. Truth to tell, he had 
 thought only of her ever since he had tumbled from his 
 warm bed into his English cold bath. Even perhaps he 
 had dreamed of her, and of impossibly ugly Frenchmen, 
 and of damaged heads, and of . . . No, his dreams 
 had been a medley from which it is only possible to re- 
 capture one thing clearly, the curiously haunting blue 
 eyes of Miss Gorham. 
 
 That charming young lady was not in the hotel to 
 receive him. Her father was — and for a troubled 
 moment Charles feared that the meal was to be a 
 bachelor one. But it appeared that Miss Gorham was 
 out shopping and should have been back half an hour 
 ago. Her father couldn't imagine (although the same 
 thing had happened nearly every day since he had seri- 
 ously noticed her existence) what could have occurred. 
 It was such a pity, he said. He had impressed on the 
 manager the necessity of having a good lunch, and had 
 said it was to be ready exactly at half-past twelve. 
 Now what would happen to the homard a la Newburg ? 
 Damn the homard a la Newburg, Charles said to him- 
 self; and anyhow, why order lobster in Paris when they 
 could give you crayfish .'' And while the father talked 
 — prattled rather, if you can speak of so gorgeous a 
 mountain of flesh prattling — and while Charles chafed, 
 Miss Gorham arrived — arrived radiant, far more attrac- 
 tive in appearance, Charles thought, even than she had 
 
THE CAPITULATION CONTINUES 37 
 
 been last night. Personally I don't consider he was in 
 a fit case to decide. But there is no doubt that Celia 
 Alison Gorham did arrive radiant. Everyone thought so, 
 and showed that they thought so — from the manager of 
 the hotel, who chanced to be in the hall, to the page- 
 boy who swung round and round the murderous door. 
 Sunshine entered with her. 
 
 Each of the three was just a little shy. Presumably 
 her father had explained to Miss Gorham something of 
 what had occurred on the previous evening. It wasn''t 
 exactly a thing on which a well-brought-up yoimg 
 woman could enlarge, but she looked her clear if rather 
 embarrassed gratitude. " Poppa " was franker in a more 
 confused way. He treated Charles as an old friend, 
 almost as a friend of the family. Soon Charles began to 
 know where he was, or rather he began to know Avhere 
 to place the Gorham family. Philadelphia. Mr Gorham 
 was — well, he had been in trade ; exactly what trade 
 wasn't specified : it didn"'t matter. Now he was in 
 street-railroads. Charles caught at vague reminiscences 
 of articles in M'^Clures Magazine (A rotten place, 
 America, but why don't we have magazines like that .'') 
 all about five-cent fares and Wail Street robber-barons 
 and Widener and Elkins and franchises — but his 
 memories weren't clear. What was clear, however, was 
 that, however vicious had been the beginnings, the public 
 over there had condoned the results. It might have been 
 wicked to have made your money in street-railroads, 
 but as long as you stuck to it, well, you were all right. 
 That hasty consideration fitted Mr Gorham. More 
 could not have been expected of Charles — or of any- 
 
38 CAVIARE 
 
 one else, English or American, for the matter of that. 
 
 Mr Gorham might have made his money honestly. 
 
 You could see that things of that sort never entered 
 the daughter"'s head. She drew her money — and spent it. 
 A charming habit, and one not confined to the young 
 ladies of America, Where the money came from was not 
 her business. And anyhow, she spent it well. On herself 
 largely — oh ! with such success : her dress to-day, tailor- 
 made, severe, was a dream — but also, it was clear as she 
 talked, on others when she had the time. She had 
 interests : she could talk about Matisse and about 
 Masaccio, about St Germain and Richmond, about 
 Marie Corelli and John Galsworthy and Arthur Stringer. 
 I am not eating their lunch, but I can see them eating 
 it : it has gone to my head ; I can hear what they all 
 say — and, well, the truth is that Miss Gorham was really 
 and truly a peach. 
 
 If anyone had told Charles after his luncheon that his 
 hostess was a peach he would have been indignant at the 
 combined famiharity and vulgarity. He would have 
 jibbed, quite rightly, at the word, but, if he had stopped 
 to reason candidly with himself, he would have confessed 
 that although the word was offensive the sense was correct 
 enough. He did enjoy himself. He forgot all about the 
 Riviera, and suddenly, and to his own surprise, as he 
 drank black coffee, sipped '48 cognac, and smoked one 
 of those long, slim, black cigars particularly affected by 
 boys and Brazilians, he heard his own voice suggesting 
 to Mr Gorham that he and his daughter should, if they 
 had nothing else to do, dine with him that night at 
 Durand's and go to the play. Charles had the clothes he 
 
THE CAPITULATION CONTINUES 39 
 
 was standing up in, and he had his dress-clothes, but all 
 the rest of his luggage was by now on that arid Monte 
 Carlo station crying out to be claimed. Nothing of that 
 sort worried him, though. He was caught in the mesh of 
 a new happiness, something different, and, luggage or no 
 luggage, he was stopping where he was. 
 
 " What do you think, Alison dear ? Can we accept 
 Mr Caerleon's invitation .'' It would be very nice, but 
 what was it you asked me to show you ^ Didn''t you 
 want me to take you to a music-hall and to supper at 
 the Abbaye de Theleme ? That wouldn't fit in exactly, 
 would it .? "" 
 
 Charles saw through the disingenuousness of that foot- 
 pad gallant, Alison's " Poppa.'" In the first place, his 
 French wouldn't carry him through a French play ; in 
 the second, the theatre would mean an early and 
 hurried dinner ; in the third, he wanted to go to the 
 Folies Bergeres and to the Abbaye. Charles thought 
 it likely (and he was right) that Miss Gorham had hardly 
 even heard of either tumultuous and questionable joy. 
 Truth was that Mr Gorham was one of those timorous 
 viveurs who wish to "live" but who dare not, who 
 investigate their pleasures with all their women-folk 
 they can summon round them. I don't think much of 
 taking one's wife on a tour of the boites of Montmartre 
 — but one's daughter at twenty-two ! Still, it's done I 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 QUITE A LONG CHAPTER, ENDING UP AT THE ABBA YE AND 
 WITH CHARLBS SUCCOURING BEAUTY IN DISTRESS 
 
 THERE are so many Americans in Paris that one 
 can hardly avoid writing of the place in diluted 
 Americanese, so I may as well make no bones 
 about saying that the fact that Mr Gorham had or 
 affected to have other plans for the evening didn't trouble 
 Charles any. Things could be fixed. And they were. Of 
 course it had been stupid of him to have asked them 
 to dine at Durand's. That admirable and admirably 
 discreet restaurant was no more. They were to dine with 
 him over the way at Larue''s, and then to go to a com- 
 promise in the way of theatres — one of the new little 
 theatres where half a dozen one-act plays enabled one to 
 choose one's own hour of arrival. Charles for a wonder 
 hadn't been in Paris for several months, and so, when Mr 
 Gorham said that someone had told him of the Theatre 
 Moderne, the maitre (Thotel was appealed to. " Yes,*" 
 he said, " it is still open." One has to be sure of one's 
 bearings with these theatrical enterprises. They spring 
 up like mushrooms overnight and disappear as quickly. 
 
THE ABBAYE, WITH BEAUTY IN DISTRESS 41 
 This one, however, seemed to have come to stay, and 
 Charles secured a loge. Afterwards — well, afterwards 
 should look after itself. He hoped that if Poppa was so 
 set on the Mountain they might bring Miss Gorham 
 home first. Charles, like all young rakes, was all agin 
 taking young ladies to such places. 
 
 Dinner at Larue's was good, Muscovite, amusing and 
 expensive. All that I need say is that Charles im- 
 proved the occasion with Miss Gorham, and that he won 
 the golden opinions of her father with the food and wines 
 that he had ordered. Such knowledge was second nature 
 with him. He was to feel at fault later ! 
 
 I wonder whether any of you who read this book have 
 visited the Theatre Moderne, and whether as you 
 entered it you realised what a warren it was, and what 
 would be your fate if it caught fire. This possibility 
 really did take Charles by the throat, as he went up the 
 narrow stairs, surrendered his party's hats and cloaks, and 
 went into that tiny hall where strapontins effectually 
 blocked every passage and where there were certainly 
 twice as many people as there was proper room for. But 
 I must hurry over this episode. For years when Charles 
 thought of it his flesh would creep, the blood would 
 crowd into his face. What had he brought them to .? 
 Too much he was embarrassed even to remember that 
 the suggestion of the Theatre Moderne was not his, that, 
 indeed, he had told his guests that he knew nothing about 
 it. But still, they were his guests. There was no getting 
 away from that. And already, too, he was beginning to 
 feel that he was intended by fate to protect Alison 
 
42 CAVIARE 
 
 Gorham from her father"'s carelessness. Heaven send she 
 didn*'t understand ! No such luck, he feared : a young 
 woman who knew the ideas of Paris as she had shown at 
 lunch that she knew them, who knew the rue Lafitte as 
 well as she knew the rue de la Paix, who admired Picasso 
 and chattered about Colette Willy. . . . There is some- 
 thing disarming and wonderful about a young girl's dis- 
 ingenuousness. Isn't it Una that she reminds one of now 
 and then ? But still, he didn't dare look at her . . . 
 and from that day to this he has never dared to ask. 
 As for Mr Gorham, well, Mr Gorham slept. 
 
 And ultimately they emerged — safe,Charlessaidtohim- 
 self, safe, thank Heaven ! His vivid imagination pictured 
 the effect of a fire. The staircase would have become a 
 pit such as that into which they drive wild animals ; 
 that window giving on the gallery would be broken 
 down and the crowd would shoot out of it to pile into 
 a heap of broken bodies on the floor beneath. And yet, 
 Paris prided herself on her civilisation ! 
 
 Now, of course, Mr Gorham was awake. Now he was 
 to take charge of the evening. It was to be his call now. 
 You could see that everything that had gone before, in- 
 cluding his sleep in the theatre, was mere preparation for 
 the serious business of nocturnal enjoyment. And he 
 had only just returned to Paris from New York, after 
 a strenuous, fighting autumn, an autumn in which, he 
 proudly told Charles, he'd succeeded in rounding up his 
 enemies, had given them the little end of the horn. 
 Charles began to think he wouldn't persist in his pro- 
 gramme of taking Alison — yes, I'm afraid now if I'm to 
 be honest I must drop ceremony : Charles did so, in his 
 
THE ABBAYE, WITH BEAUTY IN DISTRESS 43 
 mind at least — to the Mountain. But habit was too 
 strong. It was evident that father and daughter did most 
 things in common, and although there were signs that Mr 
 Gorham wouldn't have objected if she had said she wanted 
 to go home, he hadn't the strength of mind to suggest it 
 openly. Really all that he had wanted was a companion, 
 some kind of companion, and since he had Charles his 
 daughter would no doubt be better in bed. He even went 
 to the length of asking her if she wasn't tired. Can she be 
 blamed if she answered " No " ? After all, she, too, was 
 pleased to have a second escort. She didn't know that the 
 whole excursion was distasteful to him — or if she knew 
 she didn't show it. 
 
 Charles had been a little wicked. Hoping that the 
 Mountain part of the programme would be abandoned, 
 he had also another string to his bow. It was Saturday 
 and it wasn't likely there'd be a table at the Abbaye. And 
 if there wasn't a table they couldn't stop, and if they 
 couldn't stop they'd go home — and then he could make 
 some more seemly plan for the next day. Of course if he'd 
 played fair with Mr Gorham he'd have told him, or would 
 have offered, to telephone for a table. That would have 
 made sure. 
 
 The Cerberus who guards the iron portals in the Place 
 Pigalle recognised Charles, touched his hat and admitted 
 the party without question. The entrance was flanked 
 with the horrid denizens of the Quarter. " My, but that 
 one's a peach ! " is the translation into a kind of English 
 of what Charles heard as Miss Gorham passed over the 
 threshold. Some people were not even being allowed to 
 enter. At another time Charles would have found reason 
 
44 CAVIARE 
 
 for real, if rather unkind, pleasure in the discomfiture of 
 two gentlemen from the English Midlands, with their 
 accent thick on their tongues, who had money and large 
 cigars but no dress clothes and not quite the air that could 
 propitiate Cerberus. Mr and Miss Gorham mounted the 
 stairs jfirst, having to make room, Charles noted with a 
 little joy, for others who were descending, bowed out 
 with the mocking servility, the insolent courtesy, of 
 maitres d'hote!, who were saying what they now repeated 
 to Mr Gorham : 
 
 " No, monsieur, I am sorry, but there is absolutely not 
 a place. If monsieur had only telephoned. Yes, there 
 are tables still empty but they are engaged. . . .""At 
 that moment Charles was seen. " Ah, Monsieur Caerleon, 
 how many are you ? I have your table. The table you 
 
 like ''■' and Charles who had kept in the background 
 
 purposely, fearing such an effect if he were seen, found 
 himself taking charge again, following in the wake of the 
 patron, with the Gorhams following him. Such things are 
 done for the habitue. " Scoundrels,"" Mr Gorham said ; 
 but the urbane Albert if he heard paid no attention. 
 Pleased to see an old client, he fluttered round Charles 
 for a moment cigarette in hand, seated the party and was 
 gone — to welcome or repulse new visitors according to 
 their wealth, their beauty, their usefulness. 
 
 Charles wasn''t really happy. The Abbaye doesn"'t pro- 
 vide an orgy for its patrons, but its incidents are not 
 always of the most edifying. He looked round the room, 
 at this table and that, at the gross, overfed men, at the 
 honest family parties, at the young wives, at the very 
 obvious cocottes,at the healthy young Englishmen,and at 
 
THE ABBAYE, WITH BEAUTY IN DISTRESS 45 
 the tired, pale-faced South Americans, and then he turned 
 to the lady for whom just now he felt himself respon- 
 sible. A few pages back Charles likened her to a wild rose 
 that had strayed into a hothouse. I fancy that his new 
 attempt at an analogy was even less successful — so un- 
 successful now that I've forgotten what it was, but her 
 presence did make him honestly uncomfortable, and not 
 the less so in that he had seen half a dozen people round 
 him whom he knew, men and women who wouldn't under- 
 stand Alison and whom (he said to himself) pray God 
 Alison wouldn't understand. But theirs was only a party 
 of three — and as two of these were happy who should com- 
 plain ? Mr Gorham was as happy as he could ever be. 
 Soupe a Toignon gratin^e he had ordered and some 1900 
 Moet, and he looked pinker than ever, more successful, 
 more satisfied. His eyes were narrowed to slits in the 
 surrounding flesh. Here was real life. But his daughter's 
 eyes were not narrowed : they were wide open, round ; 
 her cheeks were flushed with a pretty excitement ; she 
 looked curiously here and there, alert, busy with con- 
 jecture, turning to Charles to ask a question, and then 
 fixing her gaze once more on the tall, slim, Spanish dancer 
 who was dancing so ill that her friends had to pull them- 
 selves together to remember that she could dance at 
 all. The artist dies in such an atmosphere. A good chef 
 comes to London and is ruined in a year ; a good waiter 
 goes to New York and in six months, remonstrated with 
 for shaking the Burgundy, answers indignantly, " I know 
 my business ! " The young Spaniard knew her business 
 too ; she even knew that those front teeth of hers, slightly 
 divided, had their value in the market — but she also knew 
 
46 CAVIARE 
 
 that not often was it worth her while really to dance, 
 really to abandon herself to the moment. But if to dis- 
 cerning eyes she was a failure, a young Javanese or 
 Tahitian damsel who moved sinuously from table to table, 
 taking a glass of champagne here, ruffling the hair of a 
 dress-shirted satyr there, was a success. Her presence 
 alone was worth the preposterous price of the soupe a 
 Toigiion and the champagne. Tahitian or Javanese, she 
 brought with her the air of the South Seas ; she was a 
 good Gauguin come to life. Where, one wonders, did 
 Albert find her .'* And where will she go ? 
 
 Miss Gorham didn''t knowenough todespisethe Spanish 
 dancers, but the beauty of the young girl meant more to 
 her. It shut out what was ugly, it brought together what 
 was beautiful, in the room. Charles didn't suspect, and 
 her father couldn't even have understood, that while she 
 sat there with her eyes rapt, with her lips slightly parted 
 with excitement, she was making a little philosophy for 
 herself to cover this kind of thing that she was looking 
 at for the first time. She couldn't see that it was very 
 sad, but she could see that it was very bad. She could 
 realise the harm it was doing, the life's blood it was drain- 
 ing away. Surrender oneself to that sordid magic and one 
 could never again be quite the same. Keep away from it if 
 you can, she said to herself, but if you can't keep away from 
 it, keep your soul away from it, surrender your real self not 
 atall. And she looked at Charles. . . . " Ah," she thought 
 to herself, " how I hope that he at least looks at it as he 
 might at a picture. Manet has painted such things. One 
 may love Manet and not be soiled." And all her thoughts 
 showed perhaps what a very young woman she was ! 
 
THE ABBAYE, WITH BEAUTY IN DISTRESS 47 
 Alison"'s mood was soon dissipated by a little comedy 
 that was taking place at the next table. You see, in the 
 fashionable night restaurants of Paris one isn''t supposed 
 to feed and drink reasonably. One pays for the attractions 
 by ordering champagne at at least twenty francs a bottle. 
 Perhaps the regular client is absolved from such a tax by 
 reason of his regularity or of his distinction — but even so 
 his economies, whether they be of purse or stomach, are 
 not encouraged, and there are many little ways of over- 
 coming them. Now next to Mr Gorham a young English- 
 man was sitting, by himself: one might properly imagine 
 him a habitue ; he knew the ways of the place ; as he ate 
 he read the Lanteme de Paris, and his supper was of the 
 kind that was obviously ordered for use and not for show 
 — the same soup that Mr Gorham had ordered — I don"'t 
 want to speckle this page with yet another repetition in 
 talic of its name — a filet mignon — ah ! but the italics 
 come all the same — and a pear. With it he drank whisky 
 and soda. So far good. He would get out for something 
 under a louis, and by the two facts of his economy and 
 that he sat alone the house would lose. Still, he was satis- 
 fied. Soon, however, his supper finished, he looked here 
 and ihere, recognised one dancer and then another. One 
 was a young English girl, with yellow, loose hair stand- 
 ing out round her neck like that of a little child who has 
 just had her head washed, with a Russian belted costume, 
 bare legs, and high red boots embroidered in some Tartar 
 manner. She danced about as well as any young woman 
 in an eighteenpenny subscription ball in the Chelsea 
 Town Hall, but she had some vague youthful charm — or 
 she had had ! Anyhow, she knew Mr Gorham 's neighbour 
 
48 CAVIARE 
 
 and ran bird-like across the room, to shake him by the 
 hand, to offer indeed to kiss him — an offer that was 
 smilingly declined. " Sit down and have a drink." 
 
 " Please. Oh, yes ! " she answered ; and he called a 
 waiter to demand a glass and stretched his hand for the 
 bottle of whisky, which, as he was a client, had been 
 left on the table. " Oh, no, no. We dancers are only 
 allowed to drink champagne." 
 
 The young man swallowed his momentary resentment, 
 ordered a half bottle, and wondered how he could have 
 been such a fool as not to have anticipated this pleasant 
 trick. And Albert, as he distributed souvenirs of the 
 evening in the shape of pretty fans, balloons and huge 
 useless rattles, noticed with an instanfs satisfaction that 
 the table was being made to pay for itself, that his young 
 women were doing their business ! 
 
 But I cannot go on talking about the Abbaye : such 
 little comedies are so common on the Butte, and I must 
 push on. All sorts of clever people have described, have 
 overdescribed, sometimes with open-mouthed wonder, 
 the supper places of Paris. / have a story to tell. 
 I have said that Charles had recognised acquaintances 
 when he came in. Well, there's a very praiseworthy con- 
 vention that forbids a man accosting a friend in a place 
 of this kind, in any place perhaps, when he's with a lady 
 that isn't known to both of them. But one can send a 
 note. And that is what one friend of Charles's did, a man 
 of no importance to this story, a young Frenchman, whom 
 he knew well enough and liked well enough. " I'm so glad 
 to see you back in Paris," the note ran. " Come out for 
 a moment and tell me about yourself." A waiter brought 
 
THE ABBAYE, WITH BEAUTY IN DISTRESS 49 
 it and Charles took it from him not unwillingly, but 
 without enthusiasm. 
 
 " Young dog," Mr Gorham said facetiously. "There he 
 is, Alison, having a letter sent him by some girl he knows." 
 Charles didn't think it worth while to deny the impeach- 
 ment. Later he was sorry he hadn't. It never occurred 
 to him that they hadn't really seen who sent the note. 
 It never occurred to him, no, not for a moment, that 
 Alison should have paid the slightest attention to what 
 he thought her father's silly joke. And so, unsuspicious, 
 in a moment or two he excused himself, looked across to 
 the watching Monsieur Berthez, nodded, and followed him 
 out to where the cloak-room attendants, the musicians, and 
 the young dancing girls stood waiting on events, and 
 where they would be able perhaps to talk undisturbed 
 for a few moments. 
 
 It was a conversation of no importance, and having ex- 
 changed a little news and having made a tentative engage- 
 ment to lunch together on the moiTow, Charles thought 
 he might as well seize the opportunity to wash his hands. 
 Perhaps Mr Gorham would have the courage of his 
 programme and see the sun rise ! 
 
 Now if you know the Abbaye you know that from just 
 behind where the musicians play there runs a narrow 
 passage which leads to a cloak-room in which in effect 
 dancers and guests, whether they be men or women, 
 restore the ravages of the night in one almost promis- 
 cuous medley. It was so to-night. Charles washed and gin- 
 gerly brushed his hair, and as he laid down the brush he 
 was suddenly conscious that something a little poignant 
 was happening just round the comer in the passage. Why, 
 
 4 
 
so CAVIARE 
 
 turning that corner on his way back to the restaurant, 
 he should have interfered he never quite knew. But there 
 are some sort of things that the Anglo-Saxon man by 
 nature, by training, by tradition, does not put up with, 
 and he had more than ordinary reason to believe that 
 something of the kind was happening now. A young girl, 
 slim, a little pale, a little weary — for those shadows under 
 brown eyes were not of artifice — was being in effect pinned 
 against the wall by a man whose every line was a betrayal, 
 whose character stood out, who looked neither a gentleman 
 nor a man, whose sneering mouth and brutal eyes were 
 bent on his prey — for prey the girl was, cringeing now, 
 almost fainting, frightened, fascinated by terror. 
 
 " No, no — please, please, no. I will try to-morrow. I 
 can't now. I haven't got it. Let me go. I swear " 
 
 " Yes, you swear,"" the man answered, "" you are ready 
 enough to swear. Give me back now what I gave you, 
 and give me what you promised and I'll let you go, or 
 
 otherwise, by God, I'll tell him — Now, give it me " 
 
 and he seemed to tighten his grip on her shoulder, so that 
 she squealed like a trapped rabbit. 
 
 Then it was that Charles interfered. The girl was 
 possibly no better than she should be, but the man was 
 a blackguard. He had been too wrapped in his own 
 actions to notice the Englishman's approach, and the 
 first he knew of his presence was a sudden grasp on the 
 scruff of his neck and the sense of being sent reeling, 
 of falling headlong on the floor. Not waiting to see what 
 had happened, or would happen next, Charles turned to 
 the girl : 
 
 " Now, my child, get your cloak — oh ! I see you've got 
 
THE ABBAYE, WITH BEAUTY IN DISTRESS 51 
 it. Ill put you in a taxi-auto. Youll be gone before 
 that brute picks himself up." 
 
 The girl gasped, shivered and looked at Charles. She 
 saw he was worth looking at, but for the moment she had 
 other things to think of : " Monsieur, I can't go. I have 
 just arrived. I have to meet someone here. I must wait. 
 Oh, but I'm afraid " 
 
 " No, don't be afraid. I'll look after that brute there. 
 He shan't annoy you any more. You can be certain of 
 that." 
 
 But his assurances were in vain. Suddenly she broke 
 down. Hiding her face, her pretty face, in her hands, she 
 burst into tears, tears that flooded from her eyes, and 
 trickled through her fingers, while her slim body shook 
 with her sobs. 
 
 All this had taken far less time to happen than it does 
 to write about. The man had picked himself up and had 
 slunk into the cloak-room, but people were beginning to 
 pass up and down the passage, and although a young 
 woman crying was not an unusual event (no, nor a young 
 man comforting her either !) in the Abbaye, yet Charles, 
 Englishman, was hating the fact that there was a scene, 
 and that he was part of it. One thing, though, was clear. 
 The thing couldn't go on. It must be stopped. " Tell 
 me," Charles said — " now, pull yourself together ; grip 
 your teeth ; stop crying. Tell me what's the matter." 
 All this in French, of course. " What's he asking for ? 
 I've got two minutes to give you. Tell me what it is, and 
 I'll see if I can help you." 
 
 Whether the young woman did, in very fact, pull her- 
 self together by gripping her teeth may be doubted, but 
 
52 CAVIARE 
 
 certainly she ceased to cry. " I will tell you," she said. 
 " He isn''t my lover, that man. Word of honour, he isn't. 
 But he''s helped me with money. You see it was like this : 
 my friend was away in America, and I fell ill. I didn't 
 know his address. ... I had to sell all my things and I 
 had nothing left, and then suddenly he cabled that he 
 was coming back to Paris. But I had no clothes to meet 
 him in and no apartment any more, and then that man 
 there lent me money. ... I promised to get it from 
 Monsieur Finot "" — the name of the friend, apparently — 
 "directly I saw him. But I didn't like to ask him for 
 money at once. And now, because I haven't paid, he's 
 going to tell him " — the poor thing was getting her pro- 
 nouns mixed, but I am a faithful reporter — " and he'll say 
 he's my lover — and it isn't true. . . ." 
 
 Charles interrupted : " What do you owe him ? " 
 " He gave me a thousand francs, and I promised to give 
 him back fifteen hundred. And he will have it." 
 
 Now Charles was young, but he was not inexperienced. 
 Really, there was no excuse for him. He had that letter 
 of Messrs Coutts's in his pocket-book, but then he had 
 also several billets, each for five hundred francs . . . 
 and here was a young girl crying, miserable. Of course 
 it might all be a plant . . . but he didn't think so. 
 What would he do with the money any way ? It would 
 go South with him, and if he had luck it would never be 
 wanted, and if he had no luck, well, then it would be 
 lost. How much better that this child should have it, 
 should have at least what she wanted, the sum she named. 
 It would get her out of her trouble. After all, she hadn't 
 appealed to him. She hadn't asked him for money. She 
 
THE ABBAYE, WITH BEAUTY IN DISTRESS 53 
 didn't look as if she expected any. He'd brought her con- 
 fession on himself. . . . Yes, she should have it. She had 
 sweet eyes. 
 
 All this took but a moment to ponder and to decide. 
 Charles took out his pocket-book and withdrew three 
 notes, each for five hundred francs. She watched him, 
 her eyes narrowing, her breath coming faster. " Here 
 you are," he said, " — or no : I'll give it to him myself. 
 Wait ! " And he strode into the cloak -room, where he saw 
 for the first time that he really had done some damage 
 with his impetuous attack. There was blood on the man's 
 collar and blood on his shirt front. Apparently the poor 
 devil had fallen on his nose. However, nothing really 
 serious had happened ; it seemed that no bones were 
 broken. " Look here, my man " — Charles addressed him 
 in his most English and most arrogant manner, — " I'm 
 sorry I did not break your neck. I didn't even break 
 your nose : I wish I had. You'd better go home quick or 
 I'll have you thrown out. But first tell me, what does 
 that lady owe you ? What were you asking for ? " 
 
 The man dropped the wet towel with which he was 
 bathing his bruised nose and looked at Charles. Some- 
 thing in the Englishman's eye must have told him that 
 he'd better tell the truth. 
 
 " Fifteen hundred francs. That's what she owes me. 
 Stole it from me — almost." 
 
 " Stop that ! " said Charles. " It's no use lying to me. 
 I know. You lent her a thousand francs and you expect 
 to be paid an extra five hundred for the loan — just for a 
 few days ; and you expect to be able to go on bleeding 
 her as you do a dozen others " — he was drawing a bow at 
 
54 CAVIARE 
 
 a venture here, but justly, as it happened — " for just as 
 long as she"'s got any money to give you. Well, let me tell 
 you that ifs not going to work that way. Here is your 
 fifteen hundred francs " — the man"'s eyes glistened — " but 
 Fm in Paris a good deal and I shall hear. If ever you annoy, 
 if ever you go near, that lady again, FU break every bone 
 in your body."" And handing him the notes Charles 
 quietly turned his back. " Faugh ! " he added, and blew 
 air through his teeth. 
 
 There remains little more to relate of this incident. 
 Outside in the passage a dozen paces away the girl still 
 stood, leaning against the wall, shaking with sobs that 
 brought no tears, sobs of terror. " Fve paid him," Charles 
 told her. *' He won"'t frighten you any more. He's had 
 enough." The girl interrupted him with thanks. Would 
 he tell her his name ? Perhaps she could soon repay him. 
 No, he wouldn''t. He didn't care. He didn't even ask for 
 hers. " Go into the restaurant," he said, " and forget. 
 People won't notice you've been crying. No, powder your 
 nose here — don't go into the cloak-room : you'd see 
 him . . ." and patting her shoulder with a kind, a fra- 
 ternal hand, he left her. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IN WHICH THE LITfLB BLUE TURBAN APPEARS 
 
 CHARLES, as he returned to his host's table, 
 thought very little more of this incident. True, 
 it had cost him money. Well, what if it had ? 
 He might so easily have spent it less well. It was unlikely 
 that he would have spent it better. With him it was not 
 a case of easy come, but it was generally a case of easy 
 go. Whence the perplexity, that little cloud no bigger 
 (at the moment) than a man's hand, which was at the back 
 of his mind. He made a little grimace to himself and after 
 that troubled himself not at all either with the lady who 
 had been the cause of his loss or with the loss itself. 
 
 But the Gorhams. . . . Back at the table Charles 
 found himself in an atmosphere a little altered, a little 
 chilled. The truth was that he had been away much longer 
 than he had realised, and Alison, who hadn't her father's 
 resources in the way of bacchic interest, had remarked on 
 his absence. Mr Gorham had asked the waiter : " Where 
 is the gentleman who was here just now ? " 
 
 And the waiter had answered : " Sir, he is talking to a 
 lady behind there." An indiscretion, of course. Such 
 
S6 CAVIARE 
 
 things don't, shouldn't, happen in Paris. Pauvre gar^on ! 
 
 He is no longer employed at the Abbaye. 
 
 Mr Gorham, I fear, took it all as a matter of course, 
 but alas ! Alison heard both question and answer. Now 
 let us do her justice. Not for a moment would she then, 
 or before, have acknowledged to herself any unusual, any 
 undue, interest in her father's guest. She even thought of 
 him always as herfather's guest, his friend — or she thought 
 she did. But she did resent his going off for a quarter of 
 an hour — more perhaps — and talking to some woman. She 
 said to herself that it wasn't quite the thing to do. A 
 sense of resentment rose like river mist. Why did Mr 
 Caerleon know this place so well ? Why was he received 
 as an accustomed guest 'i Why couldn't he have waited 
 till she and her father had gone home ? 
 
 And then Charles arrived — to be greeted by Mr 
 Gorham with a facetious " Oh, we know what you've 
 being doing " — a remark to which Charles attached no 
 kind of importance, or he might have gone out of his 
 way to add to his conventional excuses for his absence. 
 Nor did he realise why Alison turned her shoulder on him 
 and seemed to be contemplating the orchestra. As I have 
 said, he thought first that the atmosphere was a little 
 altered . . . but that seemed impossible. 
 
 Alison was not contemplating the orchestra, but she 
 was looking towards its comer. Her youngheart was filled 
 with an angry curiosity to see the cause of her resentment. 
 She had seen Charles come out of the passage, and she had 
 as yet seen no woman come out. She wanted to know who 
 had kept him. Not that she really cared. Pure curiosity, 
 of course. But there it was : she would like to see. 
 
THE LITTLE BLUE TURBAN APPEARS 57 
 She did not have long to wait. Her intuition would 
 have told her, even if the girl who emerged, radiant 
 now, from the cloak-room hadn"'t, to the sharp eyes of a 
 woman, given herself away by looking at every other table 
 save that at which Charles sat — and then one second 
 later looking at that in the mirror at her back. But her 
 gaze, Alison saw, was not provocative. It was not friendly. 
 Rather it seemed sad. And that possible sadness Alison 
 misread. 
 
 The young girl^for she was young enough Alison saw 
 at once : much of an age with herself — stood for some 
 moments searching the room as if for a friend, and while 
 she searched Alison watched her, and watching, the young 
 American''s depression deepened, her resentment grew. 
 Who was this girl who stood in such a scene with such 
 assurance, such brave assurance ? She was mistress of her- 
 self whoever she was, and mistress of the servants in the 
 room, assured, courageous, armed. If she represented that 
 which good women feared was she not sure of victory ? 
 Where, Alison asked herself, among her school friends, 
 the friends she had left in Philadelphia, whom she had 
 made in Europe, was there so much easy beauty, so much 
 vitality, so ready a carriage? 
 
 And, in truth, Charles's protegee might have been held 
 to do his taste some credit. Figure to yourself a young 
 girl, really a young girl, not so very slim, not tall, 
 dressed simply for the evening in lemon yellow soft silk 
 open at the neck, and with on her head the most bewitch- 
 ing, the cutest little dark blue turban, a real turban, 
 fitting the head closely, following its lines, from which 
 at the most provocative angle flowered a white aigrette. 
 
S8 CAVIARE 
 
 Under the turban yellow hair and brown eyes and teeth 
 regular as a string of pearls (shaming indeed her neck's 
 string of real pearls that were nothing particular to boast 
 about). Her lips were slightly parted : they had the shape 
 poets write of. Artifice, Alison was able to assure herself 
 — and justly : artifice had had a hand, but it had made 
 no attempt at concealment ; it had no shame and the 
 more beauty. And her face .'* Yes, dear lady, powder was 
 thick upon it. At one moment it looked dead white ; at 
 another it carried, shone with, all the gay translucent 
 colours of happiness and health. The truth is that the 
 young lady had the art. 
 
 In a few moments she seemed, this stranger, to de- 
 cide to go to a table which it appeared had been kept for 
 her, or for some friend of hers who had not arrived, and 
 she came across the room, passing close to where the 
 Gorhams sat. Almost Alison would have preferred her 
 to have looked at Charles and to have smiled. 1'hat she 
 might have forgiven. But she could not forgive the fact 
 that she averted her eyes ; and then, looking at Charles, 
 Alison thought that he, too, was ill at ease. Pure imagina- 
 tion in his case, poor fellow. He knew nothing of the 
 return of his young friend ; he hadn't seen her : he was 
 listening — with his eyes only — to Mr Gorham, looking 
 at nothing, and if the truth were known, wondering 
 whether should the morrow be fine he couldn't take both 
 his host and hostess en auto to Ville d'Avray to lunch, and 
 escape for half an hour with Alison into the woods. 
 
 By how many riotous Saturday nights, by how many 
 others, was this removed from being Charles's first supper 
 
THE LITTLE BLUE TURBAN APPEARS 59 
 at the Abbaye. And yet it alone was to remain in his 
 mind. All those things that are arranged to happen 
 happened. The waiters brought armfuls of small cellu- 
 loid balls, weighted, as far as one could judge, with loose 
 shot that made their aim eccentric ; and slowly, almost 
 bashfully at first, people began to pelt one another, be- 
 ginning with their friends and acquaintances, then guests 
 so far removed that they might be trusted not to dis- 
 cover their aggressors, and then their neighbours. It 
 seemed, it was, good-humoured : it was youth, it was a 
 certain mad happiness. Here a young and pretty matron 
 from Milwaukee, with her dyspeptic husband regarding 
 her with a not quite disapproving eye, was carrying on 
 a brisk fusilade with a little Frenchman ; there a cocotte, 
 dressed and coiffed in so exquisite a manner that one 
 would have thought that to move would spell disaster, 
 was furiously pelting an American novelist whose Ber- 
 serker rage made him forget all prudence. " He is mad," 
 his neighbours said. With one foot on the ground, and 
 another on his chair, he flung his missiles with a vigour 
 that meant execution when they struck ; his coat half off" 
 his back, his hair tousled, his face red, his eyes a-sparkle. 
 He, too, like his countrywoman, had forgotten the United 
 States ! He had even forgotten Indiana. 
 
 At first Alison was hugely amused. It was all so fresh. 
 She looked round at the different tables, at the warring 
 groups, and she could see nothing but cheerfulness, cheer- 
 ful riot perhaps, madness, but gaiety. Charles's young 
 girl she saw. It would seem that her friend had arrived. 
 Was he English, or American, or French ? It was difficult 
 to say. He was well set up, strong-faced, alert — but hard. 
 
6o CAVIARE 
 
 Not the kind of man to cross, Alison thought. He was 
 watching the scene and his young companion with in- 
 dulgent eyes, taking no part, but obviously not disapprov- 
 ing. Yet as the fun grew more furious, less restrained, his 
 regard became less kind, and suddenly his face clouded, 
 and his right hand shot out to seize his companion''s 
 elbow. What he said Alison, of course, could not hear, 
 but she seemed so much his property, so used to obedience, 
 that she succumbed at once, sank back on the banquette, 
 and, with a rapid sheathing of her brown eyes, turned to 
 talk, even as she warded oflP the missiles that continued to 
 find their way to so pretty a target. 
 
 And now what had been amusing became .... Alison 
 searched for a word, and didn't find one. She had seen 
 etchings by Felicien Rops that came now to her mind. 
 The beauty of the scene was gone, and a skull seemed to 
 grimace under the gay trappings. The young matron"'s 
 headdress had fallen awry, her face had reddened, one 
 shoulder was half out of her bodice : she was dnmk, if 
 not with wine then with every evil excitement. This way 
 and that she flung herself. Hers was complete abandon- 
 ment. Away in the comer there was an English party. 
 An oldish woman, too stupid to feel anything, her 
 daughter, neither too young nor too stupid to be soiled, 
 and two men — each half drunk, each crowned with a 
 ridiculous paper cap. The girl and her two companions 
 were growing noisier and noisier. The splendid cocotte 
 whom Alison had seen — she and one or two of her kind 
 — they alone, they and the waiters, seemed to preserve 
 their peace of mind. The waiters ran to and fro, carry- 
 ing fresh armfuls of balls, fresh bottles of champagne ; 
 
THE LITTLE BLUE TURBAN APPEARS 6i 
 
 the cocottes did their parts with a hard merriment. It 
 was horrible — and most horrible of all was the hard, 
 brilliant mouths and eyes of those women who even 
 while they seemed to forget everything in their excite- 
 ment preserved that bitter, that calculating gaze. At 
 least not so had the young girl been with whom Charles 
 had awakened Alison's resentment. But she was young 
 and soft. The rest comes, perhaps. 
 
 Gradually, however, the riot died out and people left 
 for other restaurants, or perhaps (although less likely) 
 for their beds. Others came, but they were not enough 
 to stem the tide, and the room began to grow less crowded. 
 Alison was adding impatience to disgust, and Charles 
 looked at Mr Gorham to see if he wouldn't give the 
 signal for their departure. But Mr Gorham was having 
 the time of his life. Why should he stir ? Besides, he had 
 started on another bottle, and his cigar was new — and 
 after all, Charles was looking after his daughter. A good 
 fellow that Caerleon. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 STILL IN THE ABBAYE AND PASSING THE TIME 
 
 CHARLES'S cup of bitterness was full — I say his 
 cup of bitterness because he really wasn'^t en- 
 joying his evening; he liked being with Miss 
 Gorham, but he didn't like being with Miss Gorham in 
 the Place Pigalle — when it at last became evident that 
 no ordinary means would drag Mr Gorham from Mont- 
 martre, that he had the courage of his programme, that, 
 all unthinking of the stem, gray fact that it was still 
 the depth of winter, he was set upon vseeing the sun rise 
 from the Sacre Coeur. 
 
 If there is one thing more irritating than watching 
 the antics of a drunken man on the stage it is to read 
 an attempted transliteration of his words in cold print, 
 so I will spare you Mr Gorham's replies to his daughter's 
 timid suggestions that she wouldn't be sorry now if 
 he would pay the bill and go home. Besides, he wasn't 
 drunk. If he had been really drunk Charles might have 
 thought of a way out of the difficulty. He was lucid 
 enough. He was only stubborn. " I came up here to see 
 the sun rise and the sun rise I'm going to see," was what 
 
STILL IN THE ABBAYE 63 
 
 he said in effect. His obstinacy betrayed itself in an 
 absolute inability to understand that on that particular 
 morning, according to Charles^'s pocket diary, the sun 
 didn't rise till 7.29. He had it firmly fixed in his head, 
 behind those twinkling eyes, that pink forehead, that if 
 directly — there was no huny, of course — they started out 
 and walked up the hill, they'd arrive on the terrace in 
 front of the new church (no, it is not a cathedral !) just 
 in good time to see the towers of Notre Dame bathed in 
 the first rays of the morning. 
 
 Charles didn't know what to do. What should he have 
 done ? He could hardly suggest to Alison that they 
 should leave her father there and that he should take her 
 home to the Meurice. Besides, her father would have had 
 something to say to that. There he sat, sipping his cham- 
 pagne and smoking his Corona, and I don't think he'd 
 have connived at or smiled upon any little plot that the 
 others might wish to engineer. He didn't want to talk. 
 But he could talk. He just wanted to be left alone for a 
 few minutes — and then they would walk up to see the sun 
 rise. The fresh air would do them all good — especially 
 Alison. 
 
 And Alison seemed to know her father too well to seek 
 to combat his plans any more. With a glance she silenced 
 Charles, who was about to start on some fresh campaign 
 of expostulation. As a matter of fact, one might as well 
 talk to a Chinese idol as to this mass of pink and satisfied 
 flesh. 
 
 " Let's take Miss Gorham home and then drive back to 
 the Sacre Coeur — it isn't far " — Charles did get that out. 
 
 The suggestion was not a success. "Nonsense," Mr 
 
64 CAVIARE 
 
 Gorham replied. " All this restaurant air is bad for her. 
 She won't sleep after it. It'll do her all the good in the 
 world to walk a little. Besides, I promised her." And he 
 subsided again. 
 
 Obviously there was nothing else for Charles to do. 
 There he was and there he must remain. It was all very 
 uncomfortable, and all very stupid. Mr Gorham didn't 
 look the kind of man who would get any more drunk than 
 he already was, so perhaps if they sat there he'd begin to 
 see reason. But sitting there and doing nothing became 
 increasingly difficult, increasingly dull, both for Charles 
 and for Miss Gorham. Even the riot had died away. They 
 couldn't talk because in their position and at this moment 
 there wasn't anything to talk about. Alison knew that 
 he knew that her father had taken more wine than was 
 good for him and was now set on folly ; Charles knew 
 that she knew that he knew. He volunteered a few 
 remarks. Weren't that man and woman over there 
 against the wall exactly like a Toulouse-Lautrec ? Didn't 
 she think that Yvette Guilbert would have done better 
 to stick to the atmosphere of her first songs ? Had she 
 seen the Italian Futurists.? Alison answered all his 
 questions as in duty bound, but she did so without con- 
 viction and the conversation languished. Nor was there 
 much to look at. Still a little Spanish woman danced, 
 and ran to and fro, and smacked inoffensive old gentle- 
 men on their bald pates — to their great glee, and to the 
 great glee of their female companions ; still sang the not 
 very attractive negro singer ; still the one or two English 
 dancers made friends. . . . They had to, poor dears. 
 Perhaps it isn't Albert's practice — he looks generous — 
 
STILL IN THE ABBAYE 65 
 
 but in most places of the kind that young girl of nineteen 
 who talks Lancashire and who dances as if dancing was 
 purely a question of acrobatics doesn't get paid anything : 
 she is expected to wheedle money out of the men who 
 dance with her or out of the people who call her to their 
 tables and offer her a drink. That's really a fact. One I 
 knew got four louis one evening out of a rich and fat 
 Australian. She showed them to me with glee — or rather 
 she showed me the little lump they made at the side of 
 her instep where they had slipped down inside her stock- 
 ing. They'd be safe there. She'd tell the other girls that 
 he was jolly mean, that he'd only given her half a louis. 
 If she'd saved enough money before the summer she in- 
 tended to go back to Oldham and have a long rest. " The 
 men always ask me the same question," she told me, " and 
 I always answer them the same way — but I never do it 
 — never, never, never. Madame" — Madame is the pro- 
 prietor's wife — " Madame says, ' Tell them you will, and 
 get money out of them, all you can — but don't,' and that's 
 what I do. Yes, they come back sometimes and are pretty 
 mad, but I tell 'em it was a mistake, that they'd drunk 
 too much." There are hundreds of quite good young 
 English girls plying that trade in that way on the 
 Continent. Heaven looks after them, I hope. 
 
 But although in telling you this I have passed over 
 some of the time that Charles and Miss Gorham found so 
 tedious, I have to come back to them. There they were, 
 and both of them felt things were very flat, stale, and 
 unprofitable. They had to pretend to one another to be 
 interested in the subjects of their desultory conversation. 
 . . . Oh, it was very dull. Alison at least would have 
 
66 CAVIARE 
 
 liked to tuck her feet up, to have put her head on her 
 father's knee and to have gone off to sleep. Charles didn''t 
 want to sleep, but he had a feeling that it would only be 
 worth rousing himself if he could brush all these belated 
 revellers into the cold air of the Place. Faugh . . . ! 
 
 At last, however, Mr Gorham emerged from his stupor. 
 He became brisk. Calling for the bill, he rallied his young 
 companions with a cheerful " Come along or we shall be 
 late," and almost before they could wriggle into their 
 coats had them outside in the dry cold of the February 
 morning. As she left Alison had looked at the young girl 
 who was Charles's friend. Her eyes, she saw, followed hi m, 
 followed him wistfully. Alison shivered. She hoped never 
 again to find herself in that galley — and she thought she 
 hated Mr Caerleon. 
 
M 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL VIEW FROM THE SACRK CffiUR 
 
 R G OR HAM refused the services of one of 
 
 those discreet carriages which, as the morning 
 
 comes, take theplace of the familiar taxi-autos 
 
 outside the restaurants of the night. " We want to walk," 
 
 he answered, all unheedfiil, as fathers — and husbands too 
 
 — are wont to be, of Alison^s satin shoes and high heels. 
 
 And to walk to the Sacre Coeur from the Place Pigalle is 
 
 no light undertaking even in the dajrtime. Get yourself 
 
 thoroughly out of condition by a week in Paris, eating too 
 
 much, drinking too much, staying up too late, taking no 
 
 exercise, and then try. But don't try at four o'clock of a 
 
 winter's morning in a fur coat. Besides, it isn't supposed 
 
 to be safe. On the other side of the Place Pigalle is what 
 
 is popularly supposed to be the Quartier des Apaches. 
 
 Other parts of Paris claim that distinction, but those 
 
 steep streets that run uphill from the outer boulevard, 
 
 and those narrow byways that lead to such cavernous 
 
 obscurities — they most look the part. Of all this Charles 
 
 had not been unmindful, but it wouldn't have served as an 
 
 argument with Mr Gorham, and anyhow he had always 
 
 67 
 
68 CAVIARE 
 
 heard that the Parisian rough never attacked two men. 
 
 Also he trusted to his own prowess. 
 
 Safe or dangerous, the walk is sinister. In the sunshine 
 the road is bizarre, full for an Anglo-Saxon of curious 
 hints, of suggestions. In the earlier hours of the night it 
 has a certain populous gaiety : cheerful couples emerge 
 from the little hotels, one sees through uncurtained 
 windows lamp-lit domestic interiors, snatches of song fill 
 the air. But in the hours before sunrise the streets are 
 empty. Nor cat nor dog prowls the byways. The houses 
 are homes of mystery ; their irregular roofs make an odd, 
 distiu-bing pattern against the sky. 
 
 Alison wasn't exactly frightened, but she was certainly 
 nervous. Nobody had told her that her father was doing 
 a particularly foolish thing, but all the same she had a 
 sense that, apart altogether from the folly of humour- 
 ing a stubborn man to the extent of looking for the sun 
 three hours before it was due, the whole proceeding lacked 
 sense, propriety, seemliness. Couldn't Mr Caerleon have 
 stopped it ? she asked herself, forgetting that she'd dis- 
 couraged his attempts. And he couldn't have stopped it 
 anyway. He could have refused to remain with them, 
 but that was all he could have done. In that case her 
 father would have started out with her alone, and her 
 position would have been worse than ever. Poppa was a 
 very good guardian on Chestnut Street or Fifth Avenue, 
 or even here in Paris down on the Grands Boulevards 
 where everyone spoke English and where Messrs Thomas 
 Cook and Son were always just round the corner. But up 
 here, on Montmartre — well, it was another thing. She 
 looked sideways at Mr Caerleon and almost forgot her 
 
THE VIEW FROM THE SACRE CCEUR 69 
 
 resentment in her gratitude for his presence. Anyhow, he 
 was effective. 
 
 Alison thought these things, and Charles thought of 
 Alison — and of Mr Gorham's damn-fool obstinacy, too, 
 a little — and Mr Gorham showed no signs of think- 
 ing of anything ; and they all three, keeping in the 
 middle of the street in order to avoid dustbins, plodded 
 upwards. By the Rat which is Not Dead — although 
 it seems to sleep — they passed, and up the rue Houdon 
 into the rue des Abbesses. As the glare of the restaurant 
 left their eyes the night seemed to grow less dark. 
 "It's getting light already," Mr Gorham announced. 
 " Hurry up ; we shall be late."" But although they could 
 see better, Alison didn't get any happier. The more she 
 could see the less easy she became. Everything was very 
 sinister. One or two people they passed looked as if they 
 were sewer rats, and once real rats, seeming to j ump up 
 from under their feet, scuttled across the street. There 
 was no noise, save in the distance a subdued roar which 
 might be the movement of Paris, and, somewhere 
 away to the left where the ascent of the hill was less 
 steep, the noise of a motor. " I wish it would take us," 
 Alison said ; and even as she spoke, turning the corner 
 into the rue Radignan, her heart was frightened into her 
 mouth by coming suddenly on two men who seemed to 
 be waiting. 
 
 " It's nothing," said Charles. " Oh yes, no doubt 
 they're Apaches all right, but they're all cowards, and they 
 wouldn't interfere with a party like ours." All the same 
 he didn't easily dismiss their scowling faces from his 
 mind, nor their attitude of expectancy. He was glad 
 
70 CAVIARE 
 
 when they had put the long flight of steps which ends in 
 that baby Place, where in the summer one drinks hocks 
 outside Le Coucou, between themselves and the possi- 
 bility of trouble. At least, they were not being followed. 
 . . . And yet, could he be mistaken .? Was someone 
 following them ? He turned round at the last step as if 
 to welcome the others, and looked down and away beyond 
 the steps into the silent street beneath. The two ruffians 
 had disappeared. He could see no one — nothing that 
 should disquiet him. And yet, he was disquieted. It was 
 a feeling in the pit of his stomach. Mere nervousness, he 
 told himself. He kept wishing to look round, and would 
 have done so if it had not been for a fear of imparting 
 his nervousness to Alison. After all, he had good ears — 
 and he was sure they were not being followed. But 
 all the same. . . . They had not even a stick between 
 them. Oh yes ; Mr Gorham had — a rather serviceable 
 looking ebony cane with a heavy gold knob. Charles re- 
 membered, though, that Apaches didn't generally give 
 you time to get to work with a walking-stick. Such 
 thoughts were absurd. He might well be ashamed of 
 himself. 
 
 Besides, here they were at the top of the hill, and all 
 they had to do was to go round the shoulder of the old 
 church, through that little Balzacian lane where small 
 shopkeepers sell objects of piety to perspiring pilgrims, 
 and they would be under the Sacre Coeur itself. He had 
 surely been nervous without cause. If, though, he had 
 been with two men he would have made more sure. It 
 was rotten, not being able to turn round. 
 
 And then — well, nothing happened. They pursued 
 
THE VIEW FROM THE SACRE CCEUR ^x 
 
 their route through the silent streets and reached the 
 new church shining white in the starlight, and they also 
 reached the wooden barricade which is presumably put 
 up for the very purpose of dissuading old fools like Mr 
 Gorham from endangering their precious lives and still 
 more precious purses by coming up to look over Paris by 
 night or to see the sun rise over the Seine. Charles could 
 have kicked himself. Here they were : three donkeys in 
 the starlight. He even included Alison in his denuncia- 
 tion. A pretty group they made. Mr Gorham and he in 
 fur coats and opera hats ; Alison in a light opera cloak, 
 her dress no doubt spoiled, and her shoes certainly torn 
 and muddied. He could have kicked himself, because he 
 could remember now having read, not so many months 
 ago, that very notice at which they were now staring, and 
 which told so clearly that the gates were closed at sun- 
 set. Why, they would have a better view of Paris from 
 the Place Pigalle or the banks of the Seine. 
 
 Charles looked at Mr Gorham. That aged reprobate 
 was not so easily, so quickly discouraged. 
 
 "Let's go to the Moulin de la Galette," he said. 
 " There"'s almost as good a view from the garden there, 
 just by the windmill, as there is from in front of the 
 church here." 
 
 That Charles couldn't stand. He felt he'd had enough 
 of being dragged about at Mr Gorham's heels, and, any- 
 how, the Moulin de la Galette was just about the last 
 place in the world for wealthy-looking foreigners at five 
 in the morning. " It's no use going there, Mr Gorham ; 
 for two reasons : the first is that it's almost certain to be 
 closed ■" — "Let's go and see," Mr Gorham interpolated — 
 
72 CAVIARE 
 
 " — and the second is that, even if the place is still open, 
 not all the money in all of our pockets would get them 
 to open their garden at night at this time of the year. 
 They'll never do it. Fve tried before." 
 
 At this Mr Gorham subsided, looked for the fiftieth 
 time at the sky and again at the notice which explained 
 their non-admittance. " Well, Alison, it's getting lighter 
 and lighter. We'll just wait. They say there when they 
 close this darned place, but they don't say anything about 
 keeping it closed. Why, of course, the French always get 
 up early. The concierge" — he was getting confused — 
 " is bound to be about directly. Why, let's knock ; let's 
 kick at this gate. . . ." 
 
 But these expostulations were only the last flicker of 
 Mr Gorham's obstinacy. True, there they all three stood, 
 under the stars, not cold, because of their furs, but un- 
 utterably weary and footsore — there they all stood for 
 what seemed like another hour. Charles would have given 
 anything to have been allowed to put his arm round 
 Alison, to draw her cloak tighter round her throat, to 
 give her something to lean against. Precious little good 
 her great, fat, pink father was ! It seemed an hour — but 
 it was only a few minutes. Perhaps it was the long walk 
 and the cold open air here on the hilltop that between 
 them were sweeping the obstinacy out of Mr Gorham's 
 brain. " What's the time .'' " he ejaculated, and looked at 
 his own watch. "Why, it's only just after five." And 
 then in a minute : " Look here, I'm not sure that you 
 children aren't right. Why didn't you tell me again ? I 
 was forgetting it's winter. The last time I was at the 
 Abbaye we came up at four to see the sun rise — but then, 
 
THE VIEW FROM THE SACR6 CCEUR 73 
 
 of course, that was in April." Charles forbore to rub it 
 in. Neither then nor at any future time did he remind 
 either Alison or her father that he'd tried to convince 
 him, with the aid of a pocket diary which bore printed 
 witness to the fact, that even if there had been no barri- 
 cade they'd have had to sit for two hours and fifty-three 
 minutes on the church terrace before the sun would show 
 itself over the heights of Montparnasse. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE KUK LEPIC, A TAXT-AUTO, AND REAL DRAMA 
 
 COMING down from the Sacre Coeur is a very differ- 
 ent thing from going up. Not that I would 
 advise either at five o'clock on a winter morn- 
 ing. One feels that one is leaving a rather strange, a very 
 old, unusual world; that one is returning to one's own 
 century, one's own people. One may have enjoyed oneself, 
 but all the same — well, one is more secure, more normal, 
 when one sees the lights of the Place Trinite. 
 
 And so it was with Charles and his friends. Oh, how 
 tired they were ! And yet they walked along briskly, 
 even Alison forgetting her bruised feet. The Meurice 
 had a hot bath waiting for her, and a cool bed, and there 
 would be no need to rise on the morrow. Perhaps soon, 
 too — certainly when they reached the outer boulevards 
 — they'd come across a taxi-auto. In the meantime the 
 pavements were peculiarly atrocious, and as one walked 
 down the hill one seemed to drive all one's feet into the 
 toes of one's shoes. And to cross the street, to tread on 
 cobbles — ah ! that was a separate agony. 
 
 Soon happily the worst, the steepest, of the hill was at 
 
THE RUE LEPIC AND REAL DRAMA 75 
 
 an end. They turned into the rue Lepic. All the time 
 Charles had felt growing on him that sense of disquiet 
 which he had known an hour ago, as they mounted the 
 hill, and which he had lost as they reached the Sacre Coeur 
 itself. He told himself it was fancy, and yet he couldn"'t 
 drive away the little fear he had. No, fear is not the 
 word. Something in him seemed to quiver with a vague 
 sense of following, impending calamity. Those dark walls, 
 those depths to right and left, that pattern of mediasval 
 roofs — they seemed mediaeval at this hour — against the 
 sky : all made for nervousness. They had given up walk- 
 ing in the middle of the street to save Alison's feet from 
 the cobbles, and Charles seemed in his mind''s eye to see, 
 to be unable to shut out, their three figures, bizarre, 
 curious, little, making their way through canons of 
 mystery. The tap-tap of their shoes on the ground was 
 the only sound he could hear. It had a note of ghastli- 
 ness. He shook himself. He was allowing his fatigue to 
 overcome him. His nerves didn't play him such tricks 
 ordinarily. And here, as I say, they were in the rue 
 Lepic. Nothing was likely to happen to them now. 
 
 And there, surely and happily, was the light of a car 
 coming slowly toward them. Possibly it was empty and 
 plying for hire. Empty it certainly was, and at the raising 
 of Charles's hand it stopped and turned as if to pick them 
 up. But the chauffeur had underestimated the space 
 required : his front wheels came against the edge of the 
 pavement and he had to back again. And then the engine 
 stopped. " Hell,"" Charles said to himself — not that it 
 need mean more than a second's delay. His nerves again. 
 
 The chauffeur, off the box by now, was tinkering in- 
 
76 CAVIARE 
 
 side the bonnet (let me be quite frank and say that 
 I know just as much about a motor's mechanism as 
 Mr Hall Caine knows about the Derby : there is this 
 difference though — these things happened). Whatever 
 was the matter was evidently not merely a question of 
 turning a handle. And now Charles noticed that the 
 chauffeur had a companion — another man sat on the box 
 next his seat. Of course, the strike of taxi-autos was not 
 yet at an end. The blacklegs seldom went out un- 
 accompanied. 
 
 "It'll be all right in a moment," the chauffeur muttered. 
 ** It's nothing : the engine's cooled. . . . Will monsieur " 
 — and he addressed Mr Gorham — " will monsieur not get 
 in and sit down ? " As he said this he stepped in front of 
 Alison and Charles, perhaps to make room for Mr Gorham 
 to get to the door, perhaps to prevent their all getting in. 
 Charles didn't pretend to be very clear-headed just then. 
 It didn't seem unnatural that Mr Gorham should be given 
 the precedence : he was old and fat. If they all got in, it 
 might tire the machine. I don't say he thought this, but he 
 w£isn't in a mood to argue about trifles, and in any case he'd 
 rather Mr Gorham got in and left him on the pavement 
 with Alison. So Mr Gorham did get in, and the chauffeur 
 closed the door and returned to his machinery. 
 
 What happened next Charles owed to a lucky accident. 
 The man on the box shifted his position ever so little, and 
 as a result the light from a near-by lamp fell full on his 
 face. An extraordinary face for a chauffeur's companion, 
 Charles couldn't help thinking. Not a Latin face. But 
 more than this Charles saw : the man's lips wreathed them- 
 selves at this moment into a curious, mocking, triumphant 
 
THE RUE LEPIC AND REAL DRAMA 77 
 
 smile. All his fears came back. He remembered in a flash 
 having read only yesterday of taxi-cab robberies in New 
 York. He felt there was some game on, and his fatigue 
 fell away from him, his muscles grew taut. . . . 
 
 Not a moment too soon. At the second almost that 
 the smile of the other man had put him on his guard 
 the engines began to race. Slapping the bonnet down 
 the chauffeur turned quickly and made to leap into his 
 seat. In another moment the car would have started, and 
 Charles and Alison would have been left on the pavement, 
 and Mr Gorham would have been half-way down the rue 
 Lepic. Charles's arm shot out. Seizing the Frenchman by 
 the shoulder he spun him round, and then before he could 
 recover himself had flung him against the lamp-post. 
 
 " Open the door, quick," he cried to Alison. " Jump 
 out, Mr Gorham : they"'re trying to kidnap you," he 
 added in a shout ; and then, thinking it best to act first 
 and explain afterwards (remember, all this took the 
 smallest fraction of a minute to complete), he jumped 
 himself on to the footboard and pushed his fist with all 
 his force into the face of the second man. Ah, he was an 
 easy mark. Back he fell off" his seat into the street at 
 the other sideof the car. Forgettingthe chauffeur, Charles 
 ran round : the man might have fallen only ; he might 
 mean mischief. 
 
 He certainly had meant mischief. He lay on his back. 
 Whether he was stunned with the blow, or whether in 
 falling he had struck his head, Charles didn't know ; but 
 what he did know was, that in one hand was a revolver — 
 one of those peculiarly vicious-looking little American 
 revolvers that promise to go off for the mere malice of 
 
78 CAVIARE 
 
 the thing. He must have had his fingers on it all the time. 
 And as he lay there, his face looked as if he would have 
 used it had Charles been just one second slower. Charles 
 bent over him . . . 
 
 ''MrCaerleon!'''' 
 
 It was Alison's voice that rangout,and in a flash Charles 
 realised that he''d forgotten all about the chauffeur. He 
 hadn''t been stunned. He had only been flung away from 
 the machine. Charles leapt to his feet, and, even as he did 
 so, the car bounded forward, and almost before he realised 
 what was happening, it was gone, careering down the 
 street at its full speed. But, thank heaven, both Alison 
 and Mr Gorham were safe : nothing was the matter with 
 them. 
 
 A glance at the man who had been on the box showed 
 that he was still unconscious (Charles had satisfied him- 
 self that nothing worse had happened to him than to be 
 stunned), and Charles turned to his companions. 
 
 " Ifs all right,"" Mr Gorham assured him. "I jumped 
 out quick enough when Alison here opened the door and 
 I heard your shout. But IVe got to thank you again, 
 Caerleon. I don't know what we should do without you. 
 You've helped us twice. Heaven knows what those in- 
 fernal scoundrels would have done with me if they'd got 
 off". I suppose they thought that, as I was the oldest, 
 and fattest, I should be the one with the bank-roll. 
 But let's look at the man down there ; I hope he isn't 
 really hurt." 
 
 Charles reassured him, but Mr Gorham wanted to have 
 a look for himself, and, while Charles talked to Alison, 
 who was a little shaken now that the incident and the 
 
THE RUE LEPIC AND REAL DRAMA 79 
 
 danger were at an end, he went to the fallen figure that 
 lay like a corpse half across the street. 
 
 It was a very natural and normal Mr Gorham whom 
 Charles had seen when, the car vanishing, he had turned 
 to congratulate him on his escape — a Mr Gorham entirely 
 restored to sense and sanity. But it seemed to Charles 
 that, in the moment of examining the man who lay in 
 the street, he altered : the pinkness of his face became 
 grey, the flesh seemed to fall away. Perhaps, as with Miss 
 Gorham, the incident was having its effect now, when 
 the excitement was at an end. Even elderly American 
 gentlemen are not in the habit of being kidnapped. It is 
 the sort of thing to give one a nasty jar. Anyhow, when 
 Mr Gorham straightened himself up he seemed shaken, 
 older, shocked in some way. At the moment Charles paid ' 
 little attention to the alteration or to the way in which 
 Mr Gorham spoke, more thickly, more excitedly than 
 was his wont. 
 
 " Look here ! We can^t leave this man here. He's not 
 really hurt, as you say, but we can't just prop him up 
 against a wall and go away. We'd better give him in 
 charge. I'll tell you : you and Alison walk down the hill : 
 you'll find plenty of gendarmes where they're not wanted 
 in the Place Blanche. I'll stop here and look after him. 
 Yes, I'll be safe enough. He won't move. And the other 
 man's got his car down in the Place de la Concorde by 
 now. Come back with a gendarme as quick as you can." 
 So as Mr Gorham seemed to have taken things in hand, 
 to have assumed control, and as he was evidently used to 
 giving orders, Charles did as he was told, and took Miss 
 Gorham down the hill. But even in the Place Blanche it 
 
8o CAVIARE 
 
 wasn't easy to find the kind of assistance they wanted. 
 The men who were about weren't exactly the kind to call 
 upon for help. They looked at the couple curiously, and 
 Alison shrank closer to Charles, who had had to support 
 her as it was. She had been more upset than she had 
 thought. Not unnaturally. 
 
 Indeed, before they could find a gendarme they had to 
 walk all the way to the Place Pigalle, where one sleepy- 
 looking uniform was presiding over the arrival and de- 
 parture of the last belated revellers, and where still a few 
 autos waited outside the Abbaye, the Pigalle, and the 
 Royal. And even when they had found him, it was some 
 minutes before he could be made to understand what they 
 wanted, that there was really something vital for him to 
 do. He didn't look at Alison at all, and he hardly looked 
 at Charles. I suppose he summed up all young people 
 who walked about Montmartre in evening clothes at 
 half-past five in the morning as of exactly the same 
 kind. They weren't likely to be serious. No, indeed ! 
 
 After a while, however, Charles did get him to see 
 sense and to come with them ; but in the meantime their 
 conversation — obviously not a mere asking of the time of 
 day — had attracted attention, and when they started 
 again up the rue Houdon they were followed by as 
 unsavoury a collection of riff-raff as it is possible to 
 imagine. Charles begged him to hurry. He wouldn't. 
 The majesty, the deliberation of the law was in this its 
 representative. 
 
 While they had been looking for help Alison had been 
 reasonably self-possessed and calm, very tired but assured, 
 but now they had found it she became full of fears and 
 
THE RUE LEPIC AND REAL DRAMA 8i 
 
 nervous. Would they be in time ? They had been away 
 so long. " Not nearly as long as you think,"" Charles 
 answered. " And besides, what can have happened ? 
 Nothing. The man, even if he had come round, wouldn't 
 be in a position to do any harm. I'd trust your father to 
 look after him — besides, your father's got the revolver." 
 
 " Yes, but the motor-car may have come back ; there 
 may have been others. How about those men whom we 
 met as we were going up ? " 
 
 " Dear Miss Gorham, there isn't really any cause for 
 anxiety. And here we are, anyway " — and they turned 
 into the rue Lepic. 
 
 Charles was right : there wasn't any cause for anxiety. 
 There where they had left him stood Mr Gorham ; but he 
 was alone. Charles was astonished. He could have sworn 
 that the man whom he had knocked down wouldn't have 
 been in a fit case to walk away in so short a time, to say 
 nothing of being able to get away from anyone who had 
 such good reason as Mr Gorham had for wishing to 
 keep him. 
 
 " What happened ? " he asked. 
 
 Mr Gorham seemed rather ashamed of himself. He 
 answered rather shamefacedly, Charles thought. "No- 
 thing happened, and that's just the reason why he's got 
 away. You see, when you didn't get back, I began to think 
 that possibly something had happened to 2/ou, so I pulled 
 the poor devil on to the side-walk — I couldn't leave him 
 in the road to be run over — and walked to the corner 
 there to see whether you weren't coming, and I stood 
 there a minute or two, and when I turned round the 
 fellow wasn't there. That's all I know." 
 
 6 
 
82 CAVIARE 
 
 Charles began to press for more information, but the 
 gendarme was getting impatient. This conversation 
 had been carried on in English, and what he wanted 
 to know was what had happened to the body he was 
 to find in the road up here and to cover himself with 
 glory by arresting and taking off to the poste. Not 
 every arrest makes itself easily in this part of the world. 
 " Whafs all this ?" he asked. " I thought you said I'd 
 find a thief here. Where's vour thief? Is this all a 
 
 game .'' 
 
 Mr Gorham's scanty French was not equal to the task 
 of discussing the matter ; he hardly understood what was 
 being asked, and he was so obviously ill at ease, and they 
 were all finding the proximity of the dozen or so hangers- 
 on from the Place Pigalle at once so uncomfortable and 
 so menacing, that Charles took charge and cut the matter 
 short. 
 
 "It is simple," he assured the guardian of the law. 
 " When I and this young lady were looking for your brave 
 assistance, the man who'd attacked us came to his senses 
 and stole away while this gentleman was there at the 
 comer looking for our arrival. But all the same, I'm 
 very sorry to have disturbed you. Look" — and he 
 slipped into the gendarme's hands a couple of louis. 
 " And now " — for he saw at once there was to be no more 
 trouble — " can't you get us free of this rabble ? Do you 
 think we could get a taxi-auto ? " 
 
 The gendarme responded by sending one of the crowd- 
 ing ruffians running down the hill to the boulevard, and 
 the party of four followed him, followed in their turn 
 by the rabble, who were not so easily to be shaken off. 
 
THE RUE LEPIC AND REAL DRAMA 83 
 
 " I wonder they don't try to do us in," said Mr Gorham. 
 " They look equal to it.'' 
 
 Soon came a taxi -auto, a perfectly normal and ordinary 
 cab this one, Charles assured himself; and putting Mr 
 Gorham in fii*st (he was afraid that if he put Alison in 
 first the car might make off with her out of pure devilry), 
 he handed in his daughter and, flinging five francs to the 
 crowd, he himself followed, telling the chauffeur to drive 
 to the Meurice, and wondering the while what could have 
 happened to enable their assailant to get so clean away. 
 It wasn't the first time he'd seen a man knocked out, and 
 he knew quite well that whoever he was he hadn't got 
 away without assistance. Well, anyhow, it was jolly lucky 
 that the scoundrel's friends had satisfied themselves with 
 helping him ; with a little more enterprise they might 
 have cleared up Mr Gorham while they were about it. 
 
 Mr Gorham himself didn't seem comfortable. Certainly 
 he wasn't communicative. He turned to Alison with 
 ponderous facetiousness : " Well, we haven't seen the sun 
 rise after all, my dear. We'll have to put it off till the 
 spring. The next time, though, we'll bring half a dozen 
 policemen with us." 
 
 " I think. Poppa, it'd be more to the point to bring 
 Mr Caerleon. . . ." And then Alison broke down. Sit- 
 ting next to her father she hid her face in his coat, and 
 sobbed and sobbed. And no wonder, thought Charles, 
 who had the sense to know that the crying portended no 
 teirible thing. To dine,and to go to the Theatre Moderne, 
 and to be kept for hours in that infernal Abbaye, to be 
 dragged up the hill, and then on top of it all to have 
 their last adventure — well, it would have been strange if 
 
84 CAVIARE 
 
 Alison hadn't broken down. But, nevertheless, although 
 his brain told him there was nothing in the girPs sobbing 
 to worry about, yet worry he did : it made him acutely 
 miserable . , . and for the first time he realised that he 
 had more than a liking for Alison, that he loved her, 
 that, if by hook or by crook he could have his way, his 
 bachelor life was at an end. 
 
 But here they almost were. Swinging round the corner 
 into the rue d' Alger, they would be at the Meurice in 
 a few seconds. " Alison, dear, we're at the hotel," Mr 
 Gorham proclaimed— and at once the girl was herself 
 again. As she passed into the light of the doorway, 
 Charles saw that her eyes were red, and, oh, so tired, but 
 she looked at him and smiled — more than smiled, he dared 
 to think. And so he left them. "Come in to-morrow — to- 
 day, I mean — at tea-time,"" Mr Gorham said ; " we've got 
 to thank you yet." 
 
 Charles walked back to the Chatham. His head wanted 
 cooling, though his feet were sore. The doors he passed 
 were being opened, people were already beginning to 
 appear, and — yes, there over the roofs was the first 
 sign of that dawn for which Mr Gorham had searched 
 in vain. 
 
 The sleepy porter at the hotel let him in — not for the 
 first time had he known Mr Caerleon come in so late ; 
 and saying that he wanted his coffee at ten, Charles went 
 to bed — to dream, and to toss from side to side with a 
 nightmare in which he seemed to be careering in a cine- 
 matograph motor-car up and down the heights of Mont- 
 martre, over roofs, windmills, and churches, driven by a 
 chauffeur with a mocking smile, who guided the car with 
 
THE RUE LEPIC AND REAL DRAMA 85 
 
 one hand while with the other he menaced his passengers 
 with a revolver. And by his side in the car sat Alison, 
 and opposite them were Mr Gorham and a young girl in 
 a little dark blue turban from which at the most provoca- 
 tive angle flowered a white aigrette. 
 
CHAFIER XII 
 
 IN WHICH MR GORHAM EXPLAINS 
 
 CONSIDERING that he was not in bed till seven 
 o'clock, Charles responded very readily to the 
 waiter"'s call at ten (why is it that one needs so 
 little sleep in Paris ?), and having drunk his coffee and 
 eaten his roll — the croissant he rejected in fear of his 
 figure — he bathed, dressed with more than usual care, and 
 went out to find sunshine in the streets and a laughing 
 gaiety that, even had there been no Alison, would have 
 made him glad that he was alive. 
 
 Charles was one of those happy people who, while they 
 have in themselves some fund of cheerfulness on which, at 
 moments when other people would be depressed, they can 
 draw at will, yet answer at once to any call of good 
 fortune. In other words, his w£is a nature not only re- 
 fractory to depression, but immediately respondent to a 
 ray of sunshine, a good claret, the smile of a pretty 
 woman, a beautiful passage in a painting, a well-cut 
 skirt. Other things had the same effect, of course. 
 
 This morning, as he couldn't very well, having been 
 
 86 
 
MR GORHAM EXPLAINS 87 
 
 told to come at tea-time, go to inquire after Miss Gorhara 
 — who'd be asleep anyhow, he hoped — Charles carried out 
 his usual morning practice. First he was shaved under 
 the Regina Hotel, because it was one of the few places 
 in Paris in which they would at least try to give one an 
 American hot towel ; then to the florist opposite the 
 Grand, where he grumbled at having to pay two francs 
 for a carnation ; then, not out of viciousness, but from 
 pure lightness of heart, to the bar of his hotel for a Rose 
 cocktail. Next he felt it necessary, and perhaps it would 
 be amusing, to go to Bemheira's to see those Italian 
 Futurists whom he had been asking Alison about, the 
 night before. Having been, he knew it had been un- 
 necessary, but it had certainly been amusing. Finally, as 
 there was still a little while before he would care for 
 lunch, in a cab to the Louvre to see the Frieze of the 
 Archers, the hare, the gun and the lobster of Delacroix 
 in the Moreau Collection — " A good bag that ! "" he 
 thought — , the sad space where the Gioconda was not, 
 and the giant Courbet. The choice was characteristic of 
 Charles's tastes, and it was also characteristic of him that 
 he had to do an intolerable deal of walking to get from 
 one of these objects to another. And getting to them, 
 he didn't bother about what was on the right or on the 
 left. Such was his way. 
 
 Then lunch ; but although it would amuse me to tell 
 you where he had it and what he had, yet I've mentioned 
 too many restaurants to make another excusable, and any- 
 how Charles's mind was not set on eating just then : at 
 least, he was not thinking of lunch but of tea. But where- 
 ever it was, he sat a very long time over his coffee and 
 
88 CAVIARE 
 
 cigar trying to kill time. So slowly moved the hands of 
 his watch ! At last, impatient, he sent a chasseur to his 
 hotel for his fur coat, took a taxi-auto and went for a 
 drive all by himself in the Bois. The fading sunshine 
 helped his mood. He called over to himself all the three 
 times he had seen Alison, what he had thought when 
 he saw her first, what she had worn each time, what she 
 had said to him, all the things trivial or great that 
 had happened in their acquaintanceship. He had forgot- 
 ten entirely that feeling of being in the cold which had 
 followed his temporary departure from the table last 
 night. Too many things had followed it for him to 
 remember that one solitary event which might have 
 depressed him. And then, having thought of all these 
 things, he began to make plans. . . . But he'd forgotten 
 to telegraph to his man ! Good heavens, how could he 
 have been so stupid ! Very likely Bowles was convinced 
 by now that his master was dead ; perhaps the police of 
 Monaco were even now circulating his description. I'd 
 overlooked the necessity of telling you that Charles, 
 when a couple of evenings before he had left the Cafe des 
 Trois Vertus and had hastened to the Gare de Lyon, had 
 just succeeded in seeing the tail of the train for Monte 
 Carlo vanish into the darkness. The programme that 
 Charles had made had been carried out as far as it lay in 
 his man's power, but, not finding his master in the com- 
 partment that had been engaged, he had been passive : 
 perhaps Mr Caerleon was talking to a friend in some 
 other carriage. And so now luggage and man were seven 
 hundred miles away, and Charles himself was managing 
 without any clothes to speak of, doing without assist- 
 
MR GORHAM EXPLAINS 89 
 
 ance, and chafing under the necessity of having to wear 
 a ready-made shirt and collar. 
 
 Charles couldn't even be sure where his man was. 
 Would he have the sense to go to the Paris at Monte 
 Carlo ? And if he wasn't there, where would he be ? 
 Luckily, Charles had retained his own ticket and the 
 luggage receipt. To the telegraph office, then, to send 
 a telegram to tell him to wait instructions. Perhaps 
 he would get it. There was the problem of the address. 
 Would he ask for letters in his own name or his master's? 
 He compromised it by addressing it "Caerleon (for 
 his valet Bowles), Hotel de Paris, Monte Carlo." Short 
 of going to Monte Carlo himself, that was the best 
 he could do. 
 
 The drive and the sending of the telegram had 
 taken up time. It was now four o'clock, and Charles felt 
 that he could at last with propriety go to look for the 
 Gorhams at the Meurice. Indeed, they were waiting for 
 him. Mr Gorham a little unlike the man whom Charles 
 felt he now knew so well, still a little shaken, a little less 
 pink ; Alison the same as ever, only more so — more 
 beautiful, more charming, in a dress, of course, that 
 Charles hadn't seen before. Yes, she acknowledged that 
 she still felt a little tired, but that wasn't the result of 
 the excitement — that was nothing to be tired about — 
 but of the walking and of the stopping up to such an un- 
 earthly hour. Then, naturally, they fell to discussing 
 their adventure. Charles brought the subject up and 
 kept it there as long as he could, not for his own 
 aggrandisement, but because to discuss the dangers they 
 had shared seemed to bring him closer to, into more 
 
90 CAVIARE 
 
 intimate relationship with, Alison, to turn him into an 
 old friend. Mr Gorham started by being full of the most 
 effusive thanks to Charles, but having rendered them 
 he seemed to wish to avoid the subject. His daughter 
 though enjoyed too much fighting her battles over again 
 to be willing to be put off. 
 
 " What irritates me, as Tve been telling Poppa, Mr 
 Caerleon, is not so much that we were attacked but that 
 that man should have got away. I"'m glad generally if a 
 thief doesn't get caught, but I do think that pair were 
 the limit. Heaven only knows what they^'d have done with 
 Poppa when they'd gone through his pockets and dis- 
 covered he'd only got pearl studs, a gold watch, and 
 perhaps five hundred dollars. Perhaps they'd have held 
 him to ransom like the Gioconda. ' Loss of a great picture 
 and of a great American citizen. Is it a plot ? ' Can't you 
 see it on the bills, Mr Caerleon ? Oh, but Poppa, why 
 didn't you stick to him .''" 
 
 As I say, Mr Gorham had every appearance of being 
 sick of the whole matter, and in consequence, although 
 Charles played up, Alison's prattle fell rather flat. 
 " You stayed up too late last night, Poppa. That's why 
 you're grumpy. Well, I'm so tired that I guess I'll ask Mr 
 Caerleon to excuse me. Don't forget to arrange with him 
 to spend a respectable evening with us to-morrow " ; and, 
 laughing happily, she went away. 
 
 " I'm glad she's gone, Caerleon. I want to talk to you. 
 It's fair to explain to you about last night. But we can't 
 talk here : it's too big and not quiet enough. And we can't 
 talk upstairs : my room is next to Alison's, and so's 
 the sitting-room, and she'd hear us and wonder what 
 
MR GORHAM EXPLAINS 91 
 
 I was being so serious about. Lefs go somewhere 
 else." 
 
 Charles knew where the somewhere else would be. He 
 had learnt Mr Gorham's habits. He knew the type. He 
 doubted whether they'd be able to talk any better in the 
 discreet bar in the side street near the Opera to which 
 Mr Gorham now took him, and where, if the truth be told, 
 Charles was already sufficiently well known. Too many 
 pretty ladies came in and out, and sat at high stools and 
 di'ank curiously coloured liquids through straws. Too 
 many thick-necked Frenchmen with their hats shoved 
 well to the back of their heads sat and wrote notes which 
 they sent off by chasseurs. The Meurice was the quieter 
 atmosphere. Still, Mr Gorham preferred the bar — and so 
 once had Charles. 
 
 Arrived, Mr Gorham found a corner as far removed as 
 possible from the rest of the guests, and he and Charles, 
 sitting down, ordered whiskies and sodas. Evidently Mr 
 Gorham had something on his mind ; he wasn't here for 
 a mere chat. He had spoken of " explaining " — and he 
 evidently had something to explain. He was nervous, and 
 his hands and eyes showed it. 
 
 " Look here, Caerleon ; tell me. Did you notice any- 
 thing particular about those men last night ? " 
 
 " No — nothing particular. They seemed pretty smart 
 They almost got you. Their plan was a good one."" 
 
 " Yes, but did you look at the men themselves ? Did 
 anything strike you about either of them ? " 
 
 " Now you ask me, I remember that I did notice that 
 the one I knocked down and who afterwards escaped 
 looked an odd fish to be in that galley. He looked more 
 
92 CAVIARE 
 
 like an Englishman or an American than a Frenchman, 
 
 and he didn't look the criminal type." 
 
 " Well, he isn''t. He's a man I know — no, not to speak 
 to, but well enough by sight. An American. That's what 
 upset me. Perhaps you saw it gave me rather a shock. 
 They wanted to kidnap me all right, but it wasn't for the 
 sake of what I might have in my pockets, and it wasn't 
 to hold me for ransom as Alison suggested. No, the idea 
 was to get me away and to keep me out of things for a 
 week or so. I don't know whether I told you, but I came 
 over here as a rest after the deuce of a fight in Wall Street. 
 I practically cleared up — well, it doesn't matter how much, 
 but it was a pile, and I squeezed pretty badly one or two 
 men who don't like being squeezed, and who generally 
 try to get even when anyone interferes with their plans. 
 That's why when I got them where I wanted them I came 
 over here. It was a stock deal, of course — railroad. All I 
 had to do was to sit tight and things would come more 
 and more my way. Of course, I get news every day — 
 twice a day at least I get a cable from my agent, and 
 then I tell him what to do. If he ceased getting instruc- 
 tions from me he'd do nothing ; he wouldn't know what 
 to do. Only Cyrus Gorham knows that. Well, if they'd 
 tied me up somewhere where I couldn't get news and 
 couldn't send any instructions, all my work would crumble 
 away. They'd soon have me where I've got them now. Do 
 you see .'' Of course, it was only a forlorn chance. Even Old 
 Man Pyle would ordinarily draw the line at kidnapping." 
 
 " Kidnapping! — well, itlookedto me as if they wouldn't 
 draw the line at murder. What was the man doing with 
 a revolver ? " 
 
MR GORHAM EXPLAINS 93 
 
 " And here it is, too,"" said Mr Gorham, folding his 
 coat back a little so as to show the butt of a pistol in 
 his breast pocket. " I took it out of his hand just after 
 you left me with him last night. I've drawn the car- 
 tridges, of course.'' 
 
 " Well, it's a souvenir of the evening, anyway." 
 
 "It's more than that, my boy." Mr trorham was 
 warming up. " It's evidence ! Each of these revolvers 
 has a number, and I dare say if I want to when I get 
 back I'll be able to prove that this was bought by or 
 belonged to one of Old Man Pyle's gang. That'd help 
 some." 
 
 Charles, naturally, was more than interested ; he was 
 astonished. Of course, he knew that there were plenty 
 of Americans ready to accuse some of their fellow-country- 
 men of being " malefactors of great wealth," and he knew 
 that it was on record that some of the present-day 
 financiers hadn't stuck at trifles in making their fortunes ; 
 but then that was in America itself Kidnapping, and 
 indeed murder, formed part of the programme of the San 
 Francisco grafters — but somehow an Englishman thinks 
 of San Francisco as a place outside the law, full of pictur- 
 esque ruffians from the novels of Stevenson and Frank 
 Norris. Europe, Paris, was different ; such things couldn't 
 happen here, at home. 
 
 " Couldn't they ? " Mr Gorham answered to his doubts. 
 " Anything can happen anywhere if you've got enough 
 money to pay for it. Old Man Pyle's got less than he 
 had before he met me, but he's got enough left to put 
 across a little job like this. Besides, the man you knocked 
 down is in with him — one of his crowd ; he didn't have 
 
94 CAVIARE 
 
 to find or square him. Tim Gilder has enough at stake 
 
 on his own account.'"' 
 
 Charles, in spite of the fact that he existed more or 
 less beautifully on an income which he did not earn, and 
 habitually exceeded, had a practical mind. " What are 
 you going to do about it ? " he asked. He foresaw that 
 this conversation might go on till dinner-time if he 
 didn't get down to brass-tacks (an Americanism, of 
 course) ; and the future always interested him more than 
 the past. 
 
 " What am I going to do about it ? Why, nothing. 
 What is there to do.?'' 
 
 " Well, I don't see that the friends of your ' Old Man 
 Pyle ' are going to be satisfied with one failure. Why, we 
 haven't even set the police on them. And that reminds 
 me . . . That man getting away . . . Did you ? " 
 
 " Yes, I did. I let him go. Directly I went over and 
 looked at him — mind you, I never thought till then, for 
 a single second, that the whole thing was more than a 
 common, simple robbery — I recognised Tim Gilder, and 
 that's why I sent you away. I don't know him, but I know 
 something about his wife and kids. I guess I can look 
 after myself, whether Gilder's in the pen* or out of it. 
 Oh yes. I know it was pretty foolish, but I thought of 
 them ; and then, too, I thought of the row there'd be, 
 the scandal. Lord ! they might keep Alison and me hang- 
 ing about Paris for months over the affair. I can just see 
 the American papers. No, I'm not looking for fame this 
 journey." 
 
 " I can understand all that," Charles answered ; " but 
 
 * Mr Qorhain means " gaol " ; " pen" is short for penitentiary. 
 
MR GORHAM EXPLAINS 95 
 
 what I want to know is what you're going to do in the 
 future, how you're going to protect yourself to-day and 
 to-morrow ? They nearly got you last night. They would 
 have got you if it hadn't been for a lucky accident "" (" If 
 it hadn't been for you, my boy ! " Mr Gorham ejaculated); 
 " and perhaps if you're not jolly careful they'll get you 
 next time." 
 
 "No, I don't think. I will be jolly careful. They 
 shan't get my hide so easily as all that, I'll tell you what 
 it is, Caerleon. I've had a bit of a fright, and I made up 
 my mind this morning, before I went to sleep, that I 
 wouldn't go out after dark while I'm in Paris, or while 
 this matter's still open, and I'll be careful where I go in 
 the daytime too." 
 
 " Well, Mr Gorham, you know your own business best. 
 I don't want to seem impertinent, but if I were you I'd 
 add about a hundred per cent, to the degree of careful- 
 ness that you seem to think sufficient. I'd always have 
 somebody with me. I don't know whether you've got 
 any friends in Paris." 
 
 " Loads, my boy. There's a bunch round at the Ritz 
 now. But I'm not a baby wanting a nurse ; I can't go 
 and ask them to keep with me. They'd think I was 
 mad. If I told 'em the reason, the whole thing, p'raps 
 they wouldn't believe me — and if they did, ten to one 
 they'd fight shy at the idea of butting in on Old Man 
 Pyle's game." 
 
 " Well, you seem to be a nice cheerftil lot of com- 
 panions-in-arms in New York, I must say. Still, /'m not 
 afraid of your ' Old Man Pyle.' He can't do anything to 
 me. And I don't think I'm much afraid of your other 
 
96 CAVIARE 
 
 man — Gilder's his name, isn't it ? — either. We've got his 
 
 revolver ! So count on me, Mr Gorham. I'll look after 
 
 you when you want me. You've seen I'm not such a bad 
 
 bodyguard." 
 
 " Well, that's real good of you, Caerleon, and I'm 
 going to take you at your word. I'll get you to walk 
 back to the hotel with me now, and I want you to take 
 dinner with us to-morrow night. Where did Alison tell 
 me to say ? Oh, I know — Paillard's. Eight o'clock. We 
 won't go painting the town red afterwards : I'll go home 
 and lock all three of my bedroom doors." 
 
 " You mention Miss Gorham. Does she know about 
 all this?" 
 
 " No, sir. Not on your life. Alison spends money ; 
 she don't know anything about the way it's got. Why, 
 if I told her all about Old Man Pyle, and Gilder, and 
 that bunch, she'd get real upset as likely as not. No, I'm 
 going to rely on you all you let me, and I'll take care 
 of myself, but — well, not a word to Alison." 
 
 "Perhaps you know best, Mr Gorham. I'd have 
 thought, though, that if Miss Gorham is even possibly to 
 have again the kind of adventure she had last night, she 
 ought to know what it's all about. It prepares her any- 
 way." 
 
 " Yes, but we shan't have any more excitements like 
 that. Now I know that they're after me to this extent I 
 intend to keep in my hole. They can't dig me out at the 
 Meurice. Besides, the affair will be at an end in a fort- 
 night or so. ..." 
 
 Mr Gorham seemed to think the subject had been 
 sufficiently discussed. After all, from his point of view, it 
 
MR GORHAM EXPLAINS 97 
 
 was simple. All he had to do was to sit tight, to be 
 sensible, to stick to the main streets and daylight. True, 
 it was dark now, but he had Charles with him. It was a 
 pretty clever kidnapper who'd manage the two of them 
 in the Avenue de TOpera at six o'clock in the evening. 
 
 All the same, as they went out of the bar Charles looked 
 round with a nervous interest. There were the usual half- 
 dozen semi-private motors ; one or two hangers-on seemed 
 to belong to the atmosphere, and couldn't by any stretch 
 of imagination be translated into criminals sent from Wall 
 Street. Charles was almost disappointed. If you do find 
 yourself involved in aplot of this kind it's more fun to have 
 it thick and slab. He didn't know that both the American 
 detective and the American criminal did their " watch- 
 ing " in too intelligent a manner to be caught so easily. 
 
 And so, soberly, quietly, without incident, they walked 
 back to the Meurice. Nothing occurred to excite Charles's 
 mind. He even made a little experiment. They were 
 passing the shop of the excellent Monsieur Kleinberger, 
 which, as you know, is only a few doors round the corner 
 from the Avenue. Charles stopped Mr Gorham under 
 the pretence of being interested in an early Dutch picture. 
 But he was really looking over his right shoulder at the 
 passers-by in the Avenue, and at the people who turned 
 into the rue de I'Echelle itself. Nobody passed, and 
 nobody came — at least, nobody who took the slightest 
 interest in either Mr Gorham or his companion. 
 
 Leaving Mr Gorham at his hotel, Charles thought to 
 himself that it was just possible that his elderly American 
 friend suffered from hallucinations. He remembered that 
 there was a disease known as the mania of persecution. 
 
 7 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 PEEHAP8 MISS GORHAM HAS PNEUMONIA 
 
 CHARLES was letting things get by him. He, who 
 hadn't intended to stop in Paris at all, had been 
 in that happy city for two nights and two days, 
 and he had neither plans nor clothes, neither business 
 nor actual occupation. To kill time in a place like Paris, 
 if you are looking forward to some hour or day, is rather 
 worse than being on a treadmill. Here he was, with an 
 engagement for dinner at eight o''clock the next day — 
 iust twenty-five hours off — and he was threshing his brain 
 as to how he was to spend the time that must pass. Paris 
 is a place that requires, demands, the whole heart of 
 its votary. Charles had no longer a whole heart to give 
 it. . . . 
 
 He looked at his Baedeker ; he looked at certain notes 
 he had made in his diary. There were all sorts of people, 
 at the Embassy and elsewhere, he might go and see, but 
 he didn't want to see them. How was he to account for 
 his delay in going South ? He hadn't seen the Cluny 
 Museum for a long time : he might go there in the 
 
 morning, and in the afternoon he might brave the 
 
 98 
 
PERHAPS MISS GORHAM HAS PNEUMONIA 99 
 rugosities of Monsieur Vollard\s temperament, and see 
 whatever Cezannes, Picassos, and Gauguins that amiable 
 dealer would show him ; then the Galeries Durand-Ruel 
 were always good for an hour or so. But these were for 
 to-morrow. Characteristically he solved the difficulty. 
 Remembering that he'd only slept for a couple of hours 
 on the previous night, and not wanting to dress, he 
 walked quickly down to the Tour d"" Argent, had a barbue 
 Hoiisman, an entrecote Bordelaise, some Brie, and a bottle 
 — a whole bottle — of Gorton, and then, having secured 
 beforehand, in spite of the strike, a taxi, drove straight- 
 way to his hotel. By nine o''clock he was in bed, and by 
 nine-five he was asleep, and he was still asleep the next 
 morning at eight o'clock, when, as usual, he had com- 
 manded his coffee. And let me hasten to add that with 
 his coffee came a little blue folded paper, with a type- 
 written telegraphic message from the good Bowles : " am 
 here sir have no money can't get luggage obediently 
 bowles." For the moment, however, the telegram got no 
 attention. 
 
 The truth was that, although Charles didn't know it 
 all through the previous evening and through all the 
 hours since he had left Mr Gorham, his mind had been 
 working at one problem. What was he to do about 
 Alison ? And suddenly, at eleven o'clock, when he was 
 conscientiously carrying out his time-killing programme, 
 and examining with absent-minded appreciation the 
 manifold beauties of the Cluny, light came to him. He 
 must tell Mr Gorham. He lef^ the place more quickly 
 than he had entered it. At the Taverne Lorraine he 
 found ink and paper : — 
 
100 CAVIARE 
 
 " Dear Mr Gorham, — I am to have the pleasure 
 of dining with you this evening, but I wish I might 
 have a talk with you first. There's a good deal I 
 want to say connected, directly and indirectly, with 
 what you told me yesterday. I wish you'd send me 
 a note to the Chatham to say if we can't meet at 
 four o'clock. — Yours very sincerely, 
 
 " Charles Caerleon." 
 
 A disingenuous note. You see, Charles didn't want her 
 father to show it to Alison ; and perhaps, after all, it 
 wasn't so entirely unfair to say that what he wanted to 
 talk about bore " directly and indirectly " on the subject 
 of Mr Gorham's revelations. By twenty past eleven the 
 letter was on its way, and at two o'clock Charles was 
 back at the Chatham. What if Mr Gorham, anxious to 
 make the most of the daylight hours, had been out.? 
 No, an answer was there : — 
 
 " My dear Mr Caerleon " (the use of the " Mr " 
 is peculiarly American), — "Alison is in bed : we shall 
 have to dine alone. So I dare say what you have to 
 say — and I know it will be worth while listening 
 to — will wait till we meet at eight at Pai Hard's. 
 No — perhaps, after the lecture you read me, you 
 won't mind fetching me. I feel like a baby who 
 can't be allowed out without a nurse ! I'll expect 
 you at 7.45. I've ordered dinner. — Yours very 
 faithfully, Cyrus K. Gorham. 
 
 " P.S. — You'll be reassured to hear that I've put 
 the cartridges back in that revolver. 
 
 " PP.S. — There isn't anything really the matter 
 with Alison. She knows I'm writing to you, and 
 sends you her messages." 
 
PERHAPS MISS GORHAM HAS PNEUMONIA loi 
 Now, this was all very well, but it was very much 
 calculated both to disturb Charles's equanimity, and to 
 fan his growing passion. In one way, it was no dis- 
 advantage to be able to talk to Mr Gorham over a 
 dinner- table rather than in the troubled atmosphere of 
 some shady cafe. But Charles had been so greatly look- 
 ing forward to seeing Alison again. . . . Why, he had 
 hardly spoken to her since that adventurous night ! And, 
 again, she was ill. What illness might not have attacked 
 a young girl exposed to the cold breezes of a Parisian 
 early morning ? Bronchitis. Pneumonia. If there wasn't 
 " anything really "" the matter with her, why didn't she 
 dine with them, if not at Paillard's, then in the repose of 
 her own hotel ? 
 
 However, thinking cures no such evil. There was eight 
 o'clock to wait for. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES DECLARES HIS SUIT 
 
 MR GORHAM at dinner was cheery enough. 
 Evidently he had recovered his balance. He 
 talked with enthusiasm about Paris, about 
 New York, about the kind of thing Alison and he would 
 next do to amuse themselves. The confidences of the 
 evening before had evidently loosened the strings of his 
 mind. He was more disposed to treat Charles as a friend, 
 as someone he had known longer than for the two or 
 three days since first they had actually met. He explained 
 a good deal of the operations he had been engaged on in 
 New York, the affair that had disturbed the equanimity 
 of his " Old Man Pyle "" — but he explained with reserva- 
 tions. Whether he was a " bull ■" or a " bear," and on 
 which particular railroad he was exercising his talents for 
 speculation — these ultimate facts he kept to himself. Nor 
 was Charles very curious to learn. He would have pre- 
 ferred to think that Mr Gorham's activity was construc- 
 tive, but it was a great thing to know that it was success- 
 ful. All this enterprising American had to say was 
 interesting: he made things live. Charles, who had a 
 
CHARLES DECLARES HIS SUIT 103 
 
 reader's knowledge of Wall Street — the kind of know- 
 ledge you get from reading The Saturday Evening 
 Post, Edwin Lefevre, and Will Payne — began to feel 
 that he understood the place at last. Stock Exchange 
 gambling was not much to his taste. Hardly could he 
 recall any flutter in stocks and shares in London. But 
 Wall Street was so dramatic, so picturesque, so romantic 
 even. The people all stood out so vividly 
 
 " But now, my dear young friend " — Mr Gorham was 
 wont to become both paternal and familiar after a good 
 meal, — " what new advice have you got to give me ? I'm 
 listening to all that comes. Perhaps I'll take it. You seem 
 to me to have a head-piece, and that, if I may say so 
 without offence, is more than most young Englishmen 
 seem to have. What I like about you is that you're a live 
 wire, and you don't get flurried. A useful man in a scrap ! " 
 
 They had dined well. Charles not only ordered good 
 dinners himself, but he was the cause of good dinners in 
 others. With him as guest, somehow or other, even the 
 most careless host didn't push the carte across the table, 
 as if to say, " Order what youlike : / shall have steak-and- 
 kidney pudding." There was something about his attitude 
 as he sat at table that suggested that he expected to lunch 
 or dine as the case might be, and not simply to feed. Mr 
 Gorham had realised that. He had shown a proper ap- 
 preciation of his position, and, with the tactful assistance 
 of the maitre d'hote!, had, as we have seen, ordered the 
 dinner beforehand. Now they had reached the coffee. 
 
 " What new advice have you to give me ? " That is 
 what Mr Gorham had asked — and, of course, Charles 
 had no new advice to give either to Mr Gorham or to 
 
104 CAVIARE 
 
 anyone else. Rather was he seeking advice, guidance, en- 
 couragement. However, there it was : Mr Gorham, by 
 his question, had brought the conversation down to brass 
 tacks. Charles couldn''t very well bring it back to a dis- 
 cussion of the possibilities of a coal strike in England, or 
 to an indictment of the New York Customs-house. He 
 either had to offer some new advice — or he had to come 
 to his own business. He wasn't happy ; his mouth was 
 dry. Excusing himself for a moment, he went out through 
 the little lobby on to the boulevard, and sought courage 
 and inspiration of the fresh air and of the twinkling 
 lights. But in vain. Returning, still his mouth was dry, 
 still his courage was to seek. . . . 
 
 " Mr Gorham, Fve given you all the advice Fve got 
 to give. I hope it's all right : it's what I think is best — 
 but I want to talk about something more important than 
 that, more important to me " 
 
 *' Well, I do like that ! " Mr Gorham ejaculated. 
 
 " Yes, more important to me, and I do think more 
 important to you. It isn't altogether my fault. It's 
 chance, perhaps. But, anyhow, fate has thrown me the 
 last few days very much in your daughter's company, and 
 I — I love her. No — I know what you want to ask. You 
 want to know if I've told her. I haven't. I'll tell you 
 why." Charles was thoroughly wound up now. He had 
 to go ahead. He wanted to get out what he had to say 
 before he was interrupted. He just couldn't let Mr 
 Gorham butt in. " I didn't tell her, because — well, be- 
 cause, perhaps, up to the present I haven't had much 
 chance, and because I did think I ought to tell you first. 
 If you object — well, I don't know yet what I shall do, but 
 
CHARLES DECLARES HIS SUIT 105 
 
 I want you not to object. I want you to listen to me." 
 Mr Gorham was listening right enough : there was no 
 mistake about that. "I thought I ought to tell you 
 first, because — well, just because you are — well, you're an 
 American and rich like all Americans, and you may want 
 Miss Gorham " — he was almost saying " Alison,"" but he 
 choked the name back — " to marry a title and a man 
 perhaps as rich as herself. I haven't got a title, and I'm 
 not rich, — but you do know something about my people, 
 and it happens you've had a good many opportunities of 
 knowing me: I've not got a title and I've not got 
 much money, but mine is a family. I'm sure my brother 
 would approve. And as for the money — well, I've got 
 some, and though, of course, I haven't done much work 
 up to the present, there isn't any reason why I 
 shouldn't . . ." 
 
 But Mr Gorham's patience was exhausted. He wanted 
 to talk a little himself now. He couldn't wait, in fact. 
 
 " Hold hard, Caerleon. Don't go so fast. You've not 
 told Alison, you say. So much the better. I respect you 
 for it. Most of the hundred or so young men — American 
 and French and Austrian and God knows what — who've 
 wanted to marry her haven't been so considerate. But 
 let's consider your proposition. You mustn't take offence. 
 Let's deal with your last remark first. There isn't any 
 reason why you shouldn't work, you say. I wonder. I'm 
 not so sure. How old are ypu ? I remember : thirty-three. 
 Well, if self-respect hasn't made you go out and do some- 
 thing by now, I don't quite see how you're going to 
 begin. Yes. I know Alison is an inducement. But I'm 
 not offering Alison as a reward to idle young English- 
 
106 CAVIARE 
 
 men for working hard at making a couple of thousand 
 dollars a year. That's not my way. How much more do 
 you think you'd be able to make ? Not much, I'm afraid. 
 And now, let's take your other points. You haven't a 
 title. But don't make any mistake there, Caerleon : I 
 set Alison's happiness far away above titles. No dukes 
 for Cyrus Gorham — unless a duke happens along that 
 Alison really and truly wants for his own sake. All 
 the same, a title and no money is better than no title 
 and no money. If a man is a duke or an earl and 
 doesn't do any work — well, I don't know that one 
 can exactly blame him. He's up against it. I should 
 think he'd find it rather difficult to get people to take 
 him seriously if he wanted to work. But if a man's like 
 you, and he doesn't do any work — well, he's a — well, he's 
 a man who doesn't want to do any, and who isn't likely 
 to begin." Mr Gorham paused, and clapped his hands. 
 The waiter appeared. " Bring me the paper out of my 
 overcoat pocket — number 8," he said. 
 
 The paper was brought — a New York Sun. 
 
 " Now, look here. This came in while I was dressing. 
 Listen : — 
 
 " ' It is known that the father of Miss Rolker did 
 not at first look with favour on the Prince's suit. 
 He liked the nobleman as a friend, but as a son-in- 
 law — that was different. The Prince announced 
 that he was willing to go to work, and the under- 
 standing is that w^hen he comes back in the latter 
 part of April, he will be got a job in some company 
 in which Mr Rolker is interested.'" 
 
 Charles did listen. Indeed, he had listened to all Mr 
 
CHARLES DECLARES HIS SUIT 107 
 
 Gorham had said, and while he knew that his suit wasn't 
 exactly prospering, yet, on the other hand, if words meant 
 anything, one happy fact stood out. There had been " a 
 hundred or so " young men in love with Alison, but no 
 one of them had yet prevailed. Mr Gorham had framed 
 all his sentences as if Alison's future was still undecided. 
 Surely it was. But Mr Gorham was continuing : — 
 
 " Now, that's the kind of damn fool that so many of us 
 Americans are. Who's this prince ? The papers give him 
 a capital 'P.' But who is he?" Charles didn't know. "Of 
 course you don't. Nor anyone else either. But the point 
 is: what 'job' can he do .5* N-O-N-E." Mr Gorham 
 spelt out the monosyllable. " He can go to an office and 
 hold down a desk, but he'll never do any work. And after 
 about a week he won't even pretend to. And, what's more, 
 his father-in-law won't even want him to pretend to. I'm 
 not going to have any nonsense of that kind with Alison. 
 Now, the third point. You say you've got some money. 
 What's ' some money ' ? I'll wager — now, I don't want to 
 be offensive, Caerleon, but you must let me say what I 
 have to say — now I'll wager that you've got less than 
 would pay for Alison's cars, less very likely than would 
 pay her dressmaker's bills." 
 
 And having in this last sentence done his daughter an 
 injustice, Mr Gorham paused. An injustice, because Alison 
 was very far from being one of those women who spend money 
 like water on clothes they never wear. She never would 
 have served as an awful example of feminine extravagance 
 of the kind that thecheap magazines hold upto the wonder 
 and envy of their half-million readers : " What it Costs a 
 Woman to Dress in the Smart Set." Indeed, Alison was 
 
io8 CAVIARE 
 
 only in "the Smart Set"" to the extent to which her 
 father's connections made absolutely inevitable. Well 
 dressed she was, as Charles knew, but her well-dressing 
 was reasonable. 
 
 Mr Gorham had only paused. Before Charles could 
 come to the rescue of his own character against the 
 attacks implied in what had been said, he began again : 
 
 " But even if you had quite a lot of money, I wouldn"'t 
 wish Alison to marry you. You know I like you, 
 Caerleon. I do, and I have reason to. But there''s all 
 the difference in the world between liking a man and 
 wanting to trust him with one''s daughter. Your trouble 
 is, you aren''t a worker. We like workers in America. A 
 man who has no work to do isn't likely to avoid mischief. 
 Ifd be a bit different if you had an estate. That 
 might occupy you. But your brother's got that. If he 
 dies — which the Lord forbid ! — and if his two boys die, 
 and if your two other brothers, both of whom seem to be 
 fairly well and hearty, go to heaven (you see, I thought 
 what we've been talking about might happen, and I've 
 been looking you up in ' Debrett ') — well, then, you'll 
 come into title and estate. But we needn't reckon on 
 that " 
 
 Here Charles jumped in. " Mr Gorham, you don't 
 wrap things up ; I won't either. I love your daughter. 
 I've told you that — I've given you notice of it, so to speak. 
 Now, I propose to tell her. She's of age. If she can't love 
 me — well, that's the end, I suppose ; but, if she can, if she 
 does, what are you going to do about it ? I'm not a 
 fortune-hunter — heaven knows ! I think you'd acquit me 
 of that." Mr Gorham assented with a grim smile. 
 
CHARLES DECLARES HIS SUIT 109 
 
 "No, nor do I want your money. Fve got nearly 
 fifteen hundred a year of my own " — Charles was a little 
 sanguine : it had once reached fifteen hundred, but that 
 was in a particularly good year ; nor did his figures take 
 heed of the inroads that his little extravagances had made 
 in his income : his capital he couldn't touch, but there 
 was, and there had been, nothing to prevent his borrow- 
 ing, and paying the interest out of income while he looked 
 for a windfall. " If Miss Gorham can care for me I will, 
 in spite of what you say, find work. Friends offered me 
 work when I came down from Oxford. I shall ask Miss 
 Gorham. I do not think that is unfair. I love her too 
 much to give her up just because you prefer an American 
 son-in-law." 
 
 " I didn't say so," Mr Gorham answered. " As a matter 
 of fact, if you had any good working qualities, I'd as soon 
 have you for a son-in-law as anyone else I've seen — sooner, 
 I don't mind saying. Besides,I like your spirit. IfAlison'll 
 marry you (and everything is possible with a girl), 
 whether I approve or not, and if, what is even more, you 
 don't care whether she has money or not — well, I don't 
 quite see what I'm to do to stop it. Look here, Caerleon, 
 I'll make a bargain with you. If you will promise me not 
 to speak to Alison about this now, and if you will in the 
 meantime both look for work and put your back into it 
 when you get it, then, in a year's time, if she's still free, 
 I'll withdraw my not very strong opposition. You shall 
 have your chance. What do you say ? Much of what I 
 said just now I said, frankly, to try you, and I don't 
 mind telling you that if you're in love with Alison, I 
 believe, now I come to think it over, that Alison's more 
 
no CAVIARE 
 
 than half in love with you. Anyhow, I don't think youll 
 lose anything by waiting and not speaking now. She 
 won"'t forget you in such a hurry." 
 
 It never took Charles long to make up his mind. " Yes, 
 sir, I agree to that. I suppose I may see Miss Gorham 
 as usual in the meantime .? " 
 
 " Now, there you go. How can you see her in the mean- 
 time if youVe away looking for work, and working ? Why, 
 we, as you know, are going to Rome and Egypt and God 
 knows where. And even while we're in Paris, you won't 
 find work at the Chatham bar or places like this." 
 
 Charles flushed ; he knew Mr Gorham was right. " I 
 mean, may I see her and you while you remain in Paris, 
 just as if we had not had this talk ?" 
 
 " No, sir, you may not. You can — if you're wise — go 
 away from Paris — we'll come to that directly. Alison 
 said that, as she couldn't be here to-night, I was to ask 
 you to dine to-morrow. I am doing so now. And, when 
 you go — and I hope it will be the next day — not that I 
 shan't be sorry to lose you — we'll come and see you off, 
 and wish you good luck." 
 
 " Very well, Mr Gorham. I understand, and I appre- 
 ciate what you say. I don't think you're treating me un- 
 fairly. The day after to-morrow I'll clear out of Paris 
 and go and see my friends in England, and see what work 
 I can get." 
 
 " Now, listen to me. What work do you expect to get ? 
 You say that, when you left Oxford, friends offered you 
 work. Doesn't it occur to you that they offered you work 
 just in order to prevent your becoming a " 
 
 ** — a waster," Charles ejaculated, bitterly. 
 
CHARLES DECLARES HIS SUIT in 
 
 "No, thafs nonsense ; youVe not a waster : an idler 
 is the word I wanted. They Hkely did it just to prevent 
 your drifting about as youVe been doing. Besides, that 
 was ten years ago. You hadn't got the lazy habits then 
 that you have now. And you were younger. No, you won't 
 get any real work in England. You must go to America 
 or Canada — Australia's no use to you : it's too far off : no 
 sooner'd you get there than you'd be thinking of coming 
 back, because your year was nearly up. I'll do something 
 for you. Not what that man we were reading about just 
 now proposes to do for his prince. I think yoiHre serious. 
 I'll give you a letter of introduction to some people I 
 know in New York. You're interested in railroad matters 
 — well, if you make a good impression, they'll give you a 
 job over there, I daresay. Mind you, I shan't write any 
 other letter to them than that I'll give you to take. And 
 you can read that." 
 Charles thanked him. 
 
 " No, you needn't thank me. I'm taking the easiest way 
 out of a difficulty. I like you well enough to want you to 
 have every chance. I don't much believe in a man who's 
 been an idler till he's your age suddenly starting work — 
 but we'll see. If you make good in America, then, if Alison 
 wants you, I shan't say no. If you don't make good, I hope 
 you'll have the good feeling to stop away, and then we 
 shan't have any trouble. Besides, you may change your 
 mind." 
 
 " No fear of that, Mr Gorham. And I want you to 
 understand. I'll work just as hard as I can ; I won't muff 
 my chances if I can help it — but — well, if I don't make 
 good, as you call it, I don't promise to relinquish my 
 
112 CAVIARE 
 
 attempt to marry Miss Gorham. After all, fifteen hun- 
 dred a year, say, is enough to live on — and Fm sure to 
 get more later on."" 
 
 *' Waiting for dead men's shoes isn't worth while, my 
 boy. You shouldn't bank on that." 
 
 " Fm not banking on it. . . ." Charles thought it was 
 time to get on to less dangerous, less personal topics. 
 " But you must tell me about New York. I've never been 
 there. They don't like Englishmen there much, do they ? ^ 
 
 " They like them all right if they're likeable. There 
 are a lot of things you ought to cut out. That eyeglass, 
 if you can. They don't like eyeglasses in America. And 
 the spats you wear — spats, you call 'em, don't you ? I once 
 knew an Englishman who went to see the President — 
 Roosevelt — at the White House in spats and an eyeglass ; 
 but I rather fancy he must have done it for a bet. He 
 left the country pretty soon after. It's too much to expect 
 you to change your way of speaking in a few days, but if 
 you only could get to talk decent Americanit'd help a lot." 
 
 " What do you call decent American ? " 
 
 *' Why, the way Americans talk. You English people 
 talk like the guys they give the comic parts to in the 
 theatres — English parts, I mean. We never realise that 
 it's anything else but burlesque, something quite im- 
 possible, till we get to London and hear everyone talking 
 it. And get some clothes made by an American tailor. 
 Wear something that doesn't look as if you'd grown out 
 of it." 
 
 Mr Gorham had helped himself to the old brandy of 
 the house more than once since they had begun their 
 serious conversation, and Charles looked at him to see if 
 
CHARLES DECLARES HIS SUIT 113 
 
 he was any the worse for it. Or was he, in spite of his 
 apparent good-nature of a few minutes ago, wanting to 
 pick a quarrel ? Or was he a humourist ? There was 
 nothing to show. He looked both benign and serious. 
 He was always pink. 
 
 " I'll see what I can do to improve myself," Charles 
 said. He didn't even throw a sarcastic note into his 
 voice. If it hadn't been for Alison, though, he'd have 
 countered Mr Gorham's criticisms with the indictment 
 of American clothes, manners, speech, that trembled on 
 the end of his tongue. Watch-ribbons from which hang 
 imitation Regency ornaments; "rubbers"; the use of 
 " nope " and " yep " for the more gracious " no " and 
 " yes " ; the built-up shoulders and baggy legs of the 
 American " business suit " — no, the list is too long. To 
 each nation its own foolishness, he said to himself. But, 
 all the same, he registered a mental vow that, unless the 
 winning of Alison altogether depended on it, he wouldn't 
 give up his eyeglass. 
 
 The evening seemed at an end. They had been longer 
 talking than Charles had realised. Mr Gorham paid his 
 bill. Nothing should, nothing was to, happen that night. 
 Charles was an organiser. Refusing the services of the 
 taxis that were waiting outside the restaurant, he crossed 
 the boulevard and selected one from the moving stream. 
 Its presence could not have been premeditated. 
 
 Mr Gorham's last words as he went into the Meurice 
 were : " Oh yes, I promise to take care of myself." 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF MR GORHAM 
 
 CHARLES did not feel that he had any great 
 cause for disquiet or dissatisfaction. True, Mr 
 Gorham did not entirely smile on his suit, but 
 all the same he seemed not unwilling, under certain con- 
 ditions and in certain circumstances, to help it forward. 
 The worst feature was the necessity under which he now 
 was of saying no word to Alison herself. But did that so 
 very greatly matter ? Surely she knew already all there 
 was to know. . . . And although he was himself debarred 
 from explaining to her why he was leaving Paris and 
 going so incontinently to America, yet the odds were 
 that Mr Gorham would intentionally or unintentionally 
 let it out, if not in so many words, at least in such a way 
 that she would understand. 
 
 And so, after his dinner with Mr Gorham, Charles 
 went happily to bed. 
 
 With his coffee in the morning he bade the waiter bring 
 him the " folders "" of the various Transatlantic steamship 
 lines. If he w«is to go he had better arrange to go at once. 
 The sooner the better. Perhaps there was a boat to- 
 
 "4 
 
STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF MR GORHAM iiS 
 morrow. But it was already the Tuesday of the week, and 
 there was no good boat that he could catch till the 
 Wednesday of its successor. If he cut his dinner to-night 
 he could make the Olympic by a little hustling, but he 
 wasn't going to cut his dinner for all the White Star 
 boats in the world. It might give Mr Gorham a good 
 opinion of his seriousness, but that advantage would have 
 been bought at too high a price. Now Charles knew little 
 more than the reputations of the various lines and the 
 names of the crack boats. Save for a healthy prejudice 
 against the German lines, he didn't care what he sailed 
 in as long as he crossed the ocean in the minimum of 
 time. So many more days would he have in which to 
 make good in America. The sooner he was there the 
 more quickly would he be back. The Mauretania was ob- 
 viously the boat for him to take, and, getting up, Charles 
 strolled round to the rue Scribe to see about a berth. 
 He could afford to stroll ; had he not a whole week on 
 his hands ? 
 
 But had he ? True, it was eight days and an hour 
 before he need be at Euston to catch the boat special, 
 but there were things to do in that week, and in any 
 case he couldn't pass the time in Paris. He felt that 
 Mr Gorham wouldn't swallow any excuse for hanging 
 about that was based on the fact that the steamers 
 didn't fit. No, he'd have to go away from Paris, and he 
 didn't exactly want to go back to his friends in England. 
 And why should he ? In the first place, there would be 
 the necessity for all sorts of awkward explanations. His 
 brothers would be annoyed at the idea of his seeking his 
 fortune in New York. Nor had he any important disposi- 
 
Ii6 CAVIARE 
 
 tions to make in England. There were, in spite of Mr 
 Gorham's admonitions, no clothes to buy. Oh ! that re- 
 minded him : Bowles must be retrieved, and so must the 
 luggage. And then Bowles must be dismissed. If he 
 were going to New York to seek a fortune it would be 
 just as well to go without the handicap of a valet. Mr 
 Gorham should know of that concession to seriousness. 
 And the baggage ? Bowles couldn't get it because his 
 master had the ticket. What should he do .'' Should he 
 telegraph money to Bowles and telegraph at the same 
 time for the baggage, or should he. . . ? Yes, he would 
 — that was the thing to do. He had a return ticket to 
 Monte Carlo, and he'd better use it. After all, it was only 
 a night's journey. He could go down through the next 
 night, collect his belongings, settle up one or two small 
 outstanding affairs, say good-bye to a few sympathetic 
 friends, and be back in London in three days. It was an 
 easy matter getting a place in the wagon-lit. 
 
 Mr Gorham had mentioned neither time nor place 
 for this last, this almost farewell, dinner ; so Charles 
 turned up at the Meurice at eight o'clock. His host was 
 not in, the porter thought ; indeed, he was sure he 
 hadn't come in. But Miss Gorham was upstairs. Would 
 Charles wait in the drawing-room while his name was 
 being announced ? He thought it odd, but he sank into 
 a chair and began to read Comcedia, or to pretend to 
 read it. . . . But what could Mr Gorham be doing out 
 of the hotel so late ? Why, it was dark — and he'd said 
 he wouldn't go out after dark ! Still, it was unlikely that 
 anything had happened. Certainly the porter had shown 
 no distress. 
 
STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF MR GORHAM 117 
 
 Charles sat on. It was not till a quarter past eight 
 that any fresh notice was taken of him, and then it was 
 a page who came with the request that he would go 
 upstairs. Why ? Charles had not been so honoured 
 before. However, he followed the page, and found him- 
 self alone in one of the private sitting-rooms of the 
 hotel. And then more delay. It was all very strange. 
 He fancied he could hear movements on the other side 
 of the door, but it wasn't for him to listen. Perhaps Mr 
 Gorham had come in and was hurrying his dressing. 
 And when at last the door opened it was Alison who 
 appeared — a white-faced Alison. Charles just had time 
 to ask himself whether this was because she had been 
 ill ? And yet Mr Gorham had said there wasn't " any- 
 thing really "" the matter with her. He had no time for 
 further conjecture. 
 
 " Mr Caerleon, IVe asked you to come up here because 
 Poppa's disappeared. I mean, he went out and he hasn't 
 come back " 
 
 " But, Miss Gorham, he'll be back directly, surely. I 
 expect he's only delayed " 
 
 " No, he's sent me a letter. I'd have shown it to you 
 anyhow. You've been such a friend these last few days " 
 — and Alison smiled through what looked suspiciously 
 like unshed tears. " He asks that I should give it you. 
 First let me tell you, though, that directly I got it I 
 thought of telephoning to you. I didn't know anyone 
 else who'd be more likely to be able to help. Besides, you 
 were there the other night. But, do you know, I hadn't any 
 idea where you were stopping. Here's the letter, though ; 
 read it." 
 
H8 CAVIARE 
 
 " My darling Alison, — I don't want you to worry 
 because Fm not coming back to-night. Nothing 
 bad's going to happen to me. You know what 
 happened the other night — well, this time they've 
 got me. No, it isn't any French apaches. I don't 
 want ransoming. I'll be let out all right in a few 
 days. I want you directly you get this to send for 
 Mr Caerleon. He'll explain. And don't give it out 
 that I've disappeared, and donH, above all, tell the 
 police. My best love, daughter. Keep cheerful. 
 
 " Cyrus K. Gorham. 
 
 " P.S. — You'd better send up to the Astoria and 
 ask Mrs Phillips if she won't move down to the 
 Meurice, and let her have my room till I get back. 
 Tell her she'll be doing me a real kindness if she 
 will. But ask her not to say a word." 
 
 Charles finished reading. It was not so obscure. He 
 thought he understood. For a moment he paused to 
 think. It was clear that " Old Man Pyle " had got Mr 
 Gorham, but what wasn't clear was how it was that Mr 
 Gorham had allowed himself to be got. He asked Alison 
 to tell him more. 
 
 '* All I know, Mr Caerleon, more than is in that note, 
 is that this afternoon about four o'clock, a few minutes 
 after we'd come in from the Bois, the room telephone 
 here rang. I went to it. It was the office wanting to 
 speak to Poppa. He took the receiver. Cook's apparently 
 had telephoned to ask whether he could step round 
 to the rue de Rivoli to settle some question that had 
 arisen on the tickets we'd taken this morning for Egypt. 
 We are, or were, going there in a week or two. I could 
 hear that Poppa didn't want to step round — he'd told 
 me he hadn't been feeling so very good, and that he 
 
STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF MR GORHAM 119 
 didn't want to go out nights, — but apparently Cook's 
 would have him, because they had to write to-day to 
 Cairo. I said Fd go with him, but he wouldn't let me. 
 He'd be back anyway in a few minutes. I was to order 
 tea. I did. And then I waited. After twenty minutes 
 this note came." 
 
 Alison would have made a first-class witness. Charles 
 felt that he knew all she had to tell him, and indeed 
 that, with her explanation, he knew more than she knew 
 herself It was his turn now to explain. First, though, 
 he asked if Mrs Phillips — whoever she might be — had 
 joined Alison ?' 
 
 " Oh yes ; Constance is a brick. She came at once. 
 She's in there " — Alison pointed to a door — " unpacking. 
 She's going to stop till Poppa comes back — oh, but, Mr 
 Caerleon, what does it all mean .'' When will he come 
 back ? Is he safe ? " She was perilously near breaking 
 down. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Gorham, he'll come back, and he's quite 
 safe, I should say." 
 
 " But, Mr Caerleon, you must help me more than that. 
 Poppa would never have told me to send for you unless 
 he was sure you could really cheer me up some way. Who 
 has ' got ' Poppa ? What does he mean .'' " 
 
 *' I think I know, Miss Gorham, and I think I know 
 too what your father meant by saying you were to send 
 at once for me. I can't help much ; but it does happen 
 that yesterday and the day before he told me a lot about 
 his affairs, and all about that attempt to kidnap him in 
 the rue Lepic on Sunday morning. It all fits in " 
 
 " But, Mr Caerleon, is he in any danger ? " 
 
120 CAVIARE 
 
 " It doesn't look as if he thought so ; now, does it ? ^ 
 For one unworthy moment Charles, remembering his 
 first meeting with Mr Gorham, recalling his gallantry, 
 and recalling too his own failure to identify any factor 
 of danger as they walked back from Gemy's a couple of 
 nights ago, wondered if his host's disappearance was 
 quite above-board. " Don't, above all, tell the police " : 
 that looked fishy ! But no. Charles didn't think Mr 
 Gorham would mix cabbages and baskets. He wouldn't 
 frighten his daughter in so serious a way just for the 
 sake of some passing amour. Besides, he had been very 
 explicit. The unworthy moment had not been without 
 advantage. Charles had thought things out. He could 
 continue with the greater confidence : 
 
 "Miss Gorham, I'll tell you all I know, and all I 
 guess. I won't keep anything back. And I needn't cut 
 it short, because if we're not to tell the police — and I 
 suppose in that matter we are to take your father's in- 
 structions implicitly — we've got several hours of inaction 
 before us. Cook's might be able to tell us something, 
 but they're closed now, and we can't make any inquiries 
 there till the morning. What a pity you didn't know 
 where I'm stopping ! It's the Chatham. Now, in the first 
 place, when that taxi tried that game the other night it 
 wasn't an affair of apaches at all: it was an affair of 
 your own countrymen. Mr Gorham has been engaged 
 in some big stock exchange deal, and he's run up against 
 all sorts of rich men with more money than scruples. 
 Apparently, if only they could get him out of the way 
 they'd planned it out that they'd be able to beat him at 
 the game. There are two ways of getting people out 
 
STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF MR GORHAM 121 
 of the way: you can kill "em""— Alison gasped, and 
 Charles held up a deprecating hand — " or you can kid- 
 nap 'em. Your father"'s chief enemy seems to have been 
 an old man called Pyle " 
 
 " Why, Mr Caerleon, I know Mr Pyle quite well. 
 He's not old — not so old as Poppa, and he's a friend of 
 Poppa's. It can't be him." 
 
 " It is, though. Miss Gorham. Do they ever call this 
 friend of your father's ' Old Man Pyle ' ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, they do. But he's not so very old, all the 
 same. He's often been to see us. Besides, he's church- 
 warden at the church we go to " 
 
 " Miss Gorham, I'm telling this story. I can only tell 
 it the way I see it after what your father told me. I 
 daresay Mr Pyle is a most exemplary citizen on Sundays 
 and when Wall Street is closed, or whatever they call it, 
 but he's the man your father's been fighting and interfer- 
 ing with. It's about the control of some railway. And 
 we're always told on this side " — Charles was becoming 
 quite American in his speech in his wish to be both 
 terse and quickly convincing — " that your business men 
 would skin their own brothers for the sake of a turn in 
 the market." 
 
 " Yes, that's true, Mr Caerleon. I know that. But Mr 
 Pyle " 
 
 " Well, Mr Pyle wanted your father out of the way, 
 and it was Mr Pyle who tried through some associate of 
 his to have him kidnapped the other night. Why, yom* 
 father recognised the man. It was the man I knocked 
 down, and who afterwards got away. He got away because 
 your father helped him. Mr Gorham told me so himself 
 
122 CAVIARE 
 
 the next day. He let him go because he didn't want the 
 scandal and the bother, and because he knew the man's 
 family. That attempt failed, and it was the next day 
 (you know when I came round to ask after you on Sun- 
 day, and your father and I went out) that I was told how 
 the land lay. I begged your father then to be more 
 careful, and he promised he would. I remember he said 
 he'd only go out in the daylight, and that then they 
 wouldn't be able to dig him out here. That was why 
 I came to fetch him last night. He promised me he'd 
 take tremendous care of himself. You see, either he was 
 mad or romancing, or else those American friends of 
 yours were really and truly trying to get hold of him. In 
 the second case, they weren't likely to be satisfied with 
 one attempt. However, I didn't worry so very much, 
 because in the first place Mr Gorham, as I've said, 
 promised to take care, and in the second he said that in 
 a very few days the thing would have worked itself out. 
 I understand him to mean that by the end of a week or 
 two things would have so shaped themselves that ' Old 
 Man Pyle ' would take his beating. Perhaps you have 
 * settling days ' in New York ? " 
 
 " I think I can understand now, Mr Caerleon. I don't 
 know what I should have done if you'd not been here. 
 What ought we to do, please ? You're siure in your own 
 mind that Poppa's in no danger .'' You're sure we oughtn't 
 to go to the police .? " 
 
 " Mr Gorham is in no danger, if what he told me is true 
 — if, I mean, he's right in what he believes ; and we 
 shan't gain anything, I think, by telling the police. That 
 note's in your father's hand. It can't all have been 
 
STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF MR GORHAM 123 
 dictated, forced out of him, or else he wouldn't have been 
 allowed to tell you to send for me. He doesn't want the 
 police interfering. They'd mix up the whole affair, and so 
 would all the papers, with the motor-car bandits. And 
 I doubt whether we should be any nearer getting your 
 father back. . . " 
 
 " But isn't there anything we can do ? "" 
 
 " Yes." Charles, as I have said, was an organiser ; also 
 he was practical. He had seen that these hours of anxiety 
 were telling on Alison. " Yes, we can dine. I daresay 
 your friend — Mrs Phillips — is ready for her dinner. I 
 am for mine. Oh, I know you think you can't eat — but 
 you can try. Your father'U have had his dinner wherever 
 he may be. Now please do what I tell you. Telephone 
 down and say that the dinner ordered for eight o'clock 
 will be wanted in ten minutes — no, don't leave the tele- 
 phone : now ask for the porter. Say that about five 
 o'clock a note was left here by hand, addressed to you, 
 and tell him to send up whoever actually took it in, at 
 once. By the way, you didn't show me the envelope." 
 
 Neither paper nor envelope was of any value as a clue. 
 They were of the kind that the waiter of the boulevard 
 cafe brings when he's asked for writing materials — the 
 rottenest envelope, and a sheet of paper all cut up into 
 little squares by the ruling. Both the address and the 
 note itself were written quite normally, evidently with 
 the fountain pen Mr Gorham habitually carried. 
 
 Facts won't lend themselves into making a detective 
 story, a romance of mysterious crime, out of this 
 veracious chronicle, so I had better say at once that al- 
 though Charles rather fancied himself as an investigator, 
 
124 CAVIARE 
 
 yet even he, when a knock came at the door and one of 
 the under porters came in, failed to ehcit anything of 
 the slightest real importance. The driver of a horse 
 cab had brought the note. He had driven up in the 
 oi*dinary way, and the porter thought he might 
 remember him again, because he''d had words with him 
 for coming to the door and taking up the space with 
 an empty cab just at the time when that space was most 
 wanted. Yes, he had said something — that no answer 
 was wanted, and that he'd been given the letter by an 
 Englishman. 
 
 "From all of which we may deduce," said Charles 
 when they were alone again, "just one fact — that your 
 father isn''t so very far away. You said the note arrived 
 after about twenty minutes. Let's say half an hour. In 
 that half-hour he had to be kidnapped and to get 
 somewhere sufficiently private to write that letter. They 
 couldn't have made him write it in a cafe. Then it had 
 to get here — in a horse cab. No, he's within a couple of 
 miles. But the ten minutes is up : what about dinner ? "" 
 
 " Mr Caerleon, you're like Poppa. He won't do 
 without his dinner either. But I must call Mrs Phillips. 
 She knows that Poppa's disappeared; she's seen that 
 note. But we won't tell her any more. She's so nice 
 that she won't even try to find out." 
 
 Charles was all the better pleased. A secret, so many 
 secrets, brought him closer to Alison. It was almost 
 a family intimacy. 
 
CHAFrER XVI 
 
 A BEATING OF THE AIR 
 
 HIS friends would hardly have said that Charles 
 was a person of sanguine temperament, but 
 all the same he was not in the habit of 
 borrowing trouble, of crossing bridges before he came 
 to them, of counting sad chickens before they were 
 hatched, of looking on the dark side of things. What's 
 the use ? he'd have asked if he'd been of Miss Gorham's 
 nationality. True, they — he thought of himself as one 
 of the family now ! — had enough to worry about. The 
 kidnapping of heads of families was not a matter of 
 everyday occurrence. Mr Gorham was gone, and Heaven 
 alone knew whether, or when, he'd return. Charles had 
 said cheerfully that he was convinced that there was no 
 danger, but wasn't there always danger when unscrupu- 
 lous men found themselves in a hole .'* Supposing things 
 so shaped that Mr Gorham had to be jettisoned. Better 
 dead than alive, his captors might say. 
 
 So thought Charles to himself as he went down to 
 dinner in the wake of Alison and her Mrs Phillips — such 
 a pleasant type of American woman, with that charming 
 
126 CAVIARE 
 
 urbanity, that cheerful, unpushing alertness that Phila- 
 delphia, city of homes, seems to breed. She not only 
 reminded one of Rittenhouse Square : she was the Square. 
 Charles knew he''d get on with her at once. " If all Alison's 
 friends are like this one," he said to himself, 'Til want 
 some of them to stop with us all the time." She had 
 come in when Alison had summoned her, and Charles 
 had been " presented," and had, of course, forgotten to 
 follow the proper American formula — " pleased to meet 
 you, Mrs Phillips" — and Mrs Phillips had thought no 
 worse of him on that account, but had smiled with 
 sympathy, and had had the sense — oh, if such sense were 
 more common here in the country where I write this ! — 
 to avoid any mention of their immediate preoccupation. 
 
 Still, Mr Gorham^'s disappearance could not be ignored. 
 Naturally, it hung like a blight over a party that might 
 otherwise have been entirely festive. Charles certainly 
 was as festive as he dared. And Miss Gorham — she had 
 braced herself up and was a hostess who was determined 
 to carry things off. She pleased Charles by choosing the 
 wine herself. " I know youM rather drink claret, Mr 
 Caerleon," and she ordered a Haut Brion which was 
 even too good for the occasion — unless her father's dis- 
 appearance was to form the criterion of importance ; and 
 for herself and Mrs Phillips a 1904 champagne just 
 sufficiently out of the ruck to convince Charles that when 
 he was away she wouldn't drink the contents of his cellar 
 as if it was ginger-beer. 
 
 " Poppa told me, Mr Caerleon, that you were going 
 away to-morrow, and that he'd said we'd show our proper 
 sense of all we owe you by coming to see you off. Perhaps 
 
A BEATING OF THE AIR 127 
 
 it'll be spoiling you ; but, as he said that, Mrs Phillips 
 and I will do the best we can. Well come — won't we, 
 Constance." 
 
 Constance answered "Sure" almost before Charles 
 could interpose : 
 
 " But I'm not going now, Miss Gorham ; I shall stop 
 here and see what happens, and see if I can be of any kind 
 of use to you. You'll let me, please. Besides, I wasn't 
 really leaving till next week. Then I'm going — or was 
 going — to America. But to-morrow I was only intending 
 to run down to the Riviera to get ray baggage and to 
 find my man and to do a little business. You see, Paris 
 is a little dull just now "' — he had begun to flounder, poor 
 young man, — " and anyhow I have a return ticket that'll 
 be wasted if I don't use it." 
 
 " But of course you'll use it, Mr Caerleon ; you mustn't 
 waste a return ticket ! " Alison didn't want him to use 
 it ; she'd be seriously offended if he did, or hurt perhaps 
 — but she had been nettled by his " Paris is a little dull." 
 " Of course you'll use it. We can get on alone. You said 
 yourself that what Poppa had written was all right. We 
 can j ust wait — can't we, Constance ? We'll see Mr Caerleon 
 oif — if he's not going by some nine o'clock train, — and 
 then we'll enjoy ourselves and spend Poppa's money and 
 do all the things he hates me to do because he thinks 'em 
 dull. I want to spend days in the Cluny, for instance." 
 
 " You shall spend days in the Cluny, Miss Gorham : 
 I'll go with you, if you'll let me. I know it quite well ; 
 I was there yesterday. For you can be sure I shan't go 
 away till Mr Gorham's back and safe and sound. You 
 may not want me, but ' I'm there if I'm wanted,' as the 
 
za8 CAVIARE 
 
 music-hall song says. And as for spending Mr Gorhara's 
 money ^ — Charles spoke with his lips curving to a smile, 
 but his eyes were serious, — " don't forget that what he's 
 in is a financial deal, that this kidnapping is only the 
 small end of it, its least important side. Your friend 
 Mr Pyle, if I understood your father aright, will, now 
 that he's got him, proceed to take all his money away 
 from him. I should go slow on the spending — and keep 
 enough to carry you back to America.'' 
 
 But Alison was still a little sore. " I can't make you 
 go, Mr Caerleon, and anyhow I'm very grateful to you 
 — but I don't want you to alter your plans for me, for us. 
 As for the money, I daresay there'll be enough to take 
 us round some, and yet to carry us back to Philadelphia." 
 She didn't propose to stand for Charles's half-serious 
 joke. "And now, Mr Caerleon, I'm going to send you 
 away. You weren't leaving Paris anyhow till to-morrow 
 evening, you say. Well, we'll see you again before then." 
 She relented a little. " Besides, we are to see you off — 
 but apart from that, perhaps after all you'd just come 
 round here and — and cheer us up a little at about 
 eleven in the morning. Come along, Constance ; good- 
 night again, Mr Caerleon ; " and she was gone, leaving 
 Charles in almost open-mouthed admiration of the self- 
 control of young American womanhood. It was useless 
 to fret, and so Alison was not fretting. 
 
 Charles could not know that long after the streets 
 were quiet, long after he himself was asleep, Alison's 
 eyes were still unclosed, that her pillow was wet with 
 anxious tears. 
 
CHAPITER XVII 
 
 IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES AT LAST LEAVES PARIS 
 
 IT is unpleasant to be called before the hour one has 
 anticipated. Having been told to come to the 
 Meurice at eleven oHock, Charles, knowing that 
 whatever happened he would have no easy day before 
 him, had ordered his coffee for nine o'clock. But at ex- 
 actly fourteen minutes after eight there came a rap on 
 his door. He woke reluctantly — and paid, I may inci- 
 dentally mention, for the outrage on his peace by having 
 a headache until lunch-time. Nowadays the young man 
 of thirty- three is a tender plant. The chasseur had come 
 to say that he was wanted on the telephone. 
 
 " Mr Caerleon — Mr Caerleon — Mr Caer Ah, I am 
 
 so glad youVe come. I want to see you at once. No ; not 
 at once ; Fm not up yet, but in half an hour, — no, in 
 forty minutes. IVe got a letter from Poppa. He has a 
 message for you. I''ll tell you when you come. . . . No, 
 perhaps you''d better not come till half- past nine. We'll 
 both be ready then. What ? Whafs that you say .? How 
 did it come ? By post. The postmark ? Wait a moment. 
 Ifs Bercy. Please hurry — I mean, come punctually at 
 half-past nine. Good-bye." 
 
 129 9 
 
130 CAVIARE 
 
 This affair, said Charles to himself, was evidently going 
 to keep him on the jump. And yet, somehow, he couldn't 
 just then take it with any great, any dramatic seriousness. 
 It was American. And America was so far off. MrGorham 
 himself, it had been perfectly evident, hadn't thought so 
 very much of the moral obliquity of " Old Man Pyle " 
 and his gang. He seemed to take the risk of being kid- 
 napped as all in the day's work. And yet that was absurd. 
 It simply meant that Mr Gorham had nerve. And then 
 no doubt he had never expected that he would have been 
 caught asleep. Some day, perhaps, he'd explain to Charles 
 exactly how it did happen. 
 
 Charles dressed, and dressing drank that bad coffee 
 which the very occasional visitor to Paris is so ready to 
 praise, and having dressed was shaved and decorated with 
 a carnation. Now it was nine o'clock, and Cook's would 
 be open. His eyeglass, his politeness, never certain except 
 with his social inferiors, won him immediate attention. 
 Could they tell him — he came from Miss Gorham, of 
 course — why they'd telephoned to Mr Gorham at the 
 Meurice on the previous afternoon ? What had been the 
 matter with the Egyptian tickets ? Much running about ; 
 much consultation. At last is produced the very man 
 who had sold Mr Gorham the tickets. He didn't under- 
 stand. There was nothing the matter with the tickets, 
 surely ? They hadn't suggested that there was. And no 
 one had telephoned to Mr Gorham. The whole thing 
 was rather a mystery. Charles could discover no light 
 . . . and yet, when he went over the ground once more 
 with the assistant, he did learn something which might 
 easily prove of importance. Mr Gorham had taken time 
 
CHARLES AT LAST LEAVES PARIS 131 
 
 having his route and the conditions explained to him. 
 After he had gone — directly after — a man who had waited 
 at the counter not far from him had said that he too 
 wanted to go away and that he was uncertain as to where 
 he should go, but that it had seemed to him that the 
 tour chosen by the last gentleman might suit him. So 
 the assistant went over it with him, wondering the while, 
 he now remembered, how he could have such good ears 
 that some yards off, where he had stood, he had heard 
 the particulars of Mr Gorham's projected journey. The 
 assistant agreed now that he hadn't, as a matter of fact, 
 done other than say "the same tour.'' Anyhow, he'd 
 ordered the same tour, and had asked that the tickets 
 should be prepared for him. He was coming in that 
 morning at eleven to get them. Hadn't he left any name 
 or address ? Yes, he had. It was Costigan — and he was 
 stopping at the Westminster. 
 
 It was already the hour that Miss Gorham had ap- 
 pointed, but Charles took the time to drive round to the 
 Westminster. " Is Mr So-and-So in ? " he asked, naming 
 a friend of his who, when in Paris, usually stopped there. 
 He wasn't — as Charles well knew. And then, as he turned 
 away, as if by an afterthought : " Have you a Mr Costi- 
 gan in the hotel ? " 
 
 The porter thought not, and an examination of the 
 register confirmed his doubt. 
 
 Really, Charles began to think no small beer of him- 
 self as a detective. He was right, then : the summons to 
 Cook's was all my eye — the telephone call had come from 
 one of the kidnappers ; and as for this Costigan, he evi- 
 dently had gone through his little act with the ticket 
 
132 CAVIARE 
 
 in order to know exactly where Mr Gorham was going 
 next — in the unlikely event of his leaving Paris before 
 they could get hold of him. The whole affair was dead 
 easy. As a reward for his own intelligence he stopped 
 the taxi and chose for Alison a large bunch of the most 
 beautiful white carnations he could find. More delay — 
 but the flowers were worth it. 
 
 Miss Gorham showed no signs of distress. Her bath 
 and a resolve to take things calmly now that another 
 day was here had cleared away any result of her last 
 night's miseries. But in spite of the flowers she was a 
 little angry at having been kept waiting ten minutes. 
 Charles had to explain what he had been doing, that he 
 could not go to Cook's till they were open, and that it 
 then seemed best to follow up the Costigan clue. Miss 
 Gorham grudgingly agreed. 
 
 " But, Mr Caerleon, is there nothing we can do ? 
 Have we just to sit here and wait .'* And what'll happen 
 to Poppa's business in the meantime .'' " 
 
 Charles was ashamed to remember that he hadn't kept 
 the business aspect of the matter in his mind. However 
 . . . and he recalled something else. " You were going 
 to show me the letter you got this morning." 
 
 " Stupid of me — I should have shown it you at once. 
 There — you see, it's on exactly the same paper as last 
 night's. Read it. Poppa says you're to go away, Mr 
 Caerleon " — this last with some malice, and with some 
 regret, Charles thought and hoped. 
 
 " My dakling Alison, — I hope you got my 
 letter last night, and that you weren't very anxious 
 about me. You needn't be. I am perfectly well and 
 
CHARLES AT LAST LEAVES PARIS 133 
 
 perfectly safe. Fm being kept away from the cable 
 — that's all. I can't explain now, but it's business : 
 there isn't any danger unless the police get busy. 
 Then anything might happen. I think you'll see me 
 again in thirteen days. Tell Caerleon not to stop in 
 Paris on my account. Indeed, you can show him this 
 letter. I'm particularly anxious he shouldn't alter 
 any of his plans. I shall be very disappointed if he 
 does. I hope Mrs Phillips is with you. I shan't be 
 able to write again. Good-bye, daughter. 
 
 " Cyrus K. Gorham. 
 
 " P.S. — About Mr Caerleon. I'm not allowed to 
 write to him, but I want you to say to him that 
 I'm very serious about his going away. He'll think 
 perhaps he ought to stop, but I'm all right, and 
 there is no reason for his stopping on my account. 
 I hold him to his promise, tell him ; he'll under- 
 stand." 
 
 " There isn't a word about business in the letter, Mr 
 Caerleon, and he doesn't say what I'm to do with his 
 letters and cables. There's a mail in from America this 
 morning and two cables for him too — one last night and 
 one this morning. What am I to do about them ? Why 
 didn't he say in his letter whether I was to open them .'' " 
 
 "Your father. Miss Gorham, has been kidnapped just 
 in order that he shouldn't attend to his cables. He tells 
 you that. They wouldn't have been stupid enough to let 
 him send instructions about them." Charles felt inclined 
 to add a " See, silly ? " to his sentence ; but in the first 
 place he did not know Alison well enough, and in the 
 second he remembered that he hadn't explained with any 
 clearness about Mr Gorham's stock exchange deal. Alison 
 couldn't know that he was managing his affairs by cable or 
 
134 CAVIARE 
 
 understand by inspiration all the implications of the 
 
 kidnapping. 
 
 " Don't you open your father's telegrams when he's 
 away, Miss Gorham ? " Charles went on. 
 
 " No, never. He lets no one open them — not even his 
 secretary when he's in New York ; and when his tele- 
 phone rings there — the telephone in his own room, I 
 mean : it's got a private number — no one is allowed to 
 answer it. So I daren't open his cables now — unless you 
 think I ought." 
 
 " I don't, Miss Gorham. Your father evidently is as 
 secretive as an oyster and as reticent as a cuttlefish, and 
 we may as well respect his peculiarities. Besides, it 
 wouldn't do any good to open them. He told me he got 
 these cables and then replied with instructions. We 
 can't invent instructions. We haven't the slightest idea 
 what he wants. My own idea is that, even if we knew — 
 perhaps you do — who his agent is, it would be a 
 mistake to cable to him. If he gets no replies he may 
 at least believe that your father's satisfied with the 
 position, and leave it at that. Perhaps that'll exactly 
 suit your father's book — any way, it's an even chance to 
 begin with. Whereas if we cable that he's gone away 
 and left no address, or that he's been kidnapped, or that 
 he's too ill to attend to business, there's qo certainty 
 that the fact wouldn't get out, and that might damage 
 his interests more even than anything his enemies may 
 do. As things stand, his agent won't do anything at 
 all. I know that, because Mr Gorham told me that if he 
 cabled no instructions no steps were taken. We must 
 just do nothing and trust to luck." 
 
CHARLES AT LAST LEAVES PARIS 135 
 
 " But, Mr Caerleon, it's all so dreadful. Of course, 
 getting this letter this morning has cheered me a little, 
 but I am frightened ^ — there was a tremulous note in 
 Alison's voice, and Charles would have taken her hand 
 if his promise to Mr Gorham was not so clearly in his 
 mind. He Avondered if she knew. 
 
 " One thing, though, Mr Caerleon, is clear : you must 
 cany out your own plans." Then Alison smiled, a 
 little twisted smile. " Of course, I mustn't order you 
 about. Neither I nor Poppa can prevent your stopping 
 in Paris if you want to. What I meant was that I mustn't 
 let you stop in Paris for my sake. No, please don't argue. 
 Besides, I can prove to you you ought to go. The natural 
 thing last night when you came round was for us to have 
 gone at once to the police and to have put the whole 
 thing in their hands. Why didn't we ? Because Poppa 
 told me not to. It didn't sound sensible advice, but we 
 took it — and we believed him too when he said he was 
 in no danger. Well, we've got — you've got — to do what 
 he tells us in this too. I don't know why he doesn't want 
 you to stop, but he evidently doesn't ; he evidently is 
 more than ordinarily anxious for you to go." 
 
 Charles, of course, did know — but he couldn't tell 
 Miss Gorham without breaking his word. He com- 
 muned with himself awhile. If he went to the South 
 that evening, according to his first programme, then in 
 that case he had better go the whole hog and, de- 
 ferring still further to Mr Gorham's wishes, not see 
 Alison again for the stipulated twelve months. After 
 all, to see her thus, to see her and never to be able to 
 give either his eyes or his tongue liberty, was a sad joy. 
 
136 CAVIARE 
 
 Apparently he was to treat this kidnapping affair as of 
 no vital importance. Mr Gorham had been kidnapped, 
 and was to be kept in durance for a fortnight or so. 
 Well, so much the worse for Mr Gorham. It seems it 
 was to be treated as a Wall Street incident. He would 
 come out shorn. Charles certainly couldn"'t help him now. 
 And could he be of any great service to his daughter ? 
 He doubted it. She had Mrs Phillips and her maid, and 
 she had her own courage and her own high spirit and 
 her own declared intention not to be dull. And then he 
 must remember that he wasn't an accepted or even a 
 declared suitor of Alison's. Mr Gorham might naturally 
 have in mind the fact that he was only a recent acquaint- 
 ance, met by hazard. He might well have some anxiety 
 about leaving his daughter, even with a chaperon, in the 
 society of a young man of whom in effect he knew no 
 more than could be gleaned from the arid reticence of 
 Debretfs pages. . . . 
 
 " Yes, Miss Gorham, perhaps you're right. I don't 
 know. But I'll go. I was going to-night in the Ituce after 
 an early dinner." 
 
 " And Constance and I will come and dine with you 
 and see you off. That was a promise. A Gorham never 
 breaks a promise, however inconvenient. And now, Mr 
 Caerleon, Constance is waiting for me. We've to go and 
 be fitted at Callot's. We'll drive you as far as your hotel, 
 or the Place de I'Opera, if you are going that way." 
 
 Anglo-Saxon reserve and self-possession are indeed 
 qualities beyond price. At dinner that evening Mr 
 Gorham's name was mentioned, it is true, but his dis- 
 
CHARLES AT LAST LEAVES PARIS 137 
 
 appearance was not. The fact that he had been look- 
 ing forward to plovers' eggs came up, and that he was 
 angry that Mr Sargent wouldn't paint Alison ; but no 
 one on hearing the conversation would have thought 
 that these two beautifully dressed women, this smart 
 man, were figures in a melodrama. I don't think the 
 abstinence was intentional ; it wasn't planned. The truth 
 is, that while they talked of Mr Sargent and Zuloaga, of 
 " L'Assaut " and Mistinguett, they were all thinking 
 of Mr Gorham, wondering . . . full of anxiety ; but 
 Alison could not trust herself to speak of her father 
 — she didn't want to break down ; Mrs Phillips was so 
 much the soul of discretion that, knowing there was 
 more in the wind than Mr Gorham's disappearance 
 accounted for, she felt that the better part was to talk of 
 anything and everything rather than what was really 
 important ; and as for Charles — Charles knew that he 
 was going away : he had arranged that he should sit 
 opposite Alison, and he looked at her and he talked, and 
 he looked at her and he ate, and he looked at her 
 . . . and yet he paid more attention to her companion ! 
 
 All the world seemed to be at the Gare de Lyon. 
 How often had Charles caught that train ! How often 
 had he gone with happy carelessness to his berth ! To- 
 night was different. Ordinarily he would have started 
 by intriguing for an empty compartment. To-night he 
 told the conductor the number of his place, saw that his 
 bag was handed in, tipped his porter, and turned to 
 talk to his companions. Ordinarily, too, he would have 
 searched the train for acquaintances, or to see if his 
 
138 CAVIARE 
 
 fellow -passengers were amusing. To-night he was care- 
 less, his eyes were searching Alison''s face ; now and again 
 he would look at the clock. Each minute was precious. 
 
 For Alison to see Charles off was not a pleasure. 
 She began now, after the events of the last two days, 
 to feel that she depended on him. She would have 
 said that she liked him, that she was sorry he was 
 going away. . . . She talked to him, and as she 
 talked, feeling that the moment carried more emotion 
 than it should, she pretended indifference. She would 
 drag her friend into the conversation, and leave her 
 there, becoming, it would seem, suddenly oblivious of 
 their presence. She looked here and there ; she at 
 least, if only to cloak her own feelings, studied the other 
 passengers. 
 
 If you had been on the gtiai at that moment and 
 had been watching Alison, suddenly you would have 
 seen the colour come like a flood over her face and 
 neck, giving place as suddenly to pallor. She whitened. 
 There was, she saw, ten minutes before the train 
 would go. 
 
 " Constance, dear, we'll leave now. I think, perhaps, 
 Mr Caerleon will like to go to his place. No, we won't 
 wait "" — this last to Charles, who had protested. " I'm 
 sure, Mr Caerleon, you'll have a pleasant journey ; I 
 hope you will find agreeable fellow-passengers." And 
 giving him a cold hand, a hand as irresponsive as that 
 of a corpse, she thanked him once more for his " kind- 
 ness." " Adieu, Mr Caerleon," and she was gone. 
 
 " I shall not see her again for a year," said Charles 
 to himself. " Why did she go like that ? " 
 
CHARLES AT LAST LEAVES PARIS I39 
 
 In the coupe in which they returned to the hotel 
 Alison was silent. Mrs Phillips could understand, and 
 did not attempt to awaken her. For once her friend- 
 ship was at fault. It was not the fact that Charles 
 had left her that Alison felt. No ; she had seen in his 
 very carriage on the train the inner door of one of the 
 compartments open, and through the window — she could 
 not have been mistaken — she had recognised the young 
 woman of four nights ago — the lady of the little blue 
 turban. 
 
 That night again Alison wept. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 IN WHICH APPEARS SIR PETER BAIN, COLLECTOR 
 OF PICTURES 
 
 CHARLES went at once to his compartment, 
 finding now for the first time that he was not 
 to have it to himself. He had, however, had 
 the unusual sense to secure the upper of the two berths. 
 Everyone else would have told you the lower was the 
 more comfortable and convenient. When you book your 
 place in a wagon-lit the clerk lifts his eyebrows if you 
 ask for the upper berth. He is a creature of habit. 
 Charles knew better ; knew that although, if you have 
 the lower place, you avoid the necessity of the unhappy 
 gymnastic efforts with which you climb to the higher, 
 yet you have less room to dress in, you cannot sit up- 
 right, you are further from the racks. Moreover, you are 
 too near the dressing and undressing of your companion. 
 No, choose the higher ; and while you are about it, ask 
 always for a centre compartment in the car : so will you 
 keep away from the noise, the reverberation of the 
 wheels. 
 
 Charles had dined, so he had no ambition but to turn 
 in, to be in the dark, to think of Alison and of the 
 
SIR PETER BAIN, COLLECTOR OF PICTURES 141 
 strange change in his fortune, his plans, which the last 
 week had brought. Everyone else but the conductor was 
 in the restaurant car, and it was not a difficult matter 
 to get his bed made up. In a few minutes he had im- 
 dressed, put out the light, and with his face to the wall 
 was revolving all the events, the incidents of the past 
 five days. He hugged his memories to himself, his little 
 momentary intimacies with Alison, how she looked at 
 this time and at that, how she had smiled ; even he got 
 comfort out of her coldness, her occasional aloofness. 
 And she had leant on him a little. She had sought and 
 she had taken his advice — and above all she had been 
 to see him off that evening. He had not noticed her 
 " Adieu," nor the sudden change of her countenance. He 
 had seen her seven times. What, he wondered, did her 
 handwriting look like ? Alison Caerleon was a pretty 
 name. And from Alison he passed to her father, not to 
 think of his whereabouts or his discomforts or of his 
 future, but of the task that he had imposed. There was 
 no great, no surpassing difficulty about it. Charles was to 
 do his best. Surely he could do that. And supposing — 
 supposing that Mr Gorham was liberated in a fort- 
 night, and found that his edifice had crumbled away and 
 that he had no longer that large fortune on which he 
 evidently set so much store, surrounding himself with it 
 as with a new frock-coat — well, wouldn't that help in a 
 way .'' If his money had gone he might be more willing 
 for Alison to marry someone who wasn't himself rich. 
 And then he thought of Alison again. . . . 
 
 Before he reached Laroche he was asleep. 
 
 The luxe which leaves Paris at 7.55 arrives the next 
 
142 CAVIARE 
 
 morning at its first glimpse of the real Riviera, of the 
 Rivieran Mediterranean, at St Raphael, at about ten. 
 Charles, who knew every inch of the route, and who had 
 slept through the night past the discreet noises of Dijon 
 and Ma^on, of Lyon and Avignon, and had even almost 
 slept through Marseilles, had planned to rise at Toulon. 
 He liked to take his breakfast as the train ran past the 
 little hill towns, the dead vineyards, the broad plains 
 that stretch from that arsenal town to Frejus. But when 
 he turned on his side to rise he discovered that his sleep- 
 ing companion had anticipated him. Not a bad-looking 
 fellow, he thought to himself, as for a moment he 
 watched him struggling with his boots and adjusting a 
 careful tie. He wondered who he was, and then noticed 
 that from a roll of rugs on the rack at a level with 
 his eyes hung a label — "Sir Peter Bain, 49 Arlington 
 Street, Passenger to Monte Carlo. ■" " Who is he .'' " 
 Charles sisked himself. In the first place, he had a kind 
 of idea he'd seen him before. He associated him with 
 some interest he himself shared. In the second place, 
 he was sure he'd heard the name often enough. At the 
 moment he wasn't really awake. It would all come back, 
 no doubt, when he got into some fresh air. 
 
 Just then the man turned round and saw that Charles 
 was awake. " I hope it suited you my getting up first. 
 You went to bed long before me, so I thought you'd very 
 likely get up first, but you didn't — so I made a dash for 
 it. I'll be through in a moment now, though." 
 
 Charles answered politely. He didn't care, he said, 
 when he got up, as long as it was before they reached 
 Monte Carlo. " And you're going to Monte Carlo too. 
 
SIR PETER BAIN, COLLECTOR OF PICTURES 143 
 I see — I couldn't help reading your name and address on 
 that label." 
 
 " Yes, I go every year — and so do you, I think. Fve seen 
 you in the Rooms often enough, although weVe never 
 met there."" He laid a little stress on the "there"; 
 Charles wasn't sure whether it was intentional. He'd 
 chance it, he thought. 
 
 " No, I know we've never met at Monte Carlo, and Fm 
 so beastly blind that I never see anyone " — a white lie 
 that ; Charles prided himself on seeing everything, and 
 remembering everyone who was worth remembering, 
 whether he knew him or not, — " but I've an idea we've 
 met somewhere else. I can't think where, though." 
 
 " I can tell you," Sir Peter Bain answered. " I've just 
 remembered: it was at Christie's one morning last 
 summer. I think you were with young Shafto, and he 
 introduced us — but I've forgotten your name. I was very 
 keen about that Botticelli I bought afterwards, and I'm 
 afraid I didn't pay much attention to anything else." 
 
 Botticelli — Sir Peter Bain : why, of course, it all came 
 back now. So this was the man whom all the people in 
 one of Charles's many worlds had talked so much about, 
 the inspired Scotsman who had presented a hundred 
 thousand pounds' worth of pictures to Carburgh in order 
 that its young inhabitants might learn the path to tread, 
 and who had been more abused than praised for his 
 generosity, whom people quarrelled about so, who was 
 lauded here to the skies for his Jlair, his knowledge, his 
 disinterestedness, and who was blackguarded there as a 
 dealer in disguise, a man who was piling up millions by 
 some species of artistic trickery about which no one 
 
144 CAVIARE 
 
 seemed to be able to be explicit. " Well, if you don't 
 remember my name we're quits, because I certainly never 
 heard yours that day at Christie's — or I'd have remem- 
 bered meeting you. We know lots of people in common. 
 Weren't you stopping the other day with my sister-in- 
 law, Lady Bude ? I was asked to come, but I couldn't for 
 some reason — oh ! I know : I'd arranged to start for the 
 South." 
 
 And in this way, while Bain finished his dressing, the 
 talk went on. " 1 don't suppose you'll be long : I'll sit 
 outside and smoke a cigarette, and we can have breakfast 
 together, if you like — if you're going to breakfast ! " 
 
 " Rather. I'm hungry now. I dined before I left Paris. 
 Besides, you can see so much more from the restaurant 
 car. I've come along this coast times without number, 
 and yet I never tire of looking at it. Good heavens ! here 
 we are at Les Arcs, aren't we ? I'll hurry ; I must be 
 dressed in time to see Agay." 
 
 I think it may be fair to those of my readers who 
 may want to get through this book as quickly as they 
 can, in order that it may be returned to friend or library, 
 if I say straightway that they won't lose any of the 
 thread of the story if they skip all the Peter Bain 
 passages. I have brought him in for three reasons — that 
 he did travel down in Charles's compartment ; that of all 
 Charles's circle he is the one who interests me the most, 
 who seems to me most amusing and most worth while to 
 describe ; and that I am anxious that you should know 
 that Charles made other friends than maitres d'hote! and 
 croupiers, and had other interests than food, frocks, and 
 
SIR PETER BAIN, COLLECTOR OF PICTURES 14S 
 games of chance. He was, as a matter of fact, very glad 
 to meet Bain. All he had heard of his taste, of his way- 
 ward generosities, of his curious meanness, had interested 
 him. A French critic had described him in the Figaro 
 as " a tramp — yes, but a tramp who has only to put his 
 hand into his pocket in order to produce tens of thou- 
 sands, hundreds of thousands of francs." Someone else 
 has spoken of him as "the D"'Artagnan of the art 
 world "" — an inexpert analogy, but not ill conceived. Max 
 drew him as a conjurer in the act of drawing masterpiece 
 after masterpiece out of his hat to the astonishment, the 
 chagrin, of a hundred critics. In fact, he was a character, 
 and Charles liked characters. It was unlikely, however, 
 he feared, as he dressed, that Bain would talk ; it was 
 more likely that he would be reticent. You see, Charles 
 didn't know Bain. 
 
 Charles soon found, to his great satisfaction, that Bain 
 had, at least about his own affairs, not the slightest 
 hesitation in talking in the frankest, most open, and 
 (seemingly) the most indiscreet of ways. As they ran 
 round the little bay where nestles the one comfortable 
 inn on the Riviera, under Les Trayas, past Cannes and 
 Moorish-looking Antibes, they talked. Charles forgot 
 his preoccupations ; Alison and Mr Gorham receded into 
 the back of his mind. He found that all he had to do 
 was to ask an occasional question and the river would 
 continue to flow — that river of amiable and acid, generous 
 and selfish talk. To enjoy Bain most fully one should 
 know him well, him and his circle. One knew then the 
 importance one should give to this story and that — what 
 to discount. For instance, he told Charles he couldn't 
 
 10 
 
146 CAVIARE 
 
 afford to live for the fortnight of his holiday at Monte 
 Carlo itself. 
 
 " I used always to stop in the Condamine for seven 
 francs a day — oh yes, pension I mean. I'd go there now, 
 but the place has been pulled down. So Fm going to 
 the Riva Bella at Cap Martin. Thafs pretty cheap, and 
 one doesn't have to, one can't, spend all one's time in the 
 Rooms: it's such a job getting in and out. And, anyhow, 
 I can't play this year : my banker won't let me. I told 
 him I was coming out, and he said quite frankly that it 
 wasn't any use my drawing cheques, for he wouldn't 
 honour them." 
 
 " Why, did you lose so much other years ? " 
 " No, but I lost enough. It became a sort of habit 
 with me coming down here. It was a change. I'd be 
 worried to death in London, and have half Carburgh 
 writing me letters that ought to be answered, and I'd 
 feel that the only thing in the world for me to do was 
 to get right away. There isn't any place in the world 
 in which you can get so right away as you can here. 
 Perhaps it's only changing one nervous excitement for 
 another, but it is a change : that's the great thing. 
 Why, the first time I came I had no more idea of 
 playing than I have of offering to drive this train. An 
 old lady I know wrote to me that as I wasn't well I'd 
 better come down for a couple of weeks and keep her 
 company, that I wasn't to think it was expensive, that 
 she could get me a room at less than a couple of pounds 
 a week, all included, and that as for gambling — well, 
 she never went near the Rooms. So I packed up gaily 
 and came — in a second-class carriage in a slow train. 
 
SIR PETER BAIN, COLLECTOR OF PICTURES 147 
 But, of course, I had to see the gambling, and then it 
 took hold of me rather, and I lost a couple of hundred 
 pounds. I had a feeling I was ruined. I didn't lose it, 
 of course, in one swoop. I lost a little — all I had with 
 me ; and then I sent for more — and so on. Well, I'd 
 lost my couple of hundred, and after that I just did 
 my best to enjoy the place. I didn't play, any way. 
 The last day I was leaving by the afternoon train. 
 I'd been in to look at the tables, and I said to my- 
 self that I'd never see 'em again. Then I took a walk 
 at the back. There's a curiosity-dealer there — I expect 
 you know him : Felicien. I saw a couple of portraits 
 in his window. They weren't quite my kind of thing, but 
 they seemed pretty good. He said they'd been sent down 
 from Paris because no one would buy them there. They 
 were five thousand francs. I offered four — and got them. 
 So he did them up, and he'd send them when I sent 
 the money. I sent it, of course — a couple of days later. 
 Two days after they reached London I sold the pair 
 for seven hundred and eighty pounds to a dealer, what's 
 his name in the Haymarket. After that, I felt easier 
 in my mind about the only visit I ever intended pay- 
 ing to Monte Carlo. Since then I've been down every 
 year." 
 
 And so Bain went on. One story capped another. 
 Truly, he was marvellous. Not the least marvel about 
 him, Charles said to himself, was that here he was in the 
 luace, which costs just about as much as any train can 
 cost, and yet he refused to stop in Monte Carlo itself 
 because of the expense. He was to see other of Bain's 
 economies later, and to come to learn that it was just 
 
Z48 CAVIARE 
 
 by those economies that he had made his life, had 
 achieved his successes, had conquered, again and again, 
 the Philistines. But they were at Nice. It was time to 
 go back to their compartment. Monte Carlo would be a 
 question of only a few minutes. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A HOT BATH AT THE h6tEL DE PARIS 
 
 TO return to any place year by year is to court 
 unhappiness. One's friends pass. In any 
 normal world some die or go away. In this 
 gay and sinister world of the South they died and they 
 went away — and they disappeared and they were broken. 
 So-and-so would blossom for a season — and then there 
 would be whispers — and he would blossom no more. For 
 one, for two, for three years, in that circle which Charles 
 knew so well, some girl would be queen — and then she 
 too would cease to charm. She was ill, one might hear ; 
 or one might hear nothing : she had gone out. For some 
 reason Charles, who had come so regularly to this devil's 
 playground, felt these changes this year more than ever. 
 Perhaps it was because he was older — at thirty-three one 
 is older ! — perhaps because for the first time he came from 
 the coldness of the North, perhaps because he had in the 
 last few days been closer to realities. But whatever the 
 reason, Charles had no light heart. Even apart from his 
 cares about Alison in Paris, it didn't seem such an 
 easy, such an attractive world. They passed Villefranche, 
 
ISO CAVIARE 
 
 Beaulieu,Eze,Cap d''Ail. Charles remembered the parties 
 he had given, the friends he had taken here and there, 
 even the money he had wasted. . . . He tried to banish 
 these unhappy happy memories and turned to his new 
 friend. They had just passed Monaco station. 
 
 Monte Carlo ! Monte Carlo ! It is impossible to capture 
 the inflection every regular visitor knows so well. Mr and 
 Mrs Williamson have anticipated my attempt at local 
 colour by using the boy who announces the ascenseur, so I 
 mustn''t follow in their path. Charles saw all the familiar 
 faces. There was the old porter with the white moustache, 
 and there was Cook''s man who knows so much more than 
 he will ever tell you ; and outside the station all the 
 regular hotel porters who recognised half the people who 
 came from the train, and could tell you which of them 
 was good for ten francs and which for five, and — for 
 even in that world it is a very different matter — which 
 were gentle. They could very likely have told you too 
 which were honest — and that again is a different thing. 
 
 Charles was expected. His man was on the platform. 
 He had little luggage, and all he had to do was to go 
 out of the station and walk up to the Paris — the Hotel 
 de Paris. He had said good-bye to Bain. They were 
 sure to meet again — and at once. No, Bain wouldn't 
 come to the Paris. Cap Martin was good enough for 
 him. 
 
 On the Paris steps Charles was welcomed by the ex- 
 cellent Fleuret himself. It was suitable that he should 
 be. Charles was one of the oldest and the most regular 
 of the hotel's visitors. He, at least, had never given the 
 hotel any anxiety — any financial anxiety. He hastened 
 
A HOT BATH AT THE HOTEL DE PARIS 151 
 to say that he was only there for a very few days — per- 
 haps even only for that day. He might go back that 
 same night. He''d tell them later on. So to his room 
 and to his bath. 
 
 The sun streamed into Charles's window, and as he 
 lay in his bath he could see the mountains above 
 Roquebrune. But it was not about Monte Carlo that 
 he was thinking, but about Alison and the year that 
 was before him. Not vainly had he said that he might 
 go away that night. The truth was he had now a sense 
 of unrest. Vaguely in his mind he had made a sort of 
 plan for this raid. He was to retrieve his luggage, and 
 dismiss Bowles and send him back to England, and he 
 would see one or two friends, and he would play a little 
 — this one last time. He would play with the money he 
 had still in his pocket. He had given money away at 
 the Abbaye (and had never regretted it) ; he had paid 
 his bills in Paris ; he had paid for his ticket to New 
 York : what was left he would lose — or save. Chance 
 should decide. Charles hadn't any exact system ; he had 
 a method. At this moment he felt he didn't care what 
 happened in the Rooms. He would win or lose, turn his 
 face toward England or stay a few days in Monaco, just 
 as the fates should decide. 
 
 So he lay and lazed — till the water grew cold. Dried 
 and half clothed, he examined his pocket-book, his 
 sovereign-purse, and his loose change. He had, he 
 found, ten five-hundred franc notes, two notes for a 
 hundred francs, six louis, and twenty-seven francs in 
 silver — exactly five thousand three hundred and forty- 
 
152 CAVIARE 
 
 seven francs in all. One or two English sovereigns he 
 had and some English silver ; but English money didn't 
 count. He would put into his stud-box the three 
 hundred and forty-seven francs : that would pay his bill 
 and his expenses back to London when everything else 
 was gone. 
 
 I make no excuses for Charles. This was to be his Isist 
 fling. Mr Gorham mightn't approve, but there was 
 something logical in playing with the money he had 
 brought from England to play with. He'd go back to 
 Paris and to England, see his lawyer . . . and then 
 good-bye, irresponsibility ! 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 IN WHICH THK AMIABLE CHARLES PEEPARES FOR AN 
 ENCOUNTER WITH THE GODDESS OF CHANCE 
 
 DRESSED, shaved, clean and clean feeling, Charles 
 left the hotel. He was a little at a loss. Where 
 should he breakfast ? A creature of habit, al- 
 ways on his first day at Monte Carlo he lunched chez 
 Giro — on the terrace if it were fine and quiet, in the 
 restaurant but against the window if it were wet or grey. 
 But a year had brought great changes. No longer was 
 Giro's what it was — for Giro himself was not there. 
 Charles had been told that he was living elsewhere, in a 
 palace. It was very likely. Anyhow, he was gone. He 
 had sold his restaurant to a syndicate — an English 
 syndicate. Now, a syndicate may be all very well, but 
 what was an English syndicate doing with a restaurant, 
 any way ? Charles had nothing against it ; in fact, he 
 thought he knew some of its members ; but how he did 
 hate his habits being upset ! He had lunched regularly, 
 as I say, on arriving at Monte Carlo, in the Galerie 
 Charles IH., because he knew that Giro would welcome 
 him, and would tell him who had come back and would 
 give him a feeling of warmth. Besides, everybody walked 
 
154 CAVIARE 
 
 in the Galerie before and after lunch, and he used thus 
 quickly to find his friends. A syndicate couldn't provide 
 him with all these advantages. No, indeed. 
 
 You may wonder why I appear to make such a fuss 
 about Giro. Really, I don't. His disappearance was an 
 affair of importance to Charles. Perhaps after all, though, 
 he said to himself, it didn't so very much matter, because 
 he was only here for a day or two, and likely would 
 never come again. But it was also a matter of import- 
 ance to all that world which amuses itself. Giro knew. 
 Giro was a character. And character is dying out — even 
 at Monte Garlo. A syndicate has no character ; Gook's 
 tourists are all as alike as two peas ; I don't think it 
 possible to distinguish one bourgeois German from 
 another. Soon Monte Garlo will contain nothing but 
 German bourgeois, Gook's tourists, the Giro syndicate, 
 and the various activities of the Hotel de Paris. Gharles 
 thought all these things as he strolled on the terrace 
 and wondered where all the smart people were. He 
 had wondered that same thing every year since his first 
 visit. Indeed, he thought so deeply about the Princi- 
 pality's decline and so earnestly about the days that were 
 coming and what he would have to do, and about Mr 
 Gorham, and, above all, about Alison, whom he would 
 not see for a year, that no one spoke to him. Such friends 
 as would have welcomed him thought he must be work- 
 ing out a system ... or perhaps he had come yesterday, 
 had chanced not to meet them, and had lost. . . . One 
 doesn't interrupt the reveries of the obvious loser. 
 
 Gharles humbugged himself. He thought he was glad 
 that he could be here only a few hours. Monte Garlo 
 
PREPARATIONS FQR AN ENCOUNTER 155 
 wasn't what it had been. He'd breakfast, and then 
 lose his money if chance so willed it, and go away. The 
 sooner the better. But, again, where should he break- 
 fast.? 
 
 He chose the Cafe de Paris. 
 
 As he lunched he continued his meditations. He could 
 find nothing to be cheerful about. His mind revolved 
 in a cage — Alison was at one end of it, Mr Gorham at 
 the other. There was no certainty anywhere. Mr Gorham 
 had disappeared ; and even if he hadn't, and even if he 
 were still happy and successful, pink and eupeptic at the 
 Meurice, he was not necessarily an ally of Charles's. And 
 as for Alison — he wasn't to see her again for a year, and 
 he was not to tell her of his love. If Mr Gorham hadn't 
 let that cat out of the bag already, he was less likely to 
 do so in the future. He'd have something else to think 
 of when his captors had liberated him ; and why should 
 Alison remember him ? If she'd liked him at all — well, 
 she'd soon forget him. He couldn't even tell her why he 
 had gone away. What a fool he had been to give such 
 a promise ! Still, it was too late now to alter. 
 
 " Un bon cigare, monsieur ? " Charles hated restau- 
 rant cigars, but he took one to pass the time. He had a 
 good mind to go across to the hotel, pay his bill, and go 
 away. But where to ? The Mauretcmia didn't sail for 
 a week. Better stop here as long as his money lasted. 
 And that reminded him : he must play seriously, on a 
 method, if he played at all. This time it didn't matter 
 whether he won or lost — or it didn't matter much. 
 Charles had a fatalistic feeling about that couple of 
 hundred pounds. Well, he'd not be a fool. If he could 
 
156 CAVIARE 
 
 win, he would. He worked out what I believe the 
 
 habitual, the "scientific," gambler calls a method of 
 
 attack. 
 
 Two hundred pounds is five thousand francs. To begin 
 with, for every expense he had while he was here, such 
 an expense as this lunch for instance, and tipping the 
 cloak-room attendant, he'd employ that five thousand 
 francs. No, not the whole of it, of course ! I mean, he*'d 
 change one of the notes in paying his bill. In fact, in 
 this he had a veritable system. For everything that he 
 wanted he paid in gold ; the change he put in a separate 
 pocket. It spoiled his clothes, but it amused him to have 
 kept something from the wreck when the game went 
 against him. Getting back to the hotel, it was easy to 
 tumble all the loose change — the half-louis, the five-franc 
 pieces, and the sous — into his despatch-box, and to start 
 again. That was detail number one. Detail number two 
 was that whenever he won he would pocket his winnings 
 — pocket them in a very real sense. Let me explain : he 
 pocketed his winnings whenever he won — not all the 
 winnings of any individual coup, but the net winnings 
 of any one series of coups. The trouble with all writers 
 about gambling is that they seldom, if ever, make their 
 details clear. I'm going to make Charles's operations 
 clear, even if I have to run this history into two volumes. 
 Anyhow, I shall thus have the satisfaction of knowing 
 that I must sell one copy ; that it must have a place in 
 Mr Jessel's collection ; and that, later, bound in leather, 
 it will rest with its fellows, with a thousand other books, 
 far less amusing, but all dealing with games of chance, 
 in the Bodleian. 
 
PREPARATIONS FOR AN ENCOUNTER 157 
 But to return. In the game Charles contemplated 
 playing, one made a definite "attack" on the bank. 
 One won — or one lost ; but one's fate was usually not 
 immediately decided. It is true one might win at the 
 first coup — and in that case that " attack " would be at 
 an end, and so much would have been gained ; but the 
 first coup might be lost, and the second, and the third, 
 and the fourth — and then everything depended on the 
 fifth : if that went down, the " attack " had failed. When 
 I spoke of Charles pocketing his winnings, I meant that 
 he pocketed his winnings on each series of coups. He 
 had, as I have said, two hundred and fifty louis. He 
 had determined that with those two hundred and fifty 
 louis he would attack the bank — just once if he lost; but, 
 if he won, then he would go on playing until he failed in 
 an " attack." His idea was to divide his capital into so 
 many parts, so many louis to each stake. He thought of 
 ten for the first, and, since he was in no mood for a 
 small or piking game, of doubling up five times : ten, 
 twenty, forty, eighty, one-fifty — one-fifty, because three 
 mille notes is as much as you can stake on this kind of 
 chance. But the worst of it was, that required a capital 
 of three hundred louis, and he was fifty short of that 
 sum. He would play indifferently, as the fancy seized 
 him, on the dozens and the columns, but keeping always 
 to the stakes he'd decided on. Few of my readers will 
 need to be told that if at roulette you have ten louis on 
 a dozen or a column, and a number turns up which is 
 included in the dozen or column on which you have 
 staked, you get your money back and twenty louis in 
 addition. And that, accordingly, would be the result of 
 
IS8 CAVIARE 
 
 hitting the right dozen or column at the first attempt. 
 But if Charles lost the first coup and won the second, 
 then, as on the second attempt he had staked twenty 
 louis, he would obviously win forty louis. You must 
 subtract from that forty the ten lost on the first coup. 
 Net result : a gain of thirty louis. That thirty louis he 
 would pocket. If success were refractory for the second 
 coup, you can work out for yourself the gain if it came 
 with the third — and likewise if it came not till the fourth 
 or the fifth. It is all very easy, and it does sound the 
 simplest possible way of making money ; but I beg you 
 not to forget that at each coup it is always two to one 
 against your choosing the right column or dozen, and, 
 although it is five to two on your choosing it in five 
 shots, five to two on chances, even when mathematically 
 calculated, have an unhappy habit of coming undone. 
 Moreover, there is always zero. 
 
 Charles had decided to play in this way because he 
 thought it would give him more fun for his money, 
 more excitement. His fate, if luck was against him, 
 would soon be decided. There is no game in the world at 
 which you can so quickly lose your capital as at roulette, 
 if the luck is against you — especially if, the habitual 
 gambler will tell you, you are playing against the table, 
 against the run. How often had Charles been bitten ! 
 One evening he remembered — one bitter evening. 
 
 He had come across to Monte Carlo from Beaulieu, 
 with a lady in whose villa he was staying. " We'll go over 
 soon after breakfast," slie had said to him. " IVe got to 
 try on a dress ; afterwards we'll play for half an hour — 
 oh no, no more — and then we'll get back in plenty of 
 
PREPARATIONS FOR AN ENCOUNTER 159 
 time for lunch.'" That day Charles had no money on him 
 to speak of — and as he was to be in the place for so 
 short a time, he refrained from getting any. Going into 
 the Rooms with his hostess, he found that his capital was 
 seven louis. He put three on the first dozen. It turned 
 up. He now had thirteen louis. Five of them he left in 
 the same place. He lost. The eight that remained took 
 their place. Again the first dozen turned up. He now 
 had twenty-four louis. He noticed that all the three 
 coups he had played had been in the third column. He 
 put the whole of his capital a cheval between the first 
 and second — in effect putting twelve on the first and 
 twelve on the second. The first column turned up. Now 
 he had thirty-six louis. That was enough, he thought : 
 a gain of twenty -nine louis in five minutes. A drink, and 
 then he would go and search for his hostess. Gamblers 
 generally separate on entering the Rooms. It is considered 
 more tactful. One is less embarrassed in winning, less 
 excited in losing. But his hostess was losing. " Charles, 
 dear, you can go back and lunch by yourself; I'll come 
 when I've got back what I've lost or lost what I've got." 
 Nothing Charles could say would move her. He hovered 
 about, hoping she'd still encounter some decisive sequence. 
 But her fortune was so-so. " Do go away," she said ; " if 
 you won't go back to the villa, go and lunch somewhere. 
 Look for me here at two." 
 
 Charles didn't exactly see himself lunching alone in 
 the circumstances, and he went out and walked about, 
 bought a button-hole, had another drink and a sandwich 
 — and came back at two. Still his hostess was rather 
 losing than winning. She had come to one of those 
 
j6o caviare 
 
 streaks in which good luck is just counterbalanced by 
 
 bad. Nothing happened. 
 
 So Charles began to play again — largely out of bore- 
 dom. I won't bother you with how he played — in much 
 the same way as he had done in the morning ; and with 
 the same success. But he won rather less as he was being 
 more careful. At three he was another twenty-four louis 
 to the good. But his friend even now wouldn't move. 
 There she had been since eleven o'clock : she hadn't 
 missed a coup, and she hadn't won a piece. Picking 
 oakum was nothing to it. " Mrs Gerard," he said, " I 
 shall now walk up to Monaco and round the Rock. I 
 shall be ashamed of you if you aren't ready when I come 
 back. I'll come and take you to tea at four. If you 
 aren't here, I'll expect to find you in the Atrium." 
 
 Charles did these things. " Yes, I'll come now," his 
 hostess said ; and Charles, who was both dusty and 
 hungry, thought that they'd have tea and would then 
 catch the first train. He found that his friend had other 
 plans. They had tea at Madame Eckenberg's (Charles was 
 to find later that Madame Eckenberg whom he had known 
 so long was gone too), and as they finished he was told 
 that he of course was to go back to Beaulieu, but that 
 Mrs Gerald would return to the Rooms. He knew her well 
 enough to argue with her, and to ask her what was the 
 net result of her day's labour. The argument was useless ; 
 and he found that having started her game with fifty louis, 
 having remained at the table without a break for five 
 hours, and having in effect played every coup for five 
 hours, she now had forty-one louis left. Charles told her 
 the story about the late Duke of Devonshire. The Duke 
 
PREPARATIONS FOR AN ENCOUNTER i6i 
 had been to Newmarket, and coming back had met a 
 friend. "Had a good day?" he was asked. "Oh yes, 
 quite — quite good," he replied cheerfully. " Won much ? " 
 " No, but I j ust got round on the last race — I've neither 
 lost nor won." " If you call that a good day, what's the 
 good of betting ? " his friend asked. What, indeed ? The 
 Duke seems — or so the story goes — to have thought the 
 matter over ; he never betted again. 
 
 The story left Mrs Gerald cold. She was quite sure that 
 she ought to go on playing. It is a form of self-deception 
 to which the gambler,and especially the feminine gambler, 
 is peculiarly liable. " Ought " is the word they use. If 
 they don't go on they reproach themselves afterwards. 
 So Mrs Gerald returned, and Charles returned with her, 
 and played a little and won and walked about and played 
 a little more and won, and was generally bored. Dancing 
 attendance on obstinate women was not an amusement 
 after his heart. He'd never be induced to stop with any- 
 one on the Riviera again ! And he never was. For him 
 the freedom of an hotel. Just now, because he was bored, 
 he played in the boldest way. He'd put his hand into his 
 pocket, by now fairly full of gold and crumpled billets^ 
 and dragging out as much as came would walk to a table, 
 hand it to the chef, and announce the first two dozens or 
 the last two columns. His luck was uncanny. If he lost, it 
 was with some small stake ; and with the next, a larger, 
 he'd at once retrieve that loss. 
 
 The hours passed. Charles couldn't get Mrs Gerald to 
 come home to dinner, nor could he very well go and dine 
 by himself, so he hung about and talked to friends, and 
 smoked cigarettes in the Atrium, and went out to look 
 
 11 
 
l62 CAVIARE 
 
 in the shop windows, and bought a fur stole for his sister. 
 And then a kind lady, who preferred gambling to music, 
 let him occupy her seat for one act in the Opera while 
 she lost her money at trente-et-quarante. It was now ten 
 o'clock. The Rooms closed at eleven. Charles went to 
 Mrs Gerald. " I've had no dinner, so I'm going across to 
 Giro's to get something to eat. I'll be back and in the 
 Atrium just under where they put up the news at five 
 minutes past eleven exactly." She answered with her ap- 
 proval impatiently, and he walked across to the Galerie. 
 Finding himself alone in the restaurant, while he was wait- 
 ing for \\\sfoies de volatile en brochettes and his half-bottle 
 of 1889 Goulet, he thought he'd better find out how his 
 money stood and at least arrange it. He was conscious, 
 as gamblers sometimes (all too seldom) are, of a certain 
 inconvenience in walking about with a heavy weight 
 dragging at his pocket. One would hardly do such a 
 thing in a London or Paris restaurant, but it was no extra- 
 ordinary sight in Monte Carlo. He cleared out his pockets. 
 First he subtracted the seven louis with which he had 
 started, and then proceeded to arrange the gold or paper 
 that remained over in separate heaps. There were three 
 thousand franc notes, five of five hundred francs, and of 
 gold one hundred and eight louis — total, seven thousand 
 six hundred and sixty francs : more than three hundred 
 pounds, even after allowing for the exchange. Well, 
 after all, the day hadn't been badly spent ; he needn't 
 have been so bored, or so angry with Mrs Gerald. And 
 he'd bought a stole too. 
 
 The chicken livers came and the champagne came, 
 and Charles lingered over them. Having had so satis- 
 
PREPARATIONS FOR AN ENCOUNTER 163 
 factory a day, he wasn't going back to the Rooms before 
 the last coup had been played. He'd give himself no 
 chance of losing what he'd won. In fact, he'd make 
 assurance quite sure and be a little late. He was — but 
 Mrs Gerald wasn't in the Atrium. " The Opera isn't over 
 yet, monsieur," Charles was told. He kicked himself for 
 not remembering that on theatre or opera nights play 
 doesn't cease till the audience is liberated. He'd better 
 go in and look for his hostess. After all, he needn't 
 play. 
 
 There she was. The pile of gold in front of her was 
 about the same size as it had been all day ; the only 
 thing that seemed to have shrunk was the player herself. 
 She seemed to have lessened with fatigue. She saw 
 Charles, and beckoned to him. " Look here," she said, 
 " the last dozen hasn't been up for fifteen times. Isn't 
 that your game ? Don't you want to play on it now ? " 
 
 " Thanks, but I won't play," Charles answered. 
 
 With the next roll of the ball, nineteen in the second 
 dozen appeared ; with the next, zero ; and then seven ; 
 and Charles congratulated himself that he'd paid no 
 attention to Mrs Gerald's suggestion. But oughtn't he 
 to, now, though ? Wasn't it squandering his mercies not 
 to make something ? The last dozen was certain to turn 
 up in a coup or two, surely. Why not make the day's 
 expenses ? 
 
 The ball was rolling. Hastily collecting five louis 
 from the mass in his pocket, he handed it to the croupier. 
 " Demiere douzaine,"" he announced. 
 
 ^^Sept, rouffe impaire et manque.'''' Seven, a second 
 time! 
 
i64 CAVIARE 
 
 Charles didn''t like it, but after all he couldn't expect 
 the desired chance to turn up at the first time of asking. 
 This time fifteen louis. 
 
 Number seventeen appeared. 
 
 So much the worse — but so much the better, as 
 he was playing, when the last dozen should arrive. A 
 thousand-franc note was his next stake. " Tout va au 
 billet,'" the croupiei-s called, and Mrs Gerald looked up 
 and smiled. 
 
 Zero again. Charles remembered having sworn mildly 
 under his breath — swearing not at the loss of the 
 money, but at his having played at all when he had so 
 definitely decided not to. Two notes the next time — 
 and again disappointment : Seven ! Rapidly calculating, 
 he found he'd lost three thousand four hundred francs. 
 Not so bad, considering how much he was still to the good. 
 But he was in it now, and he'd have to win or break. 
 
 The maximum on a dozen is three thousand francs, and 
 that was the sum that Charles next staked, putting at 
 the same time all that remained in his pocket on passe, 
 the number from nineteen to thirty-six. He thought 
 himself rather clever in doing this. The last dozen covers 
 the numbers from twenty-five to thirty-six. If it turned 
 up he'd win in both places — if it didn't, well, perhaps 
 the stake on passe would give him another chance. For 
 with its aid he was covering a further six numbers. 
 Supposing that a number between nineteen and twenty- 
 four appeared he'd lose on the dozen, but he'd win sixty- 
 three louis on passe. That would make his capital one 
 hundred and twenty-six louis — short of the biggest stake 
 allowed — but still sufficient, if it all went on the last 
 
PREPARATIONS FOR AN ENCOUNTER 165 
 dozen and was successful, to retrieve not all but most of 
 his losses. 
 
 " Premier rouge impaire et maiique.'" Number one had 
 appeared, and Charles had lost all his winnings except 
 for some small change and what he had paid for his 
 sister's stole and his supper. " Something gained, any- 
 how," he said to himself philosophically. 
 
 The last three coups were now announced : " Messieurs^ 
 les trots derniers.'''' Charles had no longer any interest 
 in the game ; he didn't even watch Mrs Gerald, who was 
 staking religiously up to the very end. 
 
 And twenty-seven appeared — twenty-seven in the last 
 dozen ; and it was followed by twenty-five ; and in the 
 last coup of all came thirty-six ! 
 
 Mrs Gerald jumped up. " Come along. Let's get our 
 things before the rush. I've won seven louis." And with 
 a rattling of bangles and of gold purses she hurried 
 Charles to the Atrium. 
 
 But all this had happened several years ago. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 COLD FEET 
 
 THERE was a very lengthy digression at the end 
 of the last chapter. It did not take Charles 
 so long to think of all these things as it has 
 taken me to tell them. His " bon cigare " was finished. 
 He paid his bill, turned his back on the Casino and 
 went for a walk. To tell the truth, although he assured 
 himself that he didn't really care what happened to the 
 last two hundred pounds he was going to risk at the 
 game he had loved for so many years, yet he did have a 
 feeling of dread. He was frank with himself, and he 
 knew that if he went in and lost he would come out 
 again very depressed. He wasn't likely to have two 
 hundreds of pounds to spend in amusement for many 
 years to come. While the billets remained in his pocket 
 he had them ; they represented so much potential com- 
 fort — and more than comfort. When they were gone 
 he'd be down to the level of Sir Peter Bain : hotels where 
 one paid so much a day — everything included but com- 
 fort — cheap meals, omnibuses, second-class tickets. Per- 
 haps he exaggerated. Anyhow, he felt like postponing 
 the ordeal. He went up to his room (only across the 
 
 i66 
 
COLD FEET 167 
 
 square : the Monte Carlo that matters is only a village 
 after all), filled his cigarette-case, and then walked up 
 through the gardens and went in and exchanged greet- 
 ings with Madame Aubanel at the Princesse ; then he 
 strolled on towards Mentone, spending a few minutes 
 looking at the contents of the shop where Bain had 
 found the pictures. There was no such luck for him. 
 Such treasures might be there, but he hadn't the know- 
 ledge to pick them out. And that reminded him. Why 
 not walk to Mentone ? It would do him good. He could 
 look up Bain on the way. 
 
 " Yes, Sir Bain, he is in," the Italian porter answered. 
 " In dining-room with his two friends." 
 
 Charles went in. This hotel that Bain had selected was 
 about two miles away from Monte Carlo,but it might have 
 been a hundred. Oh, how the atmosphere was different — 
 and the people ! In one corner of the dining-room sat a 
 young English couple — obviously on their honeymoon; in 
 another an English clergyman with a couple of vicarage 
 ladies ; there an elderly lady with an antimacassar care- 
 fully arranged round her neck — or it looked like an anti- 
 macassar — and at a long table was a whole Italian family 
 at whose apparel and general appearance imagination 
 boggles. Bain and his friends were near a window. Bain 
 had a new suit on, and looked very neat and brushed-up 
 — he also looked worn-out. Next to him sat a big man — 
 an American, an American novelist, it appeared after- 
 wards. A long,loose-jointed individual. And on his other 
 side was an old young man with an eyeglass — an un- 
 fortunate possession, because if there was one thing more 
 than another Charles disliked in his fellows it was the 
 
i68 CAVIARE 
 
 wearing of a monocle. Naturally, as he wore one himself. 
 It connoted in his mind all the affectations possible to 
 man. He agreed with a certain journalist: it was im- 
 possible to wear an eyeglass and be sincere. 
 
 Charles had arrived just in time to put an end to a 
 heated, a troubled argument. He supplied the solution. 
 The others had come from Genoa that morning. The 
 old young man had been assisting at the American 
 novelist's first glimpse of Italy. Now they both wanted to 
 go into Monte Carlo. Not to play — of course — but tolook 
 at it. Bain, on the other hand, wanted to go to Mentone. 
 Like Charles, he thought exercise would be good for him. 
 Charles didn't know him sufficiently well to realise that 
 if the others had wanted to go to Mentone, he'd have 
 wanted to visit Monte Carlo. A charming mind, but 
 naturally perverse ! 
 
 Charles, then, was to accompany Bain to Mentone ; the 
 others could please themselves. 
 
 An admirable place, Mentone, but rather full of the 
 (comparatively) indigent invalid. One should visit it 
 before Nice and before Monte Carlo — and even then it is 
 best to see it not very long after sunrise, before its visitors 
 appear. The inhabitants are like the place ; they fit into 
 the picture. They aren't German. Its beauty is different 
 from that of Monte Carlo, and far, far greater than that 
 of Nice. It is intimate and romantic. It makes the most 
 exquisite piece of stage scenery in the world. Let me tell 
 you that, if you haven't much time to spare from Monte 
 Carlo and only drive over for the afternoon to Mentone 
 in order to avoid the Rooms when they are at their fullest, 
 
COLD FEET 169 
 
 there are two things you must not miss doing. In the first 
 place, walk to the end of the breakwater and look at the 
 old town therefrom, noting the terraced houses, built up 
 one on top of another, that Mr Maresco Pearce has saved 
 in his water-colours from ultimate oblivion — for they'll 
 come down one day, I suppose ; and then go up to the 
 English cemetery and enjoy one of the most beautiful 
 views in the world. 
 
 But I am not writing a guide-book. I have,however,the 
 slight justification that Charles and Bain did both these 
 things ; and then they thought of tea. " Let's go and have 
 it at Cap Martin — at the big hotel," Bain suggested. " It 
 costs no more than tea here, and one gets that fine view 
 from the terrace." 
 
 It was evident that Charles was not to encounter the 
 Goddess of Chance that afternoon, and, smiling at the 
 second half of Bain's sentence, he willingly assented. Later 
 on he learnt that his new friend's apparent preoccupation 
 with the cost of things was a pose, a sort of pose. There 
 had been a time when he had to count every penny. "It's 
 no use giving Peter any bigger allowance," his father had 
 said ; " he'll only spend it on pictures." And he was right. 
 Young Bain had spent every penny he could save on pic- 
 tures. Walking rather than taking an omnibus, doing 
 without proper meals, he learnt in that best of all schools 
 how unnecessary were most luxuries and how easily one 
 could dispense with some necessaries. But mean — well, I 
 used the word a little while back, but I didn't intend that 
 it should be taken literally. He would spend money 
 cheerfully enough — on the things that were worth while. 
 Primarily they were a Manet, a Velasquez, a Cuyp — for 
 
170 CAVIARE 
 
 example ; secondarily, on the beautifying of the palace in 
 which helived — and that not for himself, butfor somenear 
 posterity ; thirdly, in one way or another on his friends. 
 Mean ! His was the real generosity. But even while his 
 purse and his time and his energy were at everyone's 
 disposal, he continued out of mere perversity to assist the 
 legend of his meanness. I doubt whether in such matters 
 his left hand did know what his right hand had done. 
 And when success and honours came he remained exactly 
 as he was. He would go from the palace of a prince 
 (his own had greater treasures) with perfect happiness 
 to the one-room lodging of some friend in Bloomsbury, 
 or even to a villa. Yes, his own house was a resid- 
 ence out of the Thousand and One Nights. The hall 
 seemed to be built of rare marbles, and then one saw a 
 Paolo Ucello on the wall, and on the stairs a Sargent, 
 — the gift of a few Carburghians more grateful than their 
 fellows. In the rooms were Grecos and Goyas, Monets 
 and Rembrandts, and curious jade figures and Chinese 
 screens. . . . 
 
 But they were at the hotel. 
 
 If Monte Carlo is a part of hell, and Mentone a cross 
 between paradise and a sanatorium, the large building 
 that in effect makes a little village all by itself at the 
 end of Cap Martin is a slice compounded equally of 
 South Belgravia and the Tottenham Court Road. The 
 English abound there — the very respectable English. 
 The postal address is "jt?re.? Menton'''' : no one could 
 object to that ! You feel that it is all very safe. England 
 has this way of seizing strategical positions. The Cap 
 Martin Hotel is a sort of moral Gibraltar. Whatever 
 
COLD FEET 171 
 
 may happen on the other side of the Bay, it at least is 
 solid for the conventions. 
 
 Charles was not very much amused by finding himself 
 in this stronghold : he was afraid he might be pounced 
 upon by some dowager friend of his — and sure enough 
 he was. The waiter had brought the tea, and they were 
 quietly drinking it, when they were joined by a well- 
 preserved woman of say sixty, who had no sort of 
 hesitation about breaking into their conversation. She 
 told Sir Peter that she had known Charles since he was 
 " that high," and she made up for her longevity by the 
 particularity of her questions. Were they together.!^ 
 When did Charles come ? She would obviously have 
 liked to ask exactly who Sir Peter was. Evidently, she 
 hadn't the slightest idea. She'd look him up in that 
 volume without which she never travelled. Such people 
 don't carry a " Who's Who." Their standards do not 
 usually include achievement. 
 
 Then having extracted all the facts she could,she turned 
 to giving her own and the news of the hotel. The truth 
 is, she was a sad case of intelligence gone to seed. Quite 
 reasonable once, no fool, she had married one of Charles's 
 father's neighbours, and he had altered her slowly into a 
 snob, quickly into a parrot. To-day, the snob and the 
 parrot battled together for mastery behind that glitter- 
 ing and middle-aged facade. What did they think ? Who 
 did they think had had the effrontery to come to the 
 hotel yesterday ? She named a certain Liberal statesman 
 not at the moment loved by snobs, parrots, and the rich. 
 "It's extraordinary what some people will do. You'd 
 have thought he'd have kept away from here." 
 
172 CAVIARE 
 
 " But why should he ? What's the poor man done ? " 
 Charles asked languidly. 
 
 Followed an exposition, an exposition that made little 
 clear. The nearest Charles could get to the root of the 
 matter was that, having stuck at nothing in his attempt 
 to rob the rich and to pamper and pauperise the poor, 
 the Liberal statesman should know better than to come 
 among honest and Conservative people. Not everyone, 
 however, was willing to sit down under this outrage. She 
 was glad to say that two friends of hers had already 
 "requested" the manager of the restaurant to move 
 their table, since they were offended at their propinquity 
 to this black sheep. Others were to do the same. Charles, 
 who in certain directions had an extreme intellectual lazi- 
 ness and cared very little for politics, was content to leave 
 it at that. Nor was Bain a politician. Still, he found him- 
 self glad that his American protege was not with them. 
 
 Left alone at last, they walked slowly back by the 
 shore-path toward Monte Carlo, and, breaking the laws 
 of trespass, gained the Riva Bella. 
 
 " I had thought of going back to-night," Charles said 
 as they parted at the door. " I only came down this 
 time to settle up some business, but I shan't go now, 
 anyhow till to-morrow, and perhaps not then. Why 
 don't you come over and lunch .'* We'll go up to La 
 Turbie, if you like." 
 
 " I'll come," Bain answered ; " but please give me the 
 simplest lunch." It was either one of his affectations or 
 else a very real souvenir of his days of hunger that he 
 talked always as if his inside was on the verge of 
 serious rebellion. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 IN WHICH CHARLES DINES, AND LETS I DARE NOT 
 WAIT UPON I WOULD 
 
 BY all the laws that govern the visitor's life in 
 Monte Carlo, Charles ought to have gone that 
 evening into the Rooms, He didn't ; he didn't 
 even go up the steps. He dined by himself, and then 
 sat in the large hall of the Paris reading the belated 
 second-rate sporting papers which, very likely with 
 justice, the management appears to think sufficient for 
 the taste and intelligence of its patrons. The truth was, he 
 hadn't got rid of his nervousness, his fear. He had still 
 a hunch about his playing. There was an odd feeling 
 about his stomach, as when he was a boy. But he read 
 a lot of quite inaccurate information about the " markets " 
 and the so-called favourites for the Lincoln and the 
 National, and then wrote to his lawyer in Lincoln's Inn 
 proposing to see him at quarter-past ten on Wednesday 
 morning next, as he wanted to look into the exact 
 position of his affairs, for reasons which he did not 
 specify. It was characteristic of him to choose the very 
 day of his departure for America for this interview. 
 If he had to catch the mid-day train, it was certain 
 
174 CAVIARE 
 
 that it couldn't be unduly protracted ; and having got 
 the information he wanted, and having more or less 
 shattered the equanimity of the excellent Mr Pyeman 
 (Pyeman, Venables and Spalding, of course), he could 
 bolt for his train. 
 
 Then he lay back, smoked his cigar, and watched 
 with lazy inattention his fellow-guests. He had dined 
 early, so he was in time to see the gradual emptying of 
 that restaurant which is perhaps the smartest and in 
 some ways certainly the best — the best if they think it 
 worth while to take trouble for you — in all that world 
 that amuses itself. You could almost tell what the 
 people were by watching them. And what a mixture ! 
 That waddling gentleman with the black moustache, 
 whose clothes fitted him too well, was a rapidly enriched 
 South African millionaire — the richest Anglo- Alien we 
 have. The women with him were his wife and his two 
 daughters. The two men were Gentile parasites, far less 
 admirable than their host. Followed an English peer. 
 Charles wondered whether he or the millionaire was the 
 least creditable representative of the Empire. He was 
 alone, and he had evidently been drowning his cares — 
 and now he would lose more of the money that he hadn''t 
 got. And cheerful people came who were enjoying 
 Monte Carlo as it should be enjoyed. . . . 
 
 Charles went to bed. He didn't think he wanted to 
 see all these people again that evening, or their like. 
 If he went into the Rooms he'd come across them for 
 sure, and he felt they'd irritate him and put him off 
 his game. More and more timidity. 
 
 It would be well, however, before going to bed, 
 
LETTING I DARE NOT WAIT UPON I WOULD 175 
 Charles thought, to arrange his things for to-morrow''s 
 play. If he was to go down he would do so after making 
 every possible preparation for success. Then he wouldn"'t 
 have to reproach himself. He knew — as well as you and 
 I do — that the chances in roulette are entirely fortuitous, 
 but why not help chance as much as possible ? He might 
 so easily lose all his money in five coups — in five minutes, 
 say ; but, on the other hand, he might have a run of 
 luck, and it behoved him to prepare to make it welcome. 
 Nothing he knew was more irritating than, yielding to 
 sudden impulse, to depart from the programme laid 
 down — and to lose. To lose after consideration was all 
 in the day's work ; but to lose because of some whim — 
 no, that made for depression. Charles's philosophy on 
 the matter was a good deal confused. He couldn't have 
 formulated any very complete or satisfactory set of 
 rules. He knew it was all chance, but still . . . 
 
 There were two things about which he was determined. 
 He would play no other game than that he had decided 
 on earlier in the day at limch. He had two hundred and 
 fifty louis. He'd play on the two-to-one chances, the 
 dozens and the columns, and beginning with a stake of 
 ten louis he'd double up in case of failure till the fifth 
 coup. Then his stake would be a hundred louis. If he 
 lost, so much the worse. He'd put his things together, 
 keep his luncheon engagement with Bain, and catch the 
 evening train. That was his first determination. The 
 second dealt with what should happen if he were success- 
 ful. If he had two or three winning coups his capital 
 would be increased to at least three hundred louis. 
 Whatever luck he had he would not play with more 
 
176 CAVIARE 
 
 than three hundred. Each addition to his capital that 
 brought it above three hundred louis should be with- 
 drawn, put aside, should go back with him to London. 
 In fact, to put it briefly, he was willing to back himself 
 to the tune of two hundred pounds, not to lose five times 
 running. If he did, he'd quit. Garcia (wasn't it ?) made 
 some millions of francs by backing himself not to lose 
 three times running — but, if I remember V. B.'s book 
 aright, he was playing on the even chances, and so didn't 
 really run more risk than Charles proposed. 
 
 Charles's programme included another,a very practical, 
 precaution. It is true he had decided, sworn to himself, 
 not to lose more than two hundred and fifty louis — or 
 three hundred, if he won fifty to begin with. But flesh is 
 weak. If one has the money in one's pocket, it is so easy 
 to humbug oneself into thinking that in all the circum- 
 stances it is the stronger thing to abandon one's resolves 
 and to follow one's star — or some such rot as that. It was 
 so he lost all his winnings on the day that Mrs Gerald kept 
 him hanging about. He had made provision against such 
 foolishness. In his trunk were three moneyboxes carefully 
 contrived to receive either notes or gold, and not give 
 them forth till they were unlocked. One of them went 
 easily into his breast-pocket. As he won — ah, if he won !- — 
 each sum above the three hundred louis would be dropped 
 there and then into the box. It would stop in the box till 
 he got to London. To ensure this, he folded the small and 
 intricate key in a piece of paper, placed it in an envelope, 
 and addressed it to himself at his club. Ringing for a 
 chasseur, he sent the package at once to the post. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 A LITTLE PLAT, BREAKFAST, AND A JUSTIFICATION OJ 
 CONNOISSEUR8HIP 
 
 CHARLES the next morning when he woke had 
 an uncomfortable feeling that he had been dis- 
 loyal to his love for Alison. The feeling was 
 natural and perhaps justified. He hadn't thought of her 
 as much as he should. But then, on the other hand, he 
 had been doing things and seeing people, been busy, in 
 fact ; and, anyhow, his were at the most errors of omission. 
 It could not be said that anyone else had even for one 
 second taken her place in his heart. Why, he hadn't 
 spoken to a woman — save his ancient friend at Cap 
 Martin — since he left Paris. He hadn't even come across 
 the chambermaid. And wasn't he all the time working 
 for her ? No — perhaps not that exactly, but at least 
 sloughing the skin of his old habits and interests in pre- 
 paration for such work. It was Friday : that evening he'd 
 have known her for a week. 
 
 The day was one of those on which Monte Carlo 
 looks its very best. Cap Martin stretched out into an 
 azure, untroubled sea ; one's eyes followed with delight 
 
 the exquisite shades and contours of the hills and moun- 
 
 177 12 
 
178 CAVIARE 
 
 tains that reach in one unbroken line from Bordighera 
 to Mont Agel. At one's back, the water in the harbour 
 was a deep blue ; Monaco lay basking beneath the lower- 
 ing Tete de Chien just as on that day of which Tenny- 
 son wrote. Charles grew sentimental. He wished he 
 didn't have to go into the damned Casino ; he wished he 
 could telephone to Bain to meet him at La Turbie at 
 one, and that he could till then lie amid olive trees look- 
 ing at the sky, thinking of Alison, But he must get on 
 with his programme — and first of all he must get shaved. 
 The good Bowles had not yet received his notice. 
 
 Throwing his windows wide open, Charles stepped out 
 on to his balcony. It was nearly ten o'clock, and already 
 there was a steady stream of people ascending the Casino 
 steps. He thought it indecent. There were plenty of 
 people — even people he knew — who would as regularly 
 as clockwork join the crowd at the doors of the Rooms a 
 few minutes before they opened. As they were flung wide 
 there would be a rush (Charles had seen it once — once was 
 enough), and old men, old women, young men on furlough, 
 the five-franc regulars, visitors from the North who had to 
 prove the worth of their systems by one week's continual 
 play — all would run awkwardly across the polished floor in 
 the hope of securing a seat. He could see it all. They'd 
 mark their places with their pencils, their cloak-room 
 checks — and then they'd walk about and pretend not to 
 have hurried. And at each table the money would be 
 counted out — and after a time play would begin. To go so 
 early might be convenient ; certainly it was convenient to 
 have a seat. But it wasn't amusing — and luckily (although 
 that made no difference to Charles), it wasn't smart. 
 
A JUSTIFICATION OF CONNOISSEURSHIP 179 
 
 Charles's appointment Avith Bain wasn't till the eleven- 
 fifty train. He would have liked to spin out the few 
 things he had to do till then. But he began to feel that 
 he was playing a coward's part ; that as he had to play, it 
 was imbecile to put it off any longer. He tried to under- 
 stand, to analyse, his hesitations. In his experience they 
 were so new. Why, indeed, should he hesitate 't 
 
 In the bureau to which Charles had to go to secure his 
 ticket of entry they went, as they always do, through the 
 regular routine. He knew all the employees and they all 
 knew him ; but they pretended to believe that he might 
 be some absolute stranger, and asked for some actual piece 
 of identification, and then insisted on turning him up in 
 various books. Ultimately, of course, he was given the 
 white ticket which is only allowed to the habitue, and 
 which would admit him for a month without further 
 question. It carried other advantages. 
 
 The doorkeepers clipped Charles's ticket and greeted 
 him with respect. He was so cheerful always ; they were 
 always pleased to see him again. Besides, he came back 
 so regularly. And nothing disagreeable ever happened 
 to him or to his friends. He entered : the atmosphere 
 — although the Rooms had hardly been opened an hour — 
 hit him in the face. " What is it ? " someone asked a 
 witty lady ; " what is the dominant perfume in that 
 extraordinary melange ? " " Oh, I don't know," she 
 answered ; " I think I'd call it esprit de corps."" 
 
 Charles looked at his cuff. He'd written down there five 
 numbers,all of them under four. They were the fruit of his 
 morning's sentimentality. He'd actually taken Alison's 
 name — Alison : A-1-i-s-o-n — and he'd divided the 
 
i8o CAVIARE 
 
 letters of the alphabet into three parts : A to I, J to R, 
 S to Z, and then he'd reckoned in which third each 
 letter would fall. He'd written down the letters, and 
 against them the numbers — A against 1 ; L against 2 ; 
 and so on. The result was, 1,2, 1, 3, 2, 2. He walked to 
 the table that was nearest to him, and put his hand in 
 his pocket. He had change — and incidentally, let me 
 explain, he had less than the two hundred and fifty 
 louis he'd reckoned on, for he'd paid for his lunch and 
 his dinner of yesterday, so that he was three louis " shy," 
 as they say in New York. Three louis more to make up 
 before he'd have the desired three hundred. 
 
 The numbers on his cuff showed that his first stake 
 was to be on the first dozen. He took out ten louis and 
 handed it over the shouldei-s of some rather stuffy 
 people to the croupier at the end of the table. It was 
 just in time. The ball was rolling, rien ne va plus had 
 been called. Charles had an absurd anxiety — as well he 
 might, the stuffy people thought, for the ten louis were 
 raked away. 
 
 This gambling was altogether too wearing, Charles 
 felt — Charles who had seen his maximums go again and 
 again where this paltry ten louis had gone, and had never 
 turned a hair. His next stake was twenty louis, and he 
 had to change a five-hundred-franc note. The stuffy 
 people were full of solicitude. The twenty louis went on 
 the second dozen. Charles controlled his emotion. He 
 had a ridiculous desire, a disproportionate desire, not to 
 lose five times running, not to finish the whole thing 
 at once. Twenty. The stuffy people were truly ex- 
 cited. Charles took sixty louis — one note and thirty- 
 
A JUSTIFICATION OF CONNOISSEURSHIP i8i 
 five louis in gold — from the croupier's hand. He was 
 thirty louis to the good : now he had two hundred and 
 seventy-seven. But the thing had to be repeated. He 
 wished he knew whether he ought to start afresh with 
 Alison's name from the beginning, or whether he should 
 go on with the sequence ; whether, that is to say, he should 
 start next all over again with the first number in the 
 sequence. He determinedon the first course. His ten louis 
 went on the first dozen — and he won. That made two 
 hundred and ninety-seven louis in hand. If he could only 
 win once more he would at least have saved something 
 from the wreck — if wreck came. Ten louis again on the 
 first dozen, and again it won. The weight was lifted from 
 his spirit : he had now in his pocket three hundred and 
 seventeen louis. Seventeen louis were pure gain. That 
 was enough for the morning — even though it wasn't in 
 any case necessary for him to go off to meet Sir Peter 
 Bain. It was true his heart was lightened, but neverthe- 
 less he'd gladly get outside into the sunshine. There was 
 just time to step across to the Paris, leave his money, 
 and go to the funicular railway. 
 
 At the hotel seventeen louis were carefully dropped 
 into the box. At least now he could lose no more on this 
 journey South than two hundred and thirty-three louis. 
 He felt encouraged. 
 
 Bain's little laugh greeted Charles at the funicular 
 terminus. " Well, what have you been doing ? Have you 
 lost a great deal ? " Bain had to ask the usual question, 
 and it was characteristic of him to put it in its most 
 pessimistic form. One is assured that there exists in 
 
i82 CAVIARE 
 
 Monte Carlo a whole colony of respectable people — 
 English, American, French, German, Italian — who never 
 want news of the kind, if for no other reason than 
 because they studiously go through the season pretend- 
 ing that the gambling is an interest quite outside of the 
 ordinary life of the place, something it is bad taste to 
 mention. " Oh yes, there was gambling ; but we had 
 nothing to do with it,'^ they say when they come home. 
 At their luncheon and tea-parties you never hear any 
 talk of systems, or of runs, or of So-and-so''s great win, or 
 of his cousin''s even greater loss. A monstrous affecta- 
 tion. Besides, why should they choose Monte Carlo ? 
 There are so many other agreeable places. Monte Carlo 
 is frankly a place for vicious people, or for the occasional, 
 pleasant vices of people at other times virtuous. It owes 
 most of its butterfly, its iridescent beauty to its im- 
 morality. Why not be frank about it ? 
 
 But however impatient Charles might be at the 
 question, he had to answer it — and he answered it, 
 truthfully as it happens, but according to convention. 
 The answer always comes pat : " I haven't played much, 
 but Fm a bit to the good on balance." It is like being 
 asked after one's health. If the inquirer is a friend of 
 
 the heart he is answered truthfully ; otherwise In the 
 
 South one always says that one is " a bit to the good on 
 balance,'' and one always fosters sedulously the idea 
 that one hasn't played, that one isn't playing, much. 
 " Oh, but, Mr Caerleon, I saw you staking such a lot 
 of money — and once or twice you won, and you were 
 paid in several notes " — that is the kind of thing with 
 which ladies are apt to confound one's anxious attempts 
 
A JUSTIFICATION OF CONNOISSEURSHIP 183 
 to show that one isn"'t playing this year. The answer is 
 also according to rule : one smiles and says : " Yes, I'd 
 just had a louis on a number that turned up, and Fd 
 put the lot on a dozen, and won — it was the bank's 
 money I was risking, of course. I'd never play that way 
 with my own money : I haven't enough." 
 
 Going up in the train Charles won five francs from Bain 
 — >and refused to take it. It's a dead easy way of making 
 money. Let me explode it once and for all. After two- 
 thirds of the journey up to La Turbie the hill lessens and 
 almost ceases — and then the road seems to dip down- 
 wards. You draw your companion's attention to the 
 olive trees and the vines and the mule tracks, and then 
 suddenly you say : " Hullo, this line goes down over 
 there. That seems bad engineering. But I don't suppose 
 it really does : it's an optical illusion, I expect." Your 
 friend replies that it certainly dips. You deny it. He 
 persists. You offer to bet five francs — or ten, or twenty, 
 according to his means. When you get to La Turbie you 
 prove that there is not even flat ground ; that what you 
 have both spoken of as a dip is in reality merely the 
 lessening of the steepness of the hill. Pardon, gentle- 
 men who live on this device, that I have given it away. 
 Exercise your ingenuity afresh. 
 
 There are many people who, going to Monte Carlo, 
 never go near I^ Turbie. Theirs is a great loss. They 
 miss a view unsurpassable in its kind. And there are 
 people who go up to La Turbie to lunch, but who never 
 look at the very old-world Italian hill-top village which 
 nestles under the ruin of the tower Augustus built. Bain 
 had seen so many Italian villages that he didn't want to 
 
i84 CAVIARE 
 
 be bothered, but Charles insisted that they should visit 
 everything (like tourists — and perhaps for him it would 
 be the last time) just as if they had never seen it before, 
 the while their lunch was being prepared. 
 
 " Fve ordered a plain fried mostelle and some Vichy 
 water for you, Bain. You told me you wanted very little, 
 and that quite simple.*" 
 
 " I oughtn"'t to eat even that,"" Bain answered ; " but 
 then I needn''t eat any dinner.'^ 
 
 At table Bain fell on the hors d'oeuvres. There were 
 certain very indigestible preparations of shrimps and 
 button mushrooms covered with mayonnaise, and there 
 were prawns. Charles said nothing. You can"'t quarrel 
 with your guesfs good appetite. For himself he had 
 ordered a langoiiste a TAmericaine. It came — and at the 
 same time came the modest mostelle for Bain. 
 
 " What's that you've got there ? It looks good," Bain 
 asked. 
 
 " It's crayfish — and I ordered it for myself because 
 I'm hungry ; and when you're hungry, it's the best break- 
 fast dish there is. It's almost too rich, though. They 
 always put such an awful lot of things in the sauce." 
 
 " Give me some of that ; after all, I won't have any 
 mostelle — if you don't mind." 
 
 "/don't mind — I'm delighted. There's plenty for 
 two. But what about your small appetite and your bad 
 digestion .'' Don't blame me afterwards." 
 
 "No, I won't. Besides, it's ridiculous to come to a 
 good restaurant and only to have the kind of food you 
 can get in your own house. It's a waste. I will have a 
 little more of that sauce. What I never can understand 
 
A JUSTIFICATION OF CONNOISSEURSHIP 185 
 is, why people want to come to a place like this — or to 
 the restaurants down there "" — he indicated Monte Carlo, 
 which lay beneath them. " Why, I know a man who's poor 
 and very fond of pictures, and yet he spends more on his 
 stomach in a month than I spend in a year. I tell him, if 
 only he'd be sensible and eat at A.B.C. shops, he'd save so 
 much money that he could have all the modem pictures 
 he wanted. Still, if one is here it's rich food one ought 
 to have. I can get fried fish at the Riva Bella." 
 
 Charles tried to explain that good food and good wine 
 were an end in themselves. Bain, happily mopping up 
 the rich sauce of the crayfish with fragments of bread, 
 refused to see it. Nor would he drink wine. " My doctor 
 says I'd better not — unless it's champagne." 
 
 The agneaude /ai< with which Charles continued his own 
 lunch didn't look exciting enough to tempt Bain. The 
 waiter offered him some early peaches. " I would like a 
 peach," he said — and he ate two. Afterwards he asked 
 what they cost,and nearly fell ofFhis perch when he learnt. 
 
 "I didn't take return tickets," Bain announced. "I 
 thought we might walk down to Monte " — he had that 
 unhappy trick of abbreviating the name of the place ; it 
 was his one vulgarity. 
 
 Such a plan suited Charles down to the ground, but 
 he felt it was his duty, anyhow it would be discreet, 
 to remind Bain of the facts : " But did you ever do 
 it ? I have. I should like to again — but, after all, it's 
 only a mule track when it isn't a flight of irregular 
 steps. I thought you told me you had to take great care 
 not to tire yourself.'* You'll be more than tired when 
 you get down."" 
 
i86 CAVIARE 
 
 Bain smiled his most charming smile. " I know, but 
 I must take some exercise after such a breakfast."" 
 
 The path from La Turbie to Monte Carlo takes 
 a bit of finding. As the crow flies the one place is 
 not, I suppose, more than a mile from the other, but 
 they are in different worlds. The kind of people who 
 would ordinarily want a decent road use the expensive 
 funicular railway. So the peasant has to walk — for 
 the best of all reasons, that, even if he wanted to, 
 he couldn't drive. He walks, either alone or with 
 his mule, down the side of those mountains that fall 
 from the higher Alps into the sea. The path is quite 
 primitive. However, Charles and Bain found it — and 
 started off* gaily enough. At least, such exercise is 
 good for the liver. 
 
 Half-way down the hill Bain " cracked." Leaping, 
 so to speak, from crag to crag, their pace had been 
 too furious. He had to rest, and they sat down under 
 a cypress and began to talk. Bain was restive. He 
 w£is put out by a letter he had received that morning. 
 His extraordinary successes had made him too many 
 enemies. After all, it isn't amusing for the grand 
 seigneurs, the pomposos, of the art-dealing world to 
 have their opinions first questioned and then disproved 
 again and again by someone so much younger and, 
 according to their standards, so much less well equipped. 
 They could smile at, forgive, even encourage small 
 victories, but when it came to Bain's picking up a 
 forgotten but exquisitely fine Velasquez from under 
 their very noses — well, things became embittered. Of 
 
A JUSTIFICATION OF CONNOISSEURSHIP 187 
 course he was mad. An interesting, even a beautiful 
 piece of painting, Spanish certainly — but to call it 
 Velasquez was quite absurd ! It had cost Bain three 
 thousand two hundred guineas at Christie's — about 
 five times as much as he would have had to pay if 
 some people hadn't shared his belief, or at least thought 
 that the fact that he evidently so much wanted it 
 was enough to go on, was justification sufficient for 
 their bidding against him. And in the sequel, Beruete 
 and air the English critics whose opinion was of the 
 slightest value had come round. Of course it was a 
 Velasquez. Cleaned, and with its qualities patent to 
 everyone, it had been the chu of the Spring Old 
 Masters Exhibition — and now it had been sold for a 
 huge sum — some scores of thousands of pounds. That, 
 indeed, was the chief cause of offisnce. For some 
 reason or other, difficult to account for, but due 
 perhaps to the interest of his transactions, when Bain 
 did sell a picture everyone was cross. I do believe 
 that even those exquisite connoisseurs, the members 
 of the Burlington Fine Arts Club, occasionally sell 
 something, something they no longer care for, or 
 something which will command a high enough price 
 to enable them to buy another picture, another bronze, 
 that they covet more than what they are parting with. 
 And it was the fact that he, too, was guilty of this 
 last, which was both the secret of Sir Peter Bain's 
 success and the cause of his unpopularity — where he 
 was unpopular. He had, now and again, to throw 
 this picture or that to the wolves. 
 
 " Half these people who spend their time pitching 
 
i88 CAVIARE 
 
 into me — yes, being jealous of me if you like, although I 
 don^'t know what they have to be jealous about — don''t 
 really understand. Some of them are dealers, of course, 
 and I do perhaps now and then interfere with their 
 market. Not nearly as much as they think, though. 
 They exaggerate. But it's the critics who worry me 
 most. They don't seem to see that when they write 
 about painting they are expressing themselves in one 
 way, the way that is open to them. I can't write 
 about painting. I express myself by acquiring pictures. 
 That's my way of criticism, my method of expression. 
 And it wants some courage, some conviction. If one's 
 a millionaire and one's spending a tithe of one's income 
 — or capital — on a picture gallery, one can afford a few 
 mistakes. When you're like me and haven't any money 
 you can't. A critic sees a painting he thinks is a 
 Gainsborough and he says so in print. Well, it is or it 
 isn't. People forget his views if later on it's proved 
 to be a Hayman. Anyhow, he can always, even against 
 proof, persist in his opinion. But if I go — and it's 
 true of any real collector — to Christie's, say, and see 
 that behind a lot of dirt and varnish there's a Titian, 
 well, I have to buy it, cost what it may. I've got to 
 possess it. I have the collector's passion." 
 
 " A sort of lust to possess," Charles hazarded. 
 
 " Yes, that's it. One wants the thing so much that 
 one can't do without it. And having bought it, even 
 though one's taken it home and found it isn't what one 
 thinks, yet one can't avoid paying for it — and generally 
 for me the only way to pay for it is to sell something else. 
 If only they knew how I hate selling — how I even hate 
 
A JUSTIFICATION OF CONNOISSEURSHIP 189 
 having to sell the paintings Fm tired of. I don't under- 
 stand selling. Thafs my great trouble. I've got to 
 buy pictures without money and to sell them without 
 conviction — without the kind of conviction, I mean, 
 that makes one a good salesman. It's true I sold that 
 Velasquez for twenty times what I paid for it, but that 
 was almost obstinacy. I hated its going — but it just 
 had to go. I stuck to it as long as I could. But if I 
 hadn't been able to stick to it, if I'd had to sell it a 
 year or two ago, I'd have had to be content with a 
 quarter of the piice I've just got. One gets a good 
 price for a painting when one can do without selling it. 
 But I'm rambling away from my point. I do think 
 that a collector who doesn't sell things is almost a fool ; 
 he's stagnating. Sometimes I sell because I'm out of 
 conceit with a painting ; more often because I've got to 
 pay for something I've wanted more. The root of the 
 matter is, that when I see a painting, or a vase, or a 
 screen that I know is good and is of the kind I like, I 
 am no more able to resist buying it or bidding for it — 
 even beyond prudence — than I can avoid being hungry.'' 
 
 " But if you sell, you sell at a profit. And anyhow 
 you don't sell often.'' 
 
 "Often enough — or not often enough. It depends 
 on the point of view. And as for the profit, I generally 
 make something, but the dealer I sell to generally 
 makes more. I was telling you of the Hobbema I sold 
 with some other paintings at a time when I had to 
 have five thousand pounds to pay for the Corots. I 
 got rid of it for something less than three hundred 
 pounds. Within a week Musgrave sold it to Lord 
 
190 CAVIARE 
 
 Capel for three thousand five hundred. I didn't com- 
 plain. Another time I wanted fifteen thousand pounds 
 — had to have it. I wrote to a man in the rue Laflfitte 
 and offered him three paintings. He telegraphed that 
 he was on the way over to look at them : he came all 
 the way to Carburgh, and he gave me twenty-two 
 thousand pounds for the three. Eight thousand I took 
 in paintings — a couple of Manets that are in Carburgh 
 now were among them ; yes, I gave them to the gallery. 
 A week later old Gondolpho came to one of my teas 
 and told me that the rue Lafitte dealer had just sold 
 such an interesting Titian for six hundred thousand 
 francs. That was one of the three paintings Fd sold 
 him. Now, there you do have very much of an instance 
 either to support or to confound (according to the way 
 you look at it) all the people who say I'm a dealer in 
 disguise, that it's nonsense for me to pretend I'm not 
 one. Of the twenty-two thousand I took, as I've said, 
 eight thousand in Manets, and so on, every one of 
 which I've given to Carburgh : the balance went to pay 
 for my Velasquez and a lot of Barbizon paintings I'd 
 also given to Carburgh. And, as you know, the Velas- 
 quez has recently had to go the same road — and all I 
 have in the bank is an overdraft, and all the satisfaction 
 I receive is letters from the manager saying that the 
 overdraft must be reduced ! " 
 
 "Anyhow, I suppose a lot of the Carburgh people 
 are grateful." 
 
 "I hope so— some of them are, I know. Some aren't. 
 They used to have meetings of the local body when I 
 first offered them the pictures. I'd made one condition 
 
A JUSTIFICATION OF CONNOISSEURSHIP 191 
 — that they"'d provide a gallery. ' Why should -we take 
 all these foreign paintings ? ' they asked. ' Mr Bain 
 ought to patronise local talent first. Besides, these 
 French Impressionists aren't to everyone's taste.' They 
 seemed, some of them, to think I had some huge 
 swindle on — although no one ever explained why I 
 should begin my swindling by divesting myself of scores 
 of thousands of pounds of property. Then, although 
 they'd undertaken to keep up a temporary gallery, 
 I had, I found, to pay all the bills. Somehow or other 
 there was always a hitch about getting the accounts 
 passed. And they haven't built a gallery yet — and 
 don't look like building one." 
 
 " You'd better take the pictures back." 
 
 "No, it'll be all right by and by. That's the one 
 thing I've worked for, the one thing I've cared about. 
 It'll all have its effect. Carburgh men will have good 
 paintings to see, and if they paint they'll paint well." 
 
 " But how did you begin, Bain ? " 
 
 " Shall I really tell you .'* At home when I was a boy 
 I never satisfied anyone. None of the ordinary work 
 interested me. Pictures were the only things I cared 
 about, and naturally it never occurred to my people that 
 I'd ever be able to turn that taste into a livelihood. But 
 I had a stroke of luck. I had an aunt, Lady Morrow, 
 who knew one or two people important in the art world. 
 She told them about me and my passion for painting and 
 asked how I could use it to advantage. Luckily they 
 were sensible, and, instead of suggesting a Museum post 
 — which I dare say I'd never have got : there are exam- 
 inations ! — they suggested I'd better go into a dealer's 
 
192 CAVIARE 
 
 and do any work to begin with that came to my hand. 
 So a place was found for me through my aunt's influence 
 with old Capulet.and he both made me a slave and taught 
 me my trade. I was paid a pound a week — and lived 
 on it, and saved too. It was the saving that ruined my 
 health. I didn't have enough to eat. At any time I'd 
 walk five miles rather than waste sixpence on a train. 
 Every now and then I'd spend a pound or so on some 
 picture, too unimportant for Capulet, that I'd find 
 in some old shop or bid for at one of the smaller sales. 
 Then I'd clean it and send it back to be re-sold. I got a 
 Weenix in that way for five pounds and sold it directly 
 afterwards for sixty. So things went on. I was a sort 
 of skeleton. I had no nerves, no assurance, no flesh, no 
 friends. Fd cross over to the other side of the street 
 rather than meet anyone I knew. My life was in the 
 picture galleries and in the auction rooms. After a time 
 people got to know about me — and I was offered a post 
 as buyer for another dealer. There I had two pounds 
 a week. To be actually buyer, even for a small house — 
 that was joy. And I did buy ! I paid five pounds for a 
 Gainsborough that I found in a bicycle shop at Norwich. 
 My employers sold it for fifteen hundred. But — well, I 
 needn't bother you with the details : we differed, and I 
 was my own master, but this time with a few pictures and 
 a couple of hundred pounds. I took a tiny place of two 
 rooms in St James's, and was a real dealer for a little 
 while. I never went near anyone ; I left people to come 
 to me. Luckily they came — and I made thirty thousand 
 pounds in a couple of years. I thought that was a fortune. 
 I closed the place and became enthusiastic about a gallery 
 
A JUSTIFICATION OF CONNOISSEURSHIP 193 
 for Carburgh, and began to make a collection of ray own. 
 Now and then I made a mistake. But with Carburgh 
 like a large hole in the pocket in which I keep my money, 
 I can't afford to make them nowadays. In the mean- 
 time, if you lock me up I daresay you'll stop me buying 
 pictures, but short of that no one will succeed, I'm afraid. 
 When I like a thing I've got to have it — either for 
 myself or for Carburgh. The result is that some of the 
 dealers have exalted me, quite unjustly, into a kind of 
 scourge and terror. One of the funny things, though, is 
 that if you want a thing hard enough it almost always 
 comes about that you get it — pictures, I mean ; I don't 
 know much about anything else. The fates seem to 
 combine to give it you. I remember once walking into 
 So-and-so's studio" — he named a portrait-painter easily 
 the first of his time — " and seeing there wet on his easel 
 a just finished painting of Lady — oh, well I won't tell 
 you her name. ' I wish I could have that,' I said. * I wish 
 you could,' the painter answered — ' the more so that my 
 sitter doesn't like it.' I thought of trying through a friend 
 to get her to sell it me. ' I won't even ask her,' he said ; 
 *it's a present from the painter ; she couldn't sell it.' That 
 sounded conclusive. Four years later I met the woman 
 herself. I took her into dinner. I told her I wanted her 
 portrait. At first she was indignant — but Carburgh has 
 it now." 
 
 " Tell me one more story," Charles said, " and then 
 we ought to get on. It's not too warm nor too dry on 
 these stones." 
 
 " One of the most amusing things that ever happened 
 to me was when one of my friends near Salisbury wrote to 
 
 13 
 
194 CAVIARE 
 
 me that he'd decided he must have his wife painted by 
 Mancini, and wouldn't I come down to spend the week- 
 end and an-ange how it should be done, and help him 
 with a letter that would induce Mancini to do it. I 
 went — and we wrote to Mancini. I must tell you that 
 it wasn't so much a portrait of his wife he wanted as a 
 Mancini — she'd already been painted by Furze. He 
 wanted a Mancini in the house. Monday came, and he 
 asked me to let him drive me into Salisbury an hour 
 before my train went, that he might have my advice 
 about a bureau that a furniture dealer had offered him. 
 We went. I liked the bureau, and he arranged to buy 
 it. Settling details kept him a moment. I walked about 
 the shop. It's always worth while. One never knows 
 what one may find. I saw a painting extraordinarily 
 vivid in colour stuck away at the back in a corner. It was 
 surely — yes, it certainly was a Mancini, a good Mancini. 
 My friend was speaking to his chauffeur. ' Where did 
 you get this ? ' I asked the dealer. ' Oh, that thing, 
 that's nothing ; I bought all the contents of the nursery 
 in the big house at Shrewley : that was among them.' 
 * What do you want for it ? ' ' Want for it ! I'll take ten 
 shillings and be glad.' I gave him his ten shillings just 
 as my host returned. The best of the story is that he'd 
 seen the picture, even looked at it — it hadn't struck him 
 that it was out of the common. Certainly the name of 
 Mancini never occurred to him in connection with it. 
 And it wasn't till he heard that it had come from 
 Shrewley and he'd told me that the Baskombes lived 
 there that, with my reminder that Mrs Baskombe was 
 one of Mancini's first patrons, he remembered that the 
 
A JUSTIFICATION OF CONNOISSEURSHIP 195 
 painter had stopped almost at his door for months. Any- 
 how, my new Mancini was a better one than the one 
 ultimately painted for him. Carburgh has mine. Eyes 
 and no eyes, of course. My friend liked paintings well 
 enough, but he couldn't be sure a painting was good 
 unless it had a label." 
 
 " Well, you can never tire of such a life. It can't be 
 dull." 
 
 ** YouVe right ; it's not dull. But it's wearing — and 
 it's jolly ungrateful, and too exciting sometimes. But 
 the whole thing is my life. Anyhow, I've now got an 
 enormous amount of practical knowledge without, as so 
 often happens, my individuality going. My knowledge 
 hasn't made me a machine." 
 
 Charles didn't say so, but he thought as he got up 
 that Bain was right, that if by individuality he meant, 
 as he must mean, character, he certainly had enough 
 and to spare. He glowed with character, individuality, 
 temperament — all subordinated to a passion for painting, 
 a passion that was consuming him. 
 
 The day was drawing in when they almost limped 
 into Monte Carlo. Bain wouldn't stop and dine. He gave 
 Charles tea and then departed, worn out, in a tram-car. 
 He had refused to take a carriage. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS 
 
 THAT night Charles tossed to and fro on his 
 bed. Whether it was that his walk down 
 from La Turbie had been too much for him, 
 or that he had gone to bed too early — for nowadays he 
 thought rather of Alison than of amusement when 
 midnight approached — or that his gambling, the last 
 gambling of his life, as he called it, had upset his nerves, 
 he didn''t know, but he certainly could not sleep. He 
 rolled from side to side in the search for rest and a 
 cool place. 
 
 His gambling that evening had not been dramatic, 
 it hadn't even been exciting. He'd dined quietly by 
 himself and had then gone into the Rooms quite 
 casually — casually, because he was beginning to feel 
 that after all there wasn't any reason why he should 
 gamble at all. Why not make sure of keeping his 
 money. Two hundred pounds was a useful sum whether 
 in Europe or in America. It would make rough paths 
 smooth. And then, too, it represented his only capital. 
 Mr Pyeman wasn't likely to be amenable to the extent 
 
 of making him any advances. That wasn't his way, 
 
 196 
 
NIGHT THOUGHTS 197 
 
 and particularly it wasn't his way with Charles, whom 
 he respected just as much as it was necessary and seemly 
 to respect a younger son. Charles wasn't exactly the 
 type of young man who won his respect — nor had Charles 
 tried to win it. 
 
 So why gamble ? Perhaps he wouldn't. But getting 
 into the Rooms and looking at one of the tables he was 
 struck with the fact that the dozens were running 
 intermittently, that there were no " sequences " — that 
 the same dozen didn't succeed itself again and again, I 
 mean. To play for such sequences was one of Charles's 
 favourite games. Of course — and no one knew it better 
 than he did — the sequence of dozens occurs in the 
 long run just as often as it should, just as often and 
 no oftener. The mathematical average always rights 
 itself. There was in reality no more reason for play- 
 ing for a repetition than for a change. But logic told 
 Charles one thing and his prejudices told him another. 
 And so, seeing that the dozens had been intermittent — 
 oh, the jargon of the tables ! — he began to play for 
 their repeating. By good luck repeat they did, and so 
 Charles won, and went on wiiming — not the larger sums 
 he was prepared to risk, his stake never exceeding forty 
 louis, but respectable sums which, finding their way to 
 his breast pocket, soon began to make the box he carried 
 very heavy. After half an hour, although he had kept 
 no record, he had the certainty that it contained more 
 than three hundred louis. So he'd at least doubled his 
 capital, and even if now he lost five coups running, he'd 
 have an easy mind and could return to London with 
 equanimity. That was why he went to bed. 
 
198 CAVIARE 
 
 I suppose the truth was that in these days Charles's 
 spirit was in a ferment. He was not used to being 
 in love, not really in love. And it had altered his 
 character. He'd never had anything of high serious- 
 ness to think of hitherto. Of his own comfort, yes, of 
 his reading, his pleasant interests, his friends — but not 
 of the future, not all the time engrossingly of one 
 woman's eyes, of the place he longed for her to share 
 with him through all the years to come. Now he had 
 to worry about ways and means in a different sense 
 from the way he had worried in the past. And he 
 had to cut loose from all his past life and go across 
 the Atlantic, to live among people whom he would not 
 understand, and who would not understand him, to seek 
 for work and to do it — or to fail. Charles could walk 
 in the sun, he could talk to Bain, he could gamble, but 
 nothing could shut out these thoughts. 
 
 What worried Charles most persistently, the ques- 
 tion that occurred again and again, was what work he 
 was to do ? How could he best hope to make good ? 
 Wasn't the whole thing rather a fool's errand ? And, 
 after all, had Mr Gorham held out any reasonable hope 
 of his getting any work? He was neither of an age 
 nor of the kind of training that he could hopefully take 
 the first job that offered itself. He had a vague idea 
 that the conventional thing to do was to arrive in New 
 York with half a crown in your pocket and then work 
 up from that. That sort of thing was all very well for 
 the last generation. Nowadays one was handicapped in 
 all kinds of ways. Why, one even had to arrive with 
 ever so much more than half a crown — with twenty-five 
 
NIGHT THOUGHTS 199 
 
 dollars or some such sum. And one had to show it. 
 Perhaps, though, that didn't apply to the first-class 
 passenger. But he''d be handicapped in being a first- 
 class passenger too. If one was looking for a job in 
 London, Charles had always heard, one should wear 
 one's best clothes, be particular about one's hat and 
 one's boots. Apparently, though, his best clothes weren't 
 going to help at all when he reached New York. Con- 
 trariwise. He supposed Mr Gorham was a typical captain 
 of industry, and he hadn't had any hesitation in declar- 
 ing his prejudices against Charles's Bond Street vest- 
 ments. He wondered whether he ought to search in 
 London for the true American cut. Perhaps it could 
 be found in the shops that flanked the Hotel Cecil. 
 
 But no, he didn't think he'd achieve anything by 
 that kind of ignoble compromise. He'd vowed that 
 he'd stick to his eye-glass. He'd stick to his clothes 
 too, and he'd use just as many or just as few American- 
 isms in his speech as he could pick up naturally and 
 without effort between Monaco and Sandy Hook. He'd 
 heard of Sandy Hook. . . . And then he began to 
 plan out his procedure when he got there. He tried 
 to remember what he'd been told of the place. He'd 
 lots of friends — acquaintances too — in New York and 
 Washington. Should he look them up ? No. He 
 wouldn't even tell them he was there. They'd inter- 
 fere with business — whatever business it was. The men 
 and women that Charles knew would not assist serious 
 pursuits. He'd been in Berlin once, on a quite serious 
 errand — to see its pictures. One of his cousins was an 
 attache at the Embassy. As a consequence Charles's 
 
200 CAVIARE 
 
 visit to Berlin was from the point of view of painting 
 an entire failure. Besides, the kind of people, English 
 and American, who formed the society easily accessible 
 to Charles in New York wouldn't understand what he'd 
 come over for. Assuredly they'd laugh at the idea of 
 his working. Perhaps they'd think he was searching 
 for an heiress. At least in that respect his hands were 
 clean. Likely by the end of the spring he'd have more 
 money to his name than Alison's father. Perhaps that 
 was the one cheering factor in the situation. He'd 
 have the greater chance. 
 
 Now it was Friday night. In five days at this hour 
 he'd be out on the Atlantic. At the most he could 
 only stop three days more here in the South. Twenty- 
 four hours would take him back to London. Should 
 he decide to gamble no more ? Should he go back to 
 Paris by the early morning train and, in spite of his 
 determination, see Alison again ^ He'd be breaking no 
 actual promise if he did. Perhaps he could help about 
 MrGorham. It didn't sound likely though. MrGorham 
 was sufficiently tied up. No, to go back to Miss Gorham 
 after her father's message would hardly be playing the 
 game. She hadn't written to him, but there was nothing 
 to prevent his writing to her, to give her first the date 
 of his passing through Paris, when he'd tell her he'd look 
 on the chance for a letter at the Chatham and then an 
 address in New York, so that, if she would only take 
 the trouble, he might have news of her father. That, 
 apart from everything else, would be polite. 
 
 Charles turned on his light, rose and wrote at once. 
 He told Alison he was returning by Monday's hixe. 
 
NIGHT THOUGHTS 201 
 
 Now he was happier. He could sleep. The morrow could 
 take care of itself. In no case now could any disaster 
 threaten. He couldn't even lose the money he'd brought 
 down. His next, his real ordeal would not begin for 
 another eleven days. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 IN WHICH IS DEMONSTRATED THE DULNESS OF GAMBLING, 
 AND AN AWFUL EXAMPLE IS EXHIBITED 
 
 IT was daylight when Charles woke — not naturally, 
 but because the blinds were being blown to and 
 fro by the wind. The sea was all white horses. 
 The mountains that yesterday were razor-sharp against 
 a blue sky were to-day hidden in mist. The rain was 
 beating in at the window. A day in which Monte 
 Carlo looks its worst. It was too early for any visitor 
 to be abroad in the square below. A few gardeners 
 were working at the flowers, a sleepy policeman seemed 
 to be all waterproof cape, there was a tradesman"'s cart. 
 It wasn^t amusing. Days like this were good for the ad- 
 ministration of the Societe des Bains de Mer. Certainly 
 one couldn't bathe. The bathers would come and gamble. 
 Charles wondered if anyone had ever been known to 
 bathe during the season at Monte Carlo. Again the 
 impulse came to him to go away, to go somewhere else. 
 But where ? Besides, perhaps there wouldn't be a seat in 
 the train. No, here he was, here at least he could pass 
 the time, here he had friends and acquaintances to whom 
 his presence was natural. He would take tickets for the 
 
THE DULNESS OF GAMBLING 203 
 
 Itujce for Monday night. Bowles should go with him. 
 He'd be wanted to unpack and to pack in London. 
 After that Charles would be servantless. 
 
 Having shut out the gale Charles went back to bed, 
 and slept again. 
 
 The day hadn't improved when Charles woke a 
 second time. It is a mistake to suppose that such days, 
 wind-swept, cold, wet, are rare in the South. They arrive 
 too often. And when they come they often repeat them- 
 selves. One may come to Monte Carlo in any one of the 
 three first months of the year and find grey skies and 
 for a fortnight see no sun. One may. On the other hand, 
 it is not likely. As probable is it to come and see no 
 cloud through two weeks, and to return welcoming the 
 clouds that seem to wait the arrival of the Folkestone 
 and Dover boats. The worst of it is that in Monte Carlo 
 rain and cold wind leaves the visitor so utterly without 
 resource. Most of the hotels make no adequate provision 
 for their guests' recreation. Writing, reading, billiard 
 rooms — they hardly exist. The visitor is supposed to 
 have come to gamble. It is true there's a theatre and 
 an opera — but they don't occupy the day, and tickets 
 are not easy to obtain. And there is a picture gallery 
 which has a small stage where the dancer of the moment 
 may pass an hour of the afternoon. It is extraordinary 
 that having a picture gallery it has never occurred to 
 the powers to have an exhibition of pictures — an ex- 
 hibition of real pictures, I mean. Then there is the train 
 to Nice. But what, I ask you, is there to do in Nice } 
 There are cheap shops as well as dear. That in itself is 
 
204 CAVIARE 
 
 a relief. But one cannot turn cheap shopping into a 
 permanent pastime. Nor can one look into the windows 
 of the jewellers and dressmakers of the Place Massena 
 in the rain. Remains the Casino. . . . 
 
 So Charles found. All the morning he pottered about 
 his room. He made lists of the things he''d want to 
 take to New York, lists that he'd mislay before he 
 reached Marseilles ; he wrote to a few friends ; he tele- 
 phoned to Bain to ask if he were worn out, and was told 
 that he was still asleep ; he wrote down the numbers 
 suggested by Alison's name once more on his shirt cuff; 
 he prodded the contents of his pocket money box with 
 his paper-knife that they might be forcibly induced to 
 take up as little room as possible, and so seem to invite 
 additions ; he read the entertaining Monte Carlo Mes- 
 senger ; he explained to Bowles that in three days his 
 wages would be paid, a present would be given him, and 
 he would be needed no more. But the day didn't pass. 
 Even so, it wasn't an hour at which he could decently 
 lunch. Remained the Casino. . . . 
 
 To the Rooms then. Charles found them crowded, 
 uncomfortable, damp — steaming indeed. Nice had come 
 to Monte Carlo for recreation. Charles didn't like it. 
 You see he'd vowed to himself to play in one way only, 
 and as a consequence all the possible fun had evaporated. 
 No longer could he go to a table and plank down a hand- 
 ful of louis on some casual chance. No, he had to follow 
 a definite routine. Ten, twenty, forty, eighty, one-fifty. 
 He found himself repeating the figures over and over to 
 himself. It was a great bore. The idea that the whole 
 thing was either important or amusing had receded into 
 
THE DULNESS OF GAMBLING 205 
 
 some recess of his mind. He looked at all these people 
 stretching out grubby paws to place or to withdraw five- 
 franc pieces, and his gorge rose. He wondered whether 
 he couldn''t hire a hall just on the other side of the 
 border, in France — in Monte Carlo Superieur, or Beau 
 Soleil, whatever it is called — and deliver lectures on the 
 absolute folly of gambling even in a place where, as far 
 as one can make out, the gambling is fair. Fair ? He 
 doubted whether his hearers would think it fair if he 
 could only get it into their heads that every hundred 
 francs they put on the table was worth, even before the 
 ball had started rolling, only ninety-seven. " Take it 
 off while there is time," he''d have liked to have called 
 out ; " take it off while it is still worth a hundred."" 
 But it would be useless. The gambler and the novice 
 would both answer: "Take it off! Certainly not. It 
 may be worth two hundred." Charles saw himself billed 
 to deliver two lectures at 3 p.m. punctually on Saturday 
 and Sunday. He'd have no time for more. His subject 
 should be " The True Function of Zero in the Modem 
 State." Couldn't he get all the people to understand 
 that whether they played carefiilly or carelessly, whether 
 they had systems or followed impulse, the end was always 
 the same ? Zero took its percentage. At least three per 
 cent, of every penny staked on the board. . . . 
 
 But while he had been thinking he had been watching 
 the numbers coming up at the table at which he was 
 standing. If he had been backing what he called in his 
 own mind — a little sacrilegiously — the Alison sequence, 
 he'd have fared ill. He'd have been cleaned out, cleaned 
 out twice. Perhaps this was the time to begin. Ten 
 
ao6 CAVIARE 
 
 louis went on the first dozen, . . . Charles was gambling 
 
 again. 
 
 Happily he gambled with success — with success and 
 almost without excitement. When it was time to go to 
 lunch the box was so full that he could not even get 
 another louis into it. So much the better. And it was 
 good luck. But notice please : it was always at the be- 
 ginning of every sequence five chances to two against 
 his being beaten by the bank, and luck just now was on 
 his side. As easily might it be against him. It is not 
 an experiment that I should recommend. Nor would 
 Charles. Still, I cannot pretend that he bothered much 
 about that side of the matter when, back in his room, 
 he took out the heavy box, shook it to see if it made 
 any noise of coin against coin (it was too full for that, as 
 a matter of fact ; the amalgam of paper and coins was too 
 intimate), and then, reassured, packed it away between 
 the pieces of a suit of clothes. That was the box of 
 which the key had already gone to London. He took 
 out another, its twin, locked it, wrapped up the key, and 
 sent it to join its fellow in the porter's lodge of his 
 London club. 
 
 I am as tired of describing all this gambling of 
 Charles's as Charles was of the business itself. It wasn't 
 gambling — or it wasn't gambling as he understood it. 
 He knew what the odds were, and he kept laying them, 
 and, fortune favouring, he kept winning. Not once since 
 he'd reached the place had he reached his maximum 
 stake. But there wasn't any fun. There was no giving 
 way to impulse. Not for him the feverish joy of bringing 
 
THE DULNESS OF GAMBLING 207 
 
 off an en plein — which is the gambler's slang for the 
 backing of a simple single number. He couldn't even 
 experiment with a transversale. He'd have broken faith 
 with himself if he'd put a louis on an even chance. 
 Charles came to the conclusion that the Rooms were too 
 dull to be dangerous, and that the gambler's day, marked 
 out by meals, punctuated by drinks, was the stupidest 
 in the world. He had thought otherwise before he had 
 known Alison^ — he had thought otherwise even on the 
 days when the mountains were crowned with grey clouds, 
 and when as to-day the Rooms steamed with the damp- 
 ness of the votaries of chance. 
 
 And then lunch. There can be no function in the 
 world duller than that of lunch or dinner in a restaur- 
 ant of the first order when no appetite is brought to 
 table. And there is not much appetite in Monte Carlo. 
 How indeed can there be.? The visitor overeats and 
 takes no exercise, takes no exercise and overeats. He 
 overeats because a certain number of dishes are the 
 fashion — and they are rich dishes because the restaur- 
 ateur can't charge big sums for simple food. The sensible 
 people are those who make a point of walking every 
 day to Beaulieu or Mentone or La Turbie, and who 
 refuse to be seduced into eating more than they need. 
 The atmosphere of the Rooms takes away appetite too, 
 and destroys the spirit. In the old days one had a long 
 night in which to recuperate. Gambling ceased at eleven ; 
 the restaurants closed soon after. Now the Rooms are, 
 generally speaking, open for another hour, and they start 
 an hour earlier than they did ; and the restaurants — they 
 stop open just as long as people remain in them. 
 
208 CAVIARE 
 
 So Charles went to an unhappy lunch. I ask you 
 how can one eat eggs or fish and a tournedos when for a 
 couple of hours one has done nothing but hang about 
 in an atmosphere one can cut with a knife ? Pretending 
 to eat he consoled himself with the memory of his full 
 money box. But he almost wished that he had no 
 longer any available capital with which to play. He had 
 been playing in the same spirit as that in which he 
 now cut pieces off the meat on his plate — without any 
 zest. The truth was, this visit to the South, although 
 it had been profitable, was a mistake. Monte Carlo is 
 no fit theatre for a man in love. He could no longer 
 throw himself into the life of the place. What last 
 year had been amusing this year had no attractions. 
 A man in love had the conventions to regard. He even 
 found himself avoiding his friends. They belonged to 
 a past that was dead — or dying. 
 
 There was Bain of course. His interests were not 
 offensive; they were actually amusing. Charles once 
 more turned to him in his dulness. He telephoned. No, 
 Bain wouldn't dine with him — he couldn't. " But I do 
 wish you'd dine with me, Caerleon. I've two men coming 
 to dinner. Where ? I don't know. You tell me. Yes, 
 that'll do. And please, like a good chap, do go and 
 order the dinner for me, and the wine. You see, I don't 
 know anything about food." Charles didn't welcome the 
 idea of ordering a meal someone else was to pay for, but 
 it would all help to pass the time. 
 
 Bain's two friends were not particularly artistic. They 
 were the kind of people whom one knows in Monte 
 
THE DULNESS OF GAMBLING 209 
 
 Carlo, asks to dinner in Monte Carlo, and whom, except 
 for an accident, one doesn"'t see till one comes to Monte 
 Carlo again. One of them Charles found that he had 
 met before. It wasn"'t a memorable meal — although 
 Charles always remembered the evening for one fresh 
 insight into the gambler's possibilities. " Excuse me a 
 moment,"" said one of Bain''s guests. [I should explain 
 that they were dining at the Cafe de Paris, which is on 
 the Casino square.] In a couple of minutes he was back 
 again. The fish finished, he disappeared afresh. " Whafs 
 the matter with Mostyn ? " Bain asked his other guest. 
 
 " I fancy he''s had an inspiration and has run across 
 to the Rooms — gone to back the number of his cloak- 
 room ticket, or something of that kind." 
 
 " I wish he'd finish his dinner first anyhow,"" Bain 
 answered. " IVs so jolly jumpy. But we''ll ask him."'"' 
 
 Mostyn returned, looking this time a little down in 
 the mouth, Charles thought. 
 
 " Have you been in the Rooms in those three minutes.'*"" 
 Bain asked inquisitorially. 
 
 Mostyn nodded. " I had a feeling that seventeen was 
 going to turn up and I rushed across to back it." 
 
 "And did it?" 
 
 " No. Perhaps it would have the next time, but I 
 didn''t want you to miss me." 
 
 Bain was peevish : " Oh, we wouldn't have missed you. 
 You go and play if you want to. Don''t mind us — or 
 the cook."'"' 
 
 Mostyn was too set on number seventeen to notice 
 Bain"'s tone. He took what had been said literally, and 
 at the conclusion of the next course was off again. 
 
 I4f 
 
210 CAVIARE 
 
 " He did just the same thing last night,*" his friend 
 explained. " Since he^s been down here I can get him to 
 do nothing else but gamble. He was in the Rooms even 
 before we went to the hotel ; he was in the Casino before 
 they opened the next morning. No, I don't know whether 
 he's lost much. I don't think he's won. The way he plays 
 I don't see how he can. He runs from table to table, 
 from roulette to trente-et-quarante^ shoving down gold 
 here and a note there — forgetting half the time, I should 
 think, what he's staked or where he's staked it. He'll have 
 no nerves left if he goes on this way," 
 
 " And no money either," said Bain. 
 
 In a minute the truant came back. " Tell us the truth 
 now ; did you win .'' " Bain asked. 
 
 Mostyn shook his head. " No, I didn't. Zero came 
 up ! " Then he turned to his companion : " Do lend me 
 a couple of milles before we go into the Rooms after 
 dinner." His friend gave him the money at once. Money 
 is very easily lent in Monte Carlo. And, curiously enough 
 perhaps, it is generally repaid. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES GETS AWAY WITH IT 
 
 THE next morning, the morning of Sunday, 
 came. It found Charles a little surfeited with 
 success. He had played overnight and had 
 continued to win. He hadn't played very long, but he 
 had played long enough for it to have seemed impossible 
 for him to lose five times running and so to put an end 
 once and for all to his gambling career. When the 
 Rooms closed Bain's friends — Bain himself had taken 
 care to go to his hotel by the last tram — dragged him 
 off to supper, and it was more in order to get away from 
 the kind of night restaurant scenes with which he had 
 been surfeited in Paris than from any wish to gamble 
 again that he'd suggested going on to the Sporting Club. 
 There one gambles in rather greater comfort, amid 
 better dressed people, in a company which is nominally 
 respectable — and one can smoke. They wanted Charles 
 to play baccarat. That he would have liked. It would 
 have been a change from the eternal and infernal roulette. 
 But it wouldn't have been according to his rule. So he 
 played his progression again and again and again, till 
 at the end his second box was so full that it would hold 
 
212 CAVIARE 
 
 no more. His last stake was a hundred and fifty louis 
 — the maximum. " If that goes down,"" he said to him- 
 self, " ril be free. There'll be no more gambling for 
 Charles Caerleon."" But it didn''t go down. He had 
 backed the second column, and number eight turned up. 
 On that one series he was three one-thousand-franc notes 
 to the good. As a matter of fact he couldn''t get them 
 into the box. All the same he ceased playing. 
 
 Charles, I should perhaps regret to say, was no Sabba- 
 tarian, but nevertheless he didn''t go into the Casino. 
 He was sick of it. Besides, Sunday ""s a bad day anyhow : 
 all the little people of Nice and Mentone, of Bordighera 
 and Cannes come over, each with fifty francs, and cram 
 the Rooms to the point of suffocation. Two invitations 
 had come his way the previous evening. One to spend 
 the day at a friend's villa at Cap Ferrat he rejected 
 as he lay in bed and watched light clouds dapple the 
 broad sunlight in which the mountains, mist-crowned 
 yesterday, were now bathed. He liked playing bridge, 
 but it seemed rather a sacrilege to spend that exquisite 
 sunshine on a game that would last, with intervals for 
 meals, from the moment of his arrival to that of his 
 departure. To play cards in broad daylight in the open 
 air was an impropriety any way. The other proposal 
 was more to his liking — to motor over to Ventimiglia 
 and up into the mountains to Tenda, and, if the snow 
 allowed, to the Col and through the tunnel. He had 
 done it before — often ; but it was an excursion of which 
 one could never tire. To run first along the coast to 
 Italy's first town and then, changing the whole character 
 
CHARLES GETS AWAY WITH IT 213 
 
 of the route, to turn inland up the valley and to find 
 oneself going higher and higher, to be in one half-hour 
 in France and in the next in Italy, and to repeat this 
 process again and again, to pass hill-top villages that 
 threaten to fall with the rocks that support them on to 
 the traveller, to reach Tenda itself and to lunch in the 
 eighteenth century, to drink wine before a crackling 
 wood fire at four or five pennies a bottle — it was all 
 great fun. And after lunch to endanger car and one's 
 own life zigzagging up the pass, where a slip on the ice- 
 covered ground would drop one thirty or forty feet into 
 the road below, to go through the long dark hole in the 
 mountain top —miles it seems — meeting midway perhaps 
 a procession of market carts, each with three or four 
 horses, bringing the provisions of the Lombard plain 
 into the rich towns of the Riviera, until suddenly one 
 bursts into the sunshine and deep snowdrifts of the 
 Italian side — it is to be a continent away from Monte 
 Carlo. Return if you are wise by Sospello, dropping 
 down into Mentone in the twilight. 
 
 Charles and his friends did these things. The day 
 calmed his spirit, it cleansed his mind, he began to see 
 things more clearly, more reasonably. Perhaps he had 
 won half a year's income at his play. It would, it should, 
 all help in America. To have two of his money boxes 
 full was to have perhaps a large sum. He had kept no 
 count and had no idea of his gains. He was back at his 
 hotel in time to send the key of his third, his last, box 
 to join its fellows in London. It would get there a few 
 hours before he would himself. And, luckily, a little 
 shaking up and some manipulation with a paper-knife 
 
214 CAVIARE 
 
 had enabled him to get those last three billets, left out 
 from his winnings of the previous night, into the second 
 box. You see he was still afi'aid that he might, if in the 
 few houi-s left to him to-morrow he lost his capital, be 
 tempted to play, in spite of all his determinations, his 
 promises to himself, with any loose, available winnings. 
 But in the meantime his capital was intact. There was 
 no reeison why he shouldn''t give that a chance to-morrow. 
 His train went at a quarter to five. 
 
 When Bowles woke his master the next morning he 
 found him in the highest of spirits at the idea of leaving 
 so soon. Bowles, who was a conservative in the habits 
 of his life, thought it all very odd. Why was his master 
 leaving the South so quickly ? Why had he stopped on 
 in Paris ? Why was he going to America, to his valet's 
 mind the most god-forsaken of all the god-forsaken 
 places in the world? And, strangest of all, why were 
 his services being dispensed with ? Why ? Bowles had 
 no clue. But Charles was happy. He sang to himself in 
 his bath ; he flung wide open the windows as he dressed 
 that the sun might bathe him in its turn — to the great 
 scandal of an amiable and aged Teuton who was taking 
 an early constitutional. To-morrow, in the morning, he 
 would hear from Alison, would see her handwriting for 
 the first time, and then, reinforced with some hundreds 
 of pounds, he would go West to seek his fortune. He 
 took his luck at the tables as an omen. Unlucky at 
 cards, lucky in love, was not a proverb at which he need 
 flinch. He hadn't played either at baccarat or at trente- 
 et-qtiarante this time — both games in which cards are 
 
CHARLES GETS AWAY WITH IT 21S 
 
 used ; and no one could say he'd been other than unlucky 
 at them in past years when he had played. And the 
 other kind of luck was in arrear too : it should come 
 now. 
 
 There were still these last hours to spend in Monte 
 Carlo. The train didn't go till a quarter to five. 
 Charles wished he could start at once. His valet would 
 pack ; paying his bill and going to the station would 
 be only a question of a quarter of an hour. He was 
 all impatience to begin his journey ; he felt that when 
 he left Monaco he would be on his way to New York. 
 At another time, in another place, he could have read, 
 but at Monte Carlo you can't read. It is like being 
 on board a ship. One has all the time the restlessness 
 that comes of feeling one may be missing something. 
 He went downstairs and out into the sunshine. Hard 
 exercise was what he wanted, but where should he take 
 it unless he went up into the mountains where, not a 
 mile as the crow flies from the Casino, from all this 
 modernity, this luxury, one can walk for hours, meeting 
 no one but perhaps a muleteer with his beast, carrying 
 some indistinguishable produce to the valley below ; 
 where if there are houses they seem dead — a barefooted 
 child, clad in shift and petticoat, coming to the door 
 and ready to vanish at once at a word, the only sign 
 of life. But there was no time for the mountains. 
 
 Charles walked down to the Condamine and up to the 
 extremity of the Rock. There for an hour he sat on the 
 smaller bastion overlooking the harbour, the bastion that 
 keeps watch over the Italian coast. Monte Carlo was 
 
2i6 CAVIARE 
 
 across a half mile of shimmering water. Everything was 
 still. The smoke from the houses to his left and in 
 Monte Carlo itself rose straight. The only movement 
 he could see was that on the pigeon-shooting ground, 
 whence every few seconds came a little spurt of sound, 
 and a black figure would run out. Time was when 
 Charles had shot pigeons himself; he had given it up. 
 His mind turned to Alison and to her father. Had he 
 been right in leaving her in Paris ? After Mr Gorham''s 
 message it seemed to him he had no choice. If he had 
 remained he could not have seen much of her. And then 
 if he had remained, whatever his excuses were, he would 
 have broken the spirit of his bargain with Mr Gorham. 
 And that solid gentleman, what was he doing now ? It 
 didn't seem credible that in this so-called twentieth 
 century he could really have been kidnapped. Perhaps 
 in this castle here, at Ventimiglia, at Genoa, such things 
 had been done, two, three hundred years ago, but to- 
 day, and in Paris. . . . Still, there it was. And it was 
 equally certain that Mr Gorham had contemplated it 
 without any special astonishment. He had spoken rather 
 as if he admired his enemy's enterprise. Charles sup- 
 posed that in a week or two he'd be liberated, would 
 find that he'd lost his fortune and would then in the 
 most matter of fact way proceed to make another. But 
 how even in America do you make bricks without straw ? 
 And that reminded him that in New York, thanks to 
 the good fortune of the last few days, he himself was not 
 to be without resources, without weapons. What he had 
 won, whatever it was, should be dedicated as the founda- 
 tion stone of the success he had to make. It should be 
 
CHARLES GETS AWAY WITH IT 217 
 
 the knife with which he was to open his oyster. To 
 make a fortune does not seem so very difficult until you 
 have tried. Charles had never tried. 
 
 He would walk back now and see whether he had 
 enough appetite for lunch, his last meal in the South. 
 
 The meal, a cigar, coffee, with a stroll on the terrace, 
 took Charles to three o'clock. He went into the Paris, 
 paid his bill, satisfied the servants, told Bowles he would 
 meet him at the train, and entered the Rooms, He still 
 had his capital of three hundred louis intact, save for 
 what he had just disbursed — and that was balanced by 
 the little reserve that he had made at the hour of his 
 arrival. He looked about for Bain, and found him play- 
 ing trente-et-quarante with a small capital and a nervous 
 manner. He didn't look as if Monte Carlo was agreeing 
 with him. In a few minutes, seeing Charles, he jumped 
 up and came over to talk to him. " I've a good mind 
 to come back with you," he said. " I can't stand that 
 place at Cap Martin. It's so far off that once one's here 
 one's got to stay here. It means playing all the time. 
 And I never see the men I'm with : they're out all day 
 and all night " — and he proceeded to compound for sins 
 he was inclined to by damning those he had no mind 
 to. " However, I'm moving into Monte Carlo to-morrow. 
 I needn't be in the Rooms all the time then. I know 
 a lot of people and I can always get a game of bridge.'* 
 Charles smiled. 
 
 " But come along," Bain went on. " If you're just 
 going you'll want a last gamble. I'll watch you. But 
 perhaps you're cleaned out ? " 
 
ai8 CAVIARE 
 
 More perhaps to show that he still had something 
 left than for any other purposes, Charles began to play. 
 He staked again on the numbers of Alison's name. The 
 loss of his initial ten louis on the first dozen rattled his 
 companion. He was even more rattled when it was 
 followed by twenty. " I hope youVe got a return 
 ticket," he said, as Charles handed his stake — forty 
 louis this time — to the croupier. That, too, was lost. 
 
 *' This is too exciting ; it's bad for me,"" and Bain 
 walked away, to watch Charles from a seat on a couch 
 against the wall. He couldn't tell from that distance 
 how much was being lost — " or won," Charles said to 
 himself as he dropped a couple of milles into his third, 
 the empty money box. He left the table and walked 
 over to Bain. 
 
 "Cleaned out.?" 
 
 Charles reassured him. " As a matter of sober fact 
 I've won exactly a hundred louis there." 
 
 " Capital ! You'd better lend it me." 
 
 " Of course. Here you are — a couple of thousand 
 francs." 
 
 Bain shook his head. " No thanks ; I didn't mean it ; 
 I was joking. I won't start borrowing in the Rooms. 
 It's the devil. Besides, I swore I wouldn't lose more 
 than a hundred poimds this visit — and I won't. Luckily 
 I've still got some of it left." 
 
 " All right ; as you like. But I always want people to 
 borrow of me in the Rooms if I'm in luck. I look upon 
 it as money saved against the time when the luck 
 changes. Not much harm happens even if I never get 
 it back. I'd have lost it anyhow, as likely as not. And 
 
CHARLES GETS AWAY WITH IT 219 
 
 I can't remember any time when I wasn't repaid — 
 sometimes, I confess, when I'd forgotten all about it — 
 weeks after. Often it comes in jolly handy." 
 
 They strolled again to a table. It was getting late. 
 Four o'clock was passed. Charles started to play : he 
 had a feeling that he'd better get rid of his capital. 
 He felt that it would be lucky to do so. Ridiculous, of 
 course — but gamblers have these superstitions. Still, 
 he proceeded according to his programme. Ten, twenty, 
 forty, and so on. Now he would stake on a dozen, 
 then on a column. His luck continued. Again and 
 again he would reach his third or fourth stake, and 
 would then win. The box was getting heavy and almost 
 too full to receive any more. Charles looked at his 
 watch. 
 
 " Oughtn't you to go ? " Bain asked. 
 
 "I'll run through a series once more," Charles 
 answered. " I've got lots of time — five minutes. All 
 my things are at the station." 
 
 Just because he was in a hurry the croupier seemed 
 to spin with unusual slowness. Old ladies delayed the 
 game by their wrangling. 
 
 Ten louis on the first dozen went. 
 
 Ten louis on the second dozen followed it. 
 
 The forty louis was no more successful. 
 
 "" Oh, come away ! " Bain said. " What's the good ? 
 You'll lose all you've won. Besides, you'll miss your 
 train." 
 
 Charles, however, was bent on his programme. 
 Eighty louis went on the third dozen. Number eleven 
 appeared. 
 
220 CAVIARE 
 
 And then three mUle notes. Bain hadn't yet seen 
 Charles stake so heavily. A young German couple who 
 had been watching his play gasped. The notes went on 
 the third dozen. 
 
 " Tout va aux billets,'" the croupiers announced. 
 
 Suddenly Charles noticed that he'd made a mistake. 
 His note should have been on the second, not the third, 
 dozen. " Rien ne va plus^ He stretched over, and 
 quickly changed them. You're allowed to if the ball 
 is still moving. 
 
 " Vingt-neuf noir impair et passe. ^ 
 
 Charles's alteration had cost him three hundred and 
 sixty pounds. But he didn't care. He'd managed to 
 lose his capital. And, anyhow, the change from the 
 third to the second dozen was according to his pro- 
 gramme, and it was on that programme that he had 
 won whatever he had won. After all, too, he fancied 
 he'd made a good deal since lunch. 
 
 But Bain and the young German couple were both 
 distressed. 
 
 There was barely time for the train. At the station 
 Bowles was anxiously undecided as to whether he 
 shouldn't take his master's things out of the compart- 
 ment. Perhaps he'd changed his mind again ! 
 
 "Good-bye. Bon voyage. Do come and see my 
 pictures at the end of the month, when I'll be back." 
 Charles hadn't told Bain he was off to America. 
 
 And now, truly, farewell irresponsibility ! 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES IS CARRIED 
 TOWARDS LONDON 
 
 CHARLES leant back in his seat. He had a 
 sickness of the spirit. A little sense of forebod- 
 ing. Why, he couldn't say. Perhaps it was 
 that the sun was setting. Nowhere more than on the 
 Riviera does the sinking sun suggest the end of things, 
 the finish of happiness. A chill falls on the heart when 
 darkness threatens. If the hour had not been so 
 ridiculously early he'd have called for his bed to be made 
 up. But that was impossible at five o'clock. Nor would 
 he sleep. The train stopped at Monaco, at Cap d'Ail. 
 It ran past Eze. . . . Nice was passed and then Cannes. 
 Agay and St Raphael and Frejus : all these he was 
 seeing for the last time — or not seeing, for it was dark. 
 He wouldn't, he thought, be again on this happy sea. 
 There was no one on the train to whom he could talk. 
 Bowles wasn't society. He wished he'd never come 
 South. And then he remembered his three full money 
 boxes here in the suit case at his side. They were 
 compensation. 
 
 Came the first call for dinner. Charles dined, and. 
 
222 CAVIARE 
 
 dining, drank with the definite intention of sending 
 himself to sleep. No coffee, but a liqueur. It seemed 
 such a cold world. The clouds had come up in the last 
 couple of hours, and rain was spitting against the 
 window. What was Alison doing ? Had she written to 
 him ? There would be time, just time, to search for her 
 letter. Perhaps there'd be an excuse for his spending 
 the day in Paris — only the day, since to stay longer 
 would mean the missing of his boat for New York. 
 But why not miss it ? Why go ? Europe was his home. 
 Wouldn^t Mr Gorham alter his view as to the value of 
 fifteen hundred a year when, shorn of his capital, he 
 rejoined his daughter and freedom ? Charles knew he 
 wouldn't. 
 
 That was the worst of it. Mr Gorham had Charles 
 by the leg. He just had to go. Unless something had 
 happened. But Charles couldn't hope for that. 
 
 The next morning Charles told Bowles to come and 
 sit in the compartment and to watch over his baggage 
 while he himself drove across Paris to the Chatham. 
 He'd rejoin the train at the Gare du Nord. You may 
 be sure he carried in his own hand the small bag that 
 contained the three heavy boxes. 
 
 " No, Mr Caerleon, there is nothing for you." 
 
 Charles was dumbfounded. Surely Alison would have 
 written to him. What should he do .'' He would go to 
 the Meurice and inquire. Perhaps — but no, he wouldn't 
 think. " Hotel Meurice," he told the chauffeur. 
 
 But even as the taxi slid from the door one ran out. 
 "Stop! stop!" 
 
CHARLES IS CARRIED TOWARDS LONDON 223 
 
 The car waited. 
 
 A frock-coated clerk came from the office. " Mr 
 Caerleon, a telephone message came for you just now. 
 I was j ust sending it to the porter. Here it is. I wrote 
 it down : ' Tell Mr Caerleon that Miss Gorham will see 
 him at the Gare du Nord.' " 
 
 Charles's heart bounded. " Quick — not to the 
 Meurice, but to the Gare du Nord ! Vite ! Vite ! "" But 
 minutes had been lost. 
 
 What could Alison's message mean ? Was she by 
 any chance going to London ? It was unlikely, impos- 
 sible. But he was to see her, to speak to her. Perhaps 
 she would let him send Bowles on with the baggage. 
 He himself could follow at midday, or even in the 
 afternoon. At the worst, if only the taxi would hurry 
 now, he'd have several minutes with her. 
 
 Charles found himself at the Gare du Nord with ten 
 minutes to spare — and there, with Mrs Phillips, was 
 Alison. She looked a little worn by her anxieties, 
 Charles thought, and he could not help a feeling that 
 her manner was less cordial than it had been. So Alison 
 intended he should feel. She had not forgotten, and 
 would not forgive, what she had seen at the Gare de 
 Lyon, It was one of those misunderstandings that a 
 word would clear up — but the word couldn't be said. 
 She smiled at Charles, and gave him her hand. 
 
 " Mr Caerleon, I came to the station instead of writ- 
 ing to you, because I am always nervous about the 
 French posts — and if my letter had been delayed it 
 wouldn't have caught you before you sailed perhaps. I 
 hadn't anything of importance to say myself, but when 
 
224 CAVIARE 
 
 I opened Poppa''s blotter yesterday — he was writing at 
 it just before he went out that day — I found a letter 
 that's evidently for you. I think he must have written 
 it just before he went to Cook's. He didn't even have 
 time to address an envelope. That's why I saw it — 
 there were only a few lines. Read it now." 
 
 Charles didn't want to read anything in these few 
 minutes during which he could speak to and look at 
 Alison, but he glanced at the note. He saw it was the 
 letter of introduction Mr Gorham had promised him, 
 and he realised in the moment of looking at it that he 
 had justified by his careless folly every word of implied 
 doubt that Mr Gorham had uttered at his expense. 
 It was with the aid of Mr Gorham's introduction that 
 he was to make good in America — and he had even 
 forgotten that he had never received it. But he turned 
 to Alison : 
 
 " Yes, Miss Gorham, — your father promised me that. 
 I am very grateful to him — and to you. But I have 
 another favour to ask — we have so little time. May I 
 not let my things go on by this train and stop and give 
 you and Mrs Phillips lunch ? We can talk then, and I 
 can learn your news — if you will tell it me." 
 
 An Alison not too proud, not wounded, would happily 
 have answered " Yes " ; but before her mind sprang up 
 again the memory of a blue turban and brown eyes. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr Caerleon, but we can't lunch. 
 We're engaged, aren't we, Constance ? " Mrs Phillips 
 didn't like it, didn't understand, but she nodded assent. 
 " And, to tell the truth, I haven't any news. Poppa 
 hasn't written again. We've just got to wait — and I'm 
 
CHARLES IS CARRIED TOWARDS LONDON 225 
 having quite a good time. Isn't that so, Constance ? 
 I hope you had a good time at Monte Carlo, Mr 
 Caerleon, and I hope you'll have a pleasant voyage and 
 like America. You ought to get in. The trainll be start- 
 ing. I thank you again, both on Poppa's behalf and my 
 own, for all you did for us. Yes, I will certainly — or 
 Poppa will — let you know what happens. You will cable 
 your address, you say ? But that doesn't seem worth 
 while. Good-bye." 
 
 The train had started. 
 
 Charles watched as long as he could Alison's gracious 
 figure. Was it only a fancy that her voice and hand 
 trembled a little at those last words, that last hand- 
 shake ? 
 
 16 
 
BOOK II 
 CRESCENT FORTUNE 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES OPENS HIS THREE BOXES 
 
 CHARLES had often returned to London from 
 the South, from Newmarket, from Paris, in 
 the devil of a hole financially. He had never 
 returned with the kind of worries that preoccupied him 
 now. At least, to-day, he hadn't to fret about money. 
 He patted the bag at his side and wondered how much 
 he'd brought back. A great deal more than the sum 
 he'd taken with him. That, at least, was certain. But 
 still he hadn't an easy mind. Know that you can't pay 
 what you owe at the moment you should pay it and 
 you are sure that no anxiety, no sorrow can equal your 
 unhappiness. And toothache : that has much the same 
 effect. Or you are in love. . . . Perhaps that is the 
 worst of all. Not actually to know. So Charles felt. 
 
 " Charing Cross." 
 
 Charles looked at the familar, grey, smoky station. 
 He wished he'd asked someone to meet him — someone, 
 anyone, to take his mind off his own affairs. Leaving 
 Bowles to look after his baggage, he went off inconti- 
 nently to his club for his letters. Thank heaven ! all 
 
230 CAVIARE 
 
 three of the letters from Monte Carlo were waiting his 
 
 arrival. 
 
 He looked round his flat. If you must live in London, 
 Mount Street isn"'t a bad pitch. But somehow to-night 
 he didn''t care for it. That Conder fan, that early 
 Orpen, that Anquetin — they were all charming, but 
 they left him cold. And, anyhow, he was going away. 
 He wished he"'d gone to a hotel rather than come 
 here. Bowles could have fetched the other things that 
 he''d want in America. Frank with himself, he knew 
 it was that he cared too much for his home to leave it 
 happily, too much for his habits to relinquish them 
 easily. He had been used to Bowles calling him in 
 the morning. To-moiTow would be the last time that 
 that would happen. 
 
 No, he wouldn't dine at home. He'd go out. Any- 
 where to escape his own thoughts, to get away from 
 fancies about the future. Should he open his three 
 boxes and see how much he'd made ? No, not now. 
 When he came home after dinner — when he could 
 count it all out undisturbed. Locking them up in his 
 desk he turned to dress, and almost before Bowles had 
 arrived he was ready to go out. No, not to his club. 
 Men would be there who'd want an explanation of his 
 untimely return. At the Carlton grill he'd have both 
 food and peace. 
 
 In these troubled hours Charles put everything off. 
 He had no assurance. Dinner finished, he avoided going 
 home. He sat for a couple of hours in the Empire, and 
 then for another hour in King Street eating oysters and 
 pondering the future. A miserable business ! 
 
CHARLES OPENS HIS THREE BOXES 231 
 Charles didn't know which box he opened first — he 
 didn't know whether it was the first he'd filled, the 
 second, or the last. He threw back the lid and emptied 
 its golden contents on to his bed. But they were com- 
 paratively few. What would count were the billets, and 
 they didn't fall out so readily. Moreover, they were 
 folded up in all sorts of ways. He couldn't tell whether 
 they were five hundred francs or a thousand until he'd 
 unfolded them. Sometimes two were folded together. 
 Some which were at the very bottom had to be dis- 
 lodged with a button-hook. At last, however, they were 
 all carefully arranged. So many piles of gold which 
 would persist in falling about on the coverlet, but each 
 of which was ten louis high ; so many notes each for 
 five hundred francs, so many of a thousand. The con- 
 tents of the box were worth nine hundred and eighteen 
 pounds. Charles had experience, he'd been used to 
 winning and losing large sums, but this result made 
 him gasp. Which box was it he'd opened ? If it were 
 the last, then the others would yield more. And surely 
 it was the last : it was not so very full. The truth was 
 he hadn't had the slightest idea of what he'd won. 
 He'd not even attempted to keep any record. Most of 
 the time he'd been thinking of something else. Money 
 had gone on to the table, and beyond seeing it go or 
 taking off his stake and his winnings he had paid no 
 real attention. Perhaps it was as well. He might have 
 been tempted to play differently if he had known how 
 much he was making. 
 
 The same process was repeated with the second box. 
 Its yield — Charles gasped again — was more than twice 
 
?33 CAVIARE 
 
 as generous. Its contents were far more closely packed. 
 It was the one that he had taken so much trouble to 
 manipulate. Roughly, it worked out at two thousand 
 three hundred pounds. 
 
 And the third. It needn''t contain as much as the 
 second to make his total winnings five thousand pounds. 
 The gold was taken out first and reckoned : the total 
 was now three thousand three hundred and twenty-two 
 pounds. Charles was becoming excited. He unfolded 
 each note separately and added its value to the total. 
 Gradually it increased, twenty and forty pounds at a 
 time. And yet the box seemed full of folded papers. 
 But by the time five thousand was reached only three or 
 four were left. Whether five thousand pounds in abso- 
 lute winnings was actually reached would depend on 
 their denomination. Charles was becoming greedy now : 
 he wanted the five thousand to be exceeded not only by 
 the two hundred with which he'd started his play, but 
 by the sixty he'd given away so lightly in the Abbaye, 
 and also by the amount he'd spent in Paris. The total 
 was now five thousand three hundred and fifty-two : his 
 anxiety would be answered by the amount in this last 
 fold. It proved to be two notes, one for a thousand, the 
 other for five hundred francs. The five thousand had 
 been passed — by twelve pounds. And he had even had 
 the foresight to allow for the exchange. 
 
 Charles thought to himself that bed would be a 
 good place now. But first he must write to Alison, that 
 she might get his letter in the evening of to-morrow — 
 to-day, by now. There was nothing he could say to her, 
 save to repeat that he begged for her news when she 
 
CHARLES OPENS HIS THREE BOXES 233 
 could send any, that he should cable his address to thank 
 her. A poor letter — yet to Alison when it came it 
 brought more happiness than she would confess to her- 
 self. She kept it. Mrs Phillips was not even told of its 
 arrival. 
 
 And then the money had to be put together. The 
 gold was tied in a handkerchief; the notes were arranged 
 carefully : they made a tidy heap ! Two other letters 
 should be written. With five thousand pounds now in his 
 hands Charles was beginning to feel himself a business 
 man. The letters were identical in their terms They 
 said that Mr Charles Caerleon had in French gold and 
 paper (he even gave the proportions : someone had told 
 him that the paper was worth more than the gold) the 
 sum of one hundred and forty-two thousand five hundred 
 and twenty francs, and he invited an offer for it. One 
 letter went to Messrs Thomas Cook and Son, the other to 
 the Credit Lyonnais. They asked for telephone answers 
 before half- past nine. You see he had to keep his 
 appointment with Mr Pyeman at quarter-past ten — and 
 then immediately afterwards to go to Euston. 
 
 Leaving a note that he was to be called at seven, he 
 went to bed and at once to sleep. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 ME PTEMAN WHO ADVANCES NOTHING 
 
 THERE are solicitors — and solicitors. Un- 
 happily, the first class is far less numerous 
 than the second and, unhappily again, Mr 
 Pyeman, in spite of his " old family " connection, was of 
 the second. That is not to say that he was dishonest. 
 He wasn't. To stray from the path of the strictest legal 
 rectitude would be with so good a business dishonest 
 indeed ; worse, it would be stupid. Mr Pyeman's firm 
 always let you have the residue of the estate. You 
 got something. And you may be sure that he kept his 
 clients' money in a separate account. Mr Pyeman was 
 wanting in no outward, visible, tangible sign of legal 
 responsibility. 
 
 He even kept Charles waiting the regulation ten 
 minutes. Charles thought he could hear his voice 
 through the wooden partition droning away in an un- 
 necessary dictation — " to attending you on the telephone 
 and suggesting the advisability of an early interview," 
 and so on. But it wasn't Mr Pyeman : it was a clerk. 
 Mr Pyeman was in an inner chamber, from which, as 
 Charles entered, issued the junior partner, a little ferret. 
 
MR PYEMAN— WHO ADVANCES NOTHING 235 
 
 " Well, Mr Caerleon, it is unusual surely to see you 
 in London at this time of the year. I thought you were 
 in Monte Carlo always till the spring. You young men 
 have a good time — we poor lawyers have to stop at 
 home and do the work." And Mr Pyeman sank back, 
 folded his hands on his severely fanciful black-and-white 
 waistcoat, and surveyed Charles with a steely eye, as who 
 should say : " He wants money, but he's come to the 
 wrong shop. He don't deserve it, and he shan't have it." 
 
 Generally, I confess, when Charles had to interview 
 Mr Pyeman he felt at a disadvantage. It was like inter- 
 viewing a bank manager. He usually had something to 
 ask, and Mr Pyeman succeeded always — even against 
 Charles's better judgment — in making him feel that it 
 was a favour that was being conferred. Everything was 
 " rather irregular, you know, Mr Caerleon. We'll do it, 
 but it's irregular." This time, however, Charles had 
 plenty of courage. There, against his heart, was five 
 Bank of England notes each for a thousand pounds. 
 Indeed, they gave him so much courage that he was 
 unable to resist the temptation — having so much time 
 on his hands! — to take a rise out of Mr Pyeman's 
 pomposity, 
 
 " I came home earlier than usual, Mr Pyeman. The 
 truth is, I want to go to America at once, and I came to 
 
 ask you if you could help me " Charles paused with 
 
 malice. He thought Mr Pyeman would jump in, and 
 he was right. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Mr Caerleon. I told you I couldn't 
 advise the trustees " — a mere form that ; the actual 
 trustees were too incapable of business to do other than 
 
236 CAVIARE 
 
 they were told — " I told you I couldn^t advise the 
 trustees to make you any more advances. Besides, from 
 what funds could they do it ? I think, if I may say so, 
 they've been patient, Mr Caerleon, perhaps too patient. 
 Later on you may regret it." Charles made as if to 
 speak. "No, Mr Caerleon, I'm afraid it's no use. A 
 young man in your position should either work for more 
 money or he should live reasonably on what he has. 
 You haven't any right — and I speak as I am sure your 
 dear father would have wished me to speak — to spend 
 all your time in Paris and Monte Carlo. Why don't 
 you go and live at Ballyhackle ? " — a little place of his 
 very own that Charles owned, neglected if the truth be 
 told, and let when he could, on the west coast of Ireland. 
 
 " I don't go and live at Ballyhackle for what I con- 
 sider a very good reason : I should be bored to death 
 there. I should hate the people ; I'm afraid they 
 wouldn't like me. I should take to drink " 
 
 " Well, no one suggests your living there all the year 
 round. But I've told you again and again that you 
 can't go on as you're doing. You're ruining yourself. 
 Everything you could touch you've spent, and heaven 
 knows how much you owe ! I didn't want to mention it, 
 but there's my own firm's account against you. It's 
 been running on for years. So you can see that it's no 
 use asking my assistance." 
 
 Mr Pyeman looked the part to the life. He had 
 blown off steam, figuratively and actually. He was 
 genially saturnine. Charles, for his part, succeeded in 
 looking crestfallen. 
 
 " I can see that, Mr Pyeman. I won't ask for it. 
 
MR PYEMAN-WHO ADVANCES NOTHING 237 
 And you do seriously advise me to go and live at Bally- 
 hackle? I don't think it would be very nice at this 
 time of the year. Aren't there always lots of wet mists 
 in Ireland ? " And he looked out on to the soiled green 
 and the soot-laden air of Lincoln's Inn. 
 
 " There are a great many things I don't like in 
 London, Mr Caerleon, but I stop and do my duty all 
 the same." 
 
 Charles looked at his watch. Being pompous always 
 takes a long time. " Well, Mr Pyeman, it happens that 
 I didn't come in to see if I could induce you to get my 
 uncles to advance me any more money. I came in to 
 say that as I was going to America — this very day, by 
 the way — I wanted to know what the amount of your 
 account against me was and to ask you to help me by 
 telling me as nearly as you can how much I can really 
 count on a year after deducting all the interest and 
 charges I've got to pay — through my own idiocies, I'll 
 allow, if you like." 
 
 To say that Mr Pyeman was astonished was to put 
 it mildly. However, he wasn't going to turn good 
 money away. " You must hurry, if you please," Charles 
 put in. 
 
 " Bring me Mr Charles Caerleon's account at once," 
 Mr Pyeman told a clerk who came at his call. " It's 
 made out, for I had it prepared when Mr Caerleon 
 wrote a couple of days ago." 
 
 "That was kind of you," Charles said. He didn't 
 blame Mr Pyeman for taking him at his word — but all 
 the same, he wished that he hadn't given way to tempta- 
 tion and embroidered what he'd got to ask with this 
 
238 CAVIARE 
 
 flourish about the account. Perhaps, though, as Mr 
 Pyeman was evidently going to ask to be paid, it was 
 all to the good that he'd forestalled him. 
 
 " And what does it come to .'' " he asked. 
 
 " Ninety-seven pounds and nineteen shillings — say 
 ninety-five pounds,'' said Mr Pyeman. 
 
 " No, we'll say ninety-seven pounds and nineteen 
 shillings exactly, if you don't mind, Mr Pyeman. And 
 if you'll throw in this interview and write across the 
 bottom the words, ' up to and including to-day's inter- 
 view,' and if you'll add the date, I'll pay you here and 
 now in cash. You can no doubt give me change for 
 this note. And please tell me — I can only stop a very 
 few minutes — about my income, my future income." 
 
 Mr Pyeman was too astonished at what had just 
 happened to be as calm and as coherent as usual ; he 
 started off' on explanations. He had also, it appeared, 
 in expectation of being asked for more money, prepared 
 a schedule showing where Charles stood. Charles stopped 
 the explanations. 
 
 " I want it in the least possible number of words and 
 in the simplest way, please. That's all I've room for. 
 I can take away what you've written there and digest 
 it on the boat." 
 
 Mr Pyeman's information amounted to the statement 
 that between now and the end of the year Charles would 
 have paid into his bank exactly three hundred pounds. 
 On the first of January next a new year would begin, 
 and with it, if he didn't further embarrass himself, he'd 
 enter into a minimum of a steady twelve hundred a 
 year. It couldn't be muich more. 
 
MR PYEMAN— WHO ADVANCES NOTHING 239 
 " Three hundred pounds isn""! a good deal to set up 
 house with," said Charles to himself as he drove to 
 Euston. " And twelve hundred isn't much of an income. 
 Still, it's better than nothing. And if I don't lose this 
 five thousand here, that'll add about two hundred a year 
 more. We ought to be able to live." 
 
 Bowles, the richer for several discarded suits of clothes, 
 a handsome certificate to character, and a ten-pound 
 note, alone saw Charles off. " I wonder what game he's 
 up to," he muttered as he turned on his heel and walked 
 out of the station. 
 
CHAPl'ER III 
 
 IN WHICH THE " MAURETANIA " IS NOT DESCRIBED 
 
 ON board ship Charles was thought an odd fish. 
 His little title had secured him some con- 
 sideration. Of course he had a room to him- 
 self. Next to his deck-chair sat an old apple-faced 
 Bostonian. I won't teU you his name — but Charles is by 
 way of saying prayers for him every night. It was this 
 white-haired, cheerful gentleman who first taught him 
 the real meaning of American hospitality. Mr Gorham 
 had been hospitable, but in a different sense. His was 
 the hospitality of exuberant good fellowship. That sort 
 doesn't always ring true. We have too much of it in 
 England. But the hospitality that Charles now for the 
 first time experienced was of a kind that America alone 
 knows how to grow. I'll tell you. Charles was a young 
 man. A day or two out he complained to his neighbour, 
 in answer to some polite inquiry, that his room was so far 
 forward that he got all the pitching and tossing there 
 was, and that he dressed squeamishly in consequence. 
 His neighbour was old — white-haired, as I've said ; per- 
 haps seventy-five. " Now, that's too bad," the Bostonian 
 
 340 
 
THE "MAURETANIA" IS NOT DESCRIBED 241 
 answered. " But 111 tell you what we'll do : well change 
 rooms. Fve got one on your deck but more amidships 
 — an outside one, too, like yours. You see nothing up- 
 sets me. I shall be perfectly comfortable. The steward 
 can soon alter our things.'' 
 
 Of course Charles wouldn't have it — but he looked at 
 the old man and thanked him, and wondered whether 
 there were many more at home like him. Later he 
 learned there were ; he learned that there is, and can be, 
 no trouble too great for a good American to take for 
 the stranger with whom he's become acquainted and 
 whom he likes. 
 
 But to return to Charles being thought an odd fish. 
 He had so much to think of, and he felt generally so 
 strange, that he made practically no acquaintances on 
 board. He walked by himself, and when he was in his 
 cabin he was either asleep or he was reading "Evan 
 Harrington." Everyone else was reading " Jennie Ger- 
 hardt," or Anthony Hope's last book. He hardly went 
 into the smoke-room. Its atmosphere repelled him. 
 Besides, no society that wasn't partly feminine could 
 hold Charles's attention for more than a few minutes. 
 However, one night after dinner, when it was too cold 
 to sit on deck and all the seats in the lounge seemed 
 engaged, he did go into the smoke-room and watch 
 the auction pool. I suppose the gambler's instinct was 
 aroused in him — or perhaps he was both amused and 
 piqued by the knowledge that to the men around him 
 his arrival was something to be surprised at, and that 
 they were at least sure that he wouldn't take a hand. 
 The facetiousness of the auctioneer bored him stiff, but 
 
 16 
 
242 CAVIARE 
 
 suddenly he heard himself bidding for the high field. 
 Everyone in the room turned round to look. "God 
 bless my soul ! " they seemed to say. Having started 
 he went on. Someone else wanted it — badly ! But then 
 so did Charles — although he wasn't sure what it was. 
 Encouraged by the plaudits of the crowd his adversary 
 persisted : Charles didn"'t secure the prize till he'd 
 reached twenty-three pounds. Much applause. Rising, 
 he slipped away. He didn't like his surroundings. He 
 went to his state-room. It was late and he went to bed. 
 Half an hour later he was sisleep. Came a knock at his 
 door. Someone had been sent from the smoke-room to 
 collect the twenty-three pounds. You see, they thought 
 Charles must be drunk ; they'd discussed his sudden 
 outbreak, and feared that if they didn't get the money 
 now he'd honestly disclaim any knowledge of the whole 
 thing when morning came. 
 
 And when morning did come and Charles, who had 
 been lazy and had stopped in bed till after midday, 
 making his first appearance at the luncheon bugle, went 
 on deck, he found himself the hero of the ship. The 
 high field had won — the biggest pool of the passage. 
 " That doesn't seem to me to call for much intelligence," 
 Charles said to himself. " Any fool could tell we'd have 
 a good run in weather like this." He was a young 
 traveller. 
 
 Anyway, though, he'd paid his passage — his passage 
 out. Whatever happened he must keep enough to pay 
 it back. But that didn't trouble him. This new evi- 
 dence of his good luck confirmed him in the belief that 
 
THE "MAURETANIA" IS NOT DESCRIBED 243 
 for the moment, at least, he was not to be beaten. 
 Supposing, though, that the luck had been the other 
 way ! It wasn't a pleasant thought. Still, he didn't 
 dismiss it. Instead of having five thousand pounds in 
 his pocket, instead of having paid all his expenses in 
 the South and in Paris, instead of having paid Mr 
 Pyeman's outrageous bill, he'd now be as uncomfortable 
 as his temperament would allow. Surely he'd be worry- 
 ing. He'd be watching jealously the growth of his wine 
 bill. And then he fell to thinking of what his luck at 
 Monte Carlo really meant. It was simple enough. He'd 
 risked two hundred pounds and he'd won five thousand. 
 He'd pulled off a chance the odds against which were 
 twenty-five to one. Such things are done. But not 
 often. The pitcher had gone often enough to the well. 
 At each journey the odds in Charles's favour were five 
 to two — but there were so many journeys. And there 
 was zero. " If anyone ever heard of my luck," Charles 
 said to himself, " I'd have to spend an hour or so ex- 
 plaining to him that such things happen once in a blue 
 moon. That it's pure chance. I might so easily have 
 been down and out five minutes after I first went in." 
 In fact, he had often played the same game before — with 
 exactly that speedy and unhappy result. 
 
 And in spite of his five thousand pounds Charles came 
 soberly to the conclusion that gambling is a mug's 
 game. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 IN WHICH THE AMAZEMENT OF THE AMIABLE CHARLES AT 
 A NEW YORK HOTEL IS NOT MADE ENOUGH OF 
 
 CHARLES found himself wondering a couple of 
 mornings later why so much nonsense is talked 
 about the discomforts of the New York Customs 
 examinations. Of course it isn't very agreeable. How 
 could it be? But it's about as agreeable as it can 
 be made in this dishonest world. Mr Loeb and his 
 assistants know their business. The assistants aren't 
 deferential ; amenity isn't their long suit — but then, 
 America is a democratic country, and their patience 
 is sorely and continually tried. If an Englishman is a 
 fairly good mixer he'll get through all right — both on 
 the wharf, and later. 
 
 And anyhow, no Englishman ought to complain. 
 When he reaches the wharf his soul ought still to be full 
 of that wonderful passage up the Bay. No, not the 
 Statue of Liberty, which is rotten, but all that wonder- 
 ful forest of tall buildings, challenging the sky. New 
 York, he learns for the first time, has a beauty equal 
 to that of Rome, of Venice, of Paris — a beauty that is 
 actual, the greater since it is living, of to-day. 
 
 •44 
 
CHARLES'S AMAZEMENT 245 
 
 The worst I can say of Charles is that he was chilled. 
 He encountered no difficulties, but he missed all sorts of 
 things — intangible many of them, things of atmosphere 
 — to which he was used. Nobody said " Sir.'"' And 
 people looked at his eyeglass. 
 
 His old Bostonian friend had advised him to stop 
 at the Knickerbocker Hotel. Driving there, some— not 
 much, but some — of his good opinion of New York's 
 beauty was chipped off. An American who goes through 
 the mean streets near Waterloo or Paddington gets 
 the same feeling. Luckily, though, in England there 
 aren't so many of them between the station and the 
 traveller's haven. And what there are aren't so fierce. 
 An Englishman may be forgiven for being a little 
 chilled, a little frightened. It is all very hard. 
 
 And this was Alison's country — almost Alison's home. 
 Charles wasn't so lazy but that he'd looked up the dis- 
 tance between New York and Philadelphia. He knew 
 that the ladies of Philadelphia would come into New 
 York for a luncheon, a day's shopping, a matinee. This 
 savage town was the cradle of Alison's grace. It hardly 
 seemed possible. So he thought as his taxi-cab jolted 
 and twisted in and out from the Cunard wharf to Forty- 
 second Street. I wish, indeed, that I had the space to tell 
 you all that he thought now and hereafter of America. 
 If there is one thing that if to-morrow I became a daily 
 newspaper proprietor I should at once do, it is to have 
 always — not now and then, but always — a man going 
 to America for the first time — if my paper were English : 
 a man going to Europe for the first time — if my paper 
 were American. Every star reporter I had should go 
 
246 CAVIARE 
 
 through that mill. Things change, and people's point 
 of view change, and, anyhow, there's always so much to 
 write about. Fancy what a New Yorker must think 
 when he finds himself in an English hotel in Liverpool, 
 or Southampton, or Plymouth. Fancy ! I don't think 
 any American has ever been so impolite as to say. 
 
 But Charles. His taxi swung round the comer and 
 deposited him at the Knickerbocker portal. He learned 
 afterwards that there wasn't any reason for his being 
 amazed. The splendour of the place wasn't peculiar. 
 There were a dozen such gorgeous hostelries within half 
 an hour's walk. It wasn't so much the splendour that 
 impressed him as the taste. . . . 
 
 It was nine o'clock : he'd had no proper breakfast, so 
 that after being shown to his room by a sleek boy with 
 an Irish accent (who confessed later on to having been 
 in the country only six weeks but who already seemed 
 to own it, so rapidly does New York assimilate its 
 immigrants) Charles started to look for the coffee- 
 room ! Coffee-room ! Such things don't exist in these 
 marble palaces ! But, in the first place, he had to get 
 downstairs. He found he was on the eleventh story. He 
 thought he'd use the stairs for the sake of geographical 
 education. But the stairs weren't so easy to find. The 
 one unavoidable thing was a young lady in the neatest 
 of what he learned afterwards to describe as shirtwaists, 
 who sat at a desk, obviously registered his appearance 
 in her mind, said " Good morning " as if she'd decided 
 to take him under her special protection, and at the 
 same time thought he was rather a joke. She was the 
 " floor clerk," and she didn't approve of his using the 
 
CHARLES'S AMAZEMENT 247 
 
 stairs anyway, and told him to ring for the " elevator.'" 
 He did. It slid rapidly into view and Charles descended 
 in the care of yet another youth, who expatiated 
 pleasantly on the beauty of the climate and the fact 
 that Charles was obviously English. He, too, seemed to 
 think it a joke. One of Charles"'s great American pre- 
 occupations, by the way, was exactly what to do with 
 this army of boys. Were you to give them a quarter 
 every time you looked at or spoke to one of them, or 
 did you save the quarters up for one supreme largesse 
 when you went away ? And some of them looked too 
 grand either for quarters or for grubby dollar notes. 
 There is a certain " Captain " of boys, a young man 
 with immaculately brushed yellow hair, the very memory 
 of whom frightens Charles to this day. He had so much 
 dignity, and he was so polite. How much ought one to 
 give him ? Charles found it was no use to ask Americans. 
 They didn't seem to know anything about it. Some of 
 them are under the fond delusion that no one either 
 expects or would take a tip in America. 
 
 At length Charles was in the cafe. "Tea, please," 
 he said, but that proved to be an insufficient instruction. 
 Would he have China Tea, or English Breakfast Tea, 
 or tea of this kind or of that ? There seemed to be a 
 dozen varieties. The choice added a new burden to the 
 day. And then the embarrassment of breakfast foods — 
 of cereals, of fruits, of sausages, of chops, of eggs, of 
 steaks. Never in his life had the Amiable Charles felt 
 so small, so insignificant, so much an unimportant cog 
 in a very great wheel. 
 
 Charles got out alive at half-past ten. It was a 
 
248 CAVIARE 
 
 Tuesday. He would spend the day trying to get some 
 sort of a line on New York. He wouldn't deliver his 
 letter of introduction till the morrow. In the meantime 
 he''d walk about, and with the aid of a map and a guide 
 book would see everything there was to see. 
 
 " You'd better take an umbrella," one of the hundred 
 elevator boys told him. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 DEAD MUSEUMS AND MILES OF MISERY 
 
 THE umbrella was quite unnecessary. Never in 
 his life had Charles tasted such an air, bathed 
 in such happy and vigorous sun. The atmo- 
 sphere was that of the Alps when snow is first on the 
 mountains and the sun shines out of a cloudless sky. 
 And against that sky buildings stood — sometimes 
 frankly ugly, sometimes beautiful as St Mark''s, but 
 always fit for their purpose. He walked on Fifth 
 Avenue and was astonished, and on Broadway and was 
 amazed, and in the further, the mean, streets, and was 
 appalled. City of contrasts indeed ! 
 
 After a time he was hungry and went into a restaurant 
 whose name seemed to him familiar. He'd read of it 
 in some American novel. The waiters were Irish and 
 didn't enjoy waiting. They certainly didn't like being 
 spoken to as if they were expected to take an order and 
 to carry it out. Charles asked for the wine-card. Look- 
 ing at it he demanded a half bottle of Graves. 
 
 " What's that ? " he was asked. 
 
 " Graves," he replied. 
 
250 CAVIARE 
 
 " There ain't no such wine," the waiter asserted, after 
 an anxious scrutiny of the list. 
 
 " G — r — a — V — e — s — graves,'^ Charles repeated. 
 
 " Oh, graves, is what you mean ? " and the waiter 
 looked at Charles as if his customer was a little dippy. 
 Himself he pronounced it in a mortuary fashion. 
 
 One hears a great deal in England of the glories of 
 the American museums, of their picture collections, 
 public and private. Charles determined to go and see 
 the Metropolitan Museum at once. Perhaps he^d be so 
 busy after to-day that he'd never have another chance. 
 I hardly like to tell you that this visit was almost the 
 only real disappointment he had in America. Other 
 things he mightn't have liked; certain characteristics 
 of the country rubbed his fur the wrong way — but 
 they didn't disappoint him. But the National Museum 
 frankly did. I'm not sure, though, that it wasn't his 
 own fault. Perhaps I told you he was a Manet fanatic. 
 The New York Manets didn't seem to him important 
 enough. They didn't hold a candle to those of the 
 Geheimrat Arnold in Berlin. Perhaps he was wrong. 
 So much depends on the mood. The novelty, the beauty 
 of the city had worn out his powers, and while he 
 had been in the gallery the weather had changed ; that 
 elevator boy had prophesied more wisely than had 
 seemed. It was cold ; that a sun should be behind those 
 grey-brown clouds seemed impossible; the wind bit his 
 face and fingers. He took a taxi and drove to his hotel 
 through streets that seemed to him bleak, sombre, 
 hideous. "Gee whizz," he said to himself — it was a 
 
DEAD MUSEUMS AND MILES OF MISERY 251 
 phrase he'd picked up on the boat — " they do know how 
 to charge," as he paid the driver. The hotel porter 
 smiled sardonically. 
 
 Charles went to his room. The enthusiasm of the 
 morning had given way to the blankest depression, to 
 the most hopeless pessimism. He was quite, quite sure 
 he'd never be happy in this country. How could he be ? 
 There wasn't even a fireplace in his room. He sat on 
 the edge of his bed and looked at the telephone and 
 swore softly. He'd have liked to cry. He was homesick. 
 Whom did he know ? No one. What had he come for ? 
 What, indeed ? Because he was in love — in love with an 
 American girl who had the sense apparently to prefer 
 Europe. He was to make a fortune. Was he .'' How 
 could he even make a living among all these strangers ? 
 He'd a good mind to give up the whole thing, to return 
 to Paris and to Alison, to await Mr Gorham's release 
 and to throw himself on his mercy. What possible 
 place for himself could he make in this inhuman Baby- 
 lon — this city in which even the elevator boys thought 
 he was a joke. However, he couldn't discard his eye- 
 glass. He'd sworn he wouldn't. He looked at his boots. 
 Should he go out and get a pair with the proper nobbly 
 toes ? Perhaps they'd do the trick. 
 
 He'd go to bed, he thought. He'd be comfortable in 
 bed. The room wouldn't be stuffy anyhow ; it was a 
 good thing there wasn't a fire after all. It was rather 
 jolly and warm as a matter of fact. And perhaps he 
 wouldn't stop in bed. He looked out over the roofs 
 below him : it was getting dark ; lights were beginning 
 to pick out the shapes of the buildings and the lie of 
 
252 CAVIARE 
 
 the streets. He went into his dinky little bath-room 
 and lay in a hot bath. It really wasn''t so bad. And 
 it was so easy to telephone to the floor clerk to ask to 
 be called at half-past six. Then he'd have time to dress 
 for dinner. He'd got an idea for dinner. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES TAKES HIS FIRST AMERICAN 
 COCKTAIL, AND A PERSON OF THE STORY REAPPEARS 
 
 CHARLES'S idea for dinner was not culinary. I 
 don't want you to think he was greedy. Indeed 
 he wasn't. No, the truth was that as he had 
 to eat he liked to eat well. That doesn't mean that he 
 ate much ; it doesn't even mean that he thought a 
 great deal about it. He thought enough. 
 
 His idea was based simply on his wish, a little less 
 insistent now that he had slept, to get out of America. 
 New York frightened him. He felt that here for the 
 first time in his life he wasn't his own master, wasn't 
 even captain of his soul. He felt small. He didn't cut 
 enough ice. But, however small he might feel, he couldn't 
 stop in his bedroom indefinitely. He dressed and sailed 
 downstairs, a little disturbed that it was a new shirt- 
 waist that watched his sinking into the elevator shaft, 
 watched him with a cold and appraising scrutiny. Per- 
 haps there was something not quite right with his clothes. 
 Shot out on the ground floor he was dazzled at the 
 movement and the light. Suddenly he found a friend — 
 a maitre d'hdtel who'd been at Ostend. Charles who felt 
 
254 CAVIARE 
 
 so lonely was even more glad to see Jacques than Jacques 
 
 was glad to see him. 
 
 " You are stopping here, Mr Caerleon ?" 
 
 " Yes, I am, Jacques, and I feel as if I want to cry 
 to-night and to go away to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, that's all right, sir. Don't you let that worry 
 you any. Newcomers are generally that way. Ifll wear 
 off. Come in and have dinner, and Fll see that you forget 
 you're in America. You shall even have sole." 
 
 " I can't, Jacques. I'm dining somewhere else — but I 
 wish you could tell me what'll cheer me up." 
 
 " Go into the bar, Mr Caerleon " — the earlier " sir " 
 was a mistake, a reversion to European habit — "and 
 have a cocktail " 
 
 " A cocktail ! Never. They're an abomination." 
 
 " In Europe, yes. I agree. But not here. An American 
 bar-tender who goes to Europe loses his hand — or, 
 yes, perhaps it's his conscience he loses. He makes bad 
 drinks any way. The same thing happens when a good 
 restaurant man comes over here. He may be good 
 enough to start with, but the edge gets taken off him 
 pretty soon. How can he help it, poor man, when he's 
 as likely as not to have a customer to attend to whose 
 only idea of ordering a dinner is to ask for the most 
 expensive things. I can tell you it does me good to see 
 someone who really knows." 
 
 "Jacques, you're pulling my leg. But what about 
 that cocktail ? You get the real thing here, you say. 
 What am I to ask for ? " 
 
 " You go right round there, Mr Caerleon, and you'll 
 find the bar. Ask for a Clover Club. And now, good- 
 
CHARLES'S FIRST AMERICAN COCKTAIL 255 
 
 evening, sir. I shall hope to order lunch or dinner for 
 you to-morrow." 
 
 Charles was obedient. He found the bar, was astonished 
 at its size, its pictures, which would have been equally 
 in place in the Luxembourg, and its crowd. With in- 
 ternal diffidence he asked the white-jacketed bar-tender 
 for a Clover Club. He saw it mixed and shaken up. 
 He drank it, and thought it a little sweet, a little lady- 
 like. He leaned against the bar in what seemed the 
 regulation attitude and considered the cocktail's flavour. 
 . . . Suddenly he was touched on the shoulder. 
 
 " Excuse me, sir, but are you an Englishman ? My 
 friends there and I had a little bet about it. I said you 
 were ; they said you weren't." 
 
 It was clearly an Englishman who was addressing 
 Charles. Rather a pleasant looking young man — a little 
 dissipated, but pleasant. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I'm English all right^ — always was and 
 always shall be," Charles replied. 
 
 "So much the better. Won't you join us.? What'll 
 you take ? " 
 
 Charles didn't like drinking with strangers. He 
 excused himself. He said he'd only just come off' the 
 boat and wasn't in shape yet. 
 
 " Well, I'm sorry. But perhaps you can help me. 
 Have you got an English Army List in your baggage ? 
 If you have, may I come and look at it ? You're in the 
 army surely." 
 
 Charles remembered what he had heard of confidence 
 men, and although his bank notes were secure in the hotel 
 safe, he thought the conversation had gone far enough. 
 
2S6 CAVIARE 
 
 " No, I have not got an Army List, and I am not in 
 the army — and I wish you good evening." 
 
 He walked out into Broadway. The cocktail or the 
 encounter or the passage of time or an improvement 
 in the weather — one of these or all four had brought 
 back his equanimity. He looked at the silhouette of the 
 Times building against the azure sky, and wondered 
 why people said that New York had no beauty, why 
 they didn't say no other city was more beautiful. Just 
 now Washington Square was the place he had to go to. 
 He'd looked it up in his Baedeker, and he learned that 
 unless he wanted to ruin himself in taxi-cabs he'd better 
 take a car — a tram-car we'd call it in England — and get 
 out at Madison Square and walk down Fifth Avenue a 
 few blocks. Even a few hours in New York was making 
 him quite American ! He waited for a car and it ran 
 past him. It took him a little while to realise that in 
 a country so alert and so intelligent, so well ordered, 
 the car people weren't going to waste time by stopping 
 just anywhere, or on either side of the intersecting street. 
 If you wanted to get in you had to be on the right 
 comer — one corner for going up to town, the other for 
 going down. And when you did get in the cars were 
 warm, snug. It certainly was a wonderful country. And 
 Broadway — what a street ! Its crowds made Piccadilly, 
 the Strand, the French boulevards or the Friedrichsstrasse 
 look like thirty cents. And the row ! 
 
 Charles wasn't thinking. "Does this car go to 
 Washington Square?" he asked the conductor, or 
 brake-man, or whatever he's called. 
 
 "I guess not," the man replied,and continued his duties. 
 
CHARLES'S FIRST AMERICAN COCKTAIL 257 
 
 However, ultimately Charles was shot out and found 
 himself on the lower end of Fifth Avenue — as quiet 
 after Broadway as Bloomsbury. It was no long walk to 
 Washington Square, and when he got there he thought 
 himself not in New York but in Bath, or Potsdam — 
 anywhere rather than in America. This world surely 
 was ruled not by Taft but by Queen Anne. 
 
 It was the Hotel Frontenac that he was looking for, 
 and he quickly found it. It was the square's one sign 
 of life. 
 
 The Hotel Frontenac is a comer of France. It is like 
 an Embassy : it is French soil. The porter, the first 
 man you see, is, and looks, French ; you hear French 
 when you enter the hall ; it is French that is being 
 talked between the clerks and the visitors ; the advertise- 
 ments on the wall are in French ; you would think 
 looking at them that the only boats running to New 
 York from Europe were those of the Compagnie Generale 
 Transatlantique. And this was Charles's idea. He'd dine 
 here. Someone had told him months ago that when you 
 were tired of America you could in New York in a very 
 few minutes find Italy, Germany, Spain - but, most of all, 
 France at the Hotel Frontenac. As a matter of fact, he 
 was no longer tired of America. He was becoming curious. 
 He felt that after all he'd like the place, and he'd try to 
 make it like him. Perhaps, when it came to the point, 
 it would only be a question of observing a few con- 
 ventions, of obeying a few rules. A foreigner doesn't 
 have such a very good time in London till he's broken 
 through the crust. A Frenchman will tell you that — and 
 
 17 
 
258 CAVIARE 
 
 so will an American. Charles was going to break through 
 the crust. But to-night, his first night, he'd rest. He'd 
 give himself time to get acclimatised. He'd order a 
 French dinner; he'd talk French to the waiters; and 
 he'd forget New York. 
 
 Pleased by his good accent and by his air of having 
 come from that other land of which every Frenchman 
 thinks so constantly, they found Charles a good table, 
 and they gave him good food. The place wasn't crowded : 
 perhaps he was a little early. He sat in a corner away 
 from anyone else and read a French paper, published 
 the day after he'd left Paris, that the Provence had 
 brought in that morning. Paris. It seemed a long way 
 off. What wouldn't he give to be able to drop down 
 now at this hour — it didn't occur to him to allow for 
 the difference of time — on the Hotel Meurice and to see 
 what Miss Gorham was doing. He'd left her a week ago, 
 and so many things can happen in a week. Mr Gorham, 
 according to his own forecast, wasn't due yet to rejoin 
 his daughter. He wondered what had happened to the 
 fortune of that cold-blooded old gentleman — no, not 
 cold-blooded : that was the wrong word ; Charles thought 
 of the American word " nervy." Certainly Alison's father 
 had nerve. And Charles liked him. He believed he was 
 giving him a square deal. He believed he'd really allow 
 him a chance with Alison. But then — if he didn't tell 
 her anything about Charles's love, how could she be ex- 
 pected to keep free ^ It wasn't any use going over that 
 ground again. He could only hope for the best. And he 
 could write frankly to Mr Gorham, and, now and again, 
 in a different way, to Alison herself. Perhaps she knew 
 
CHARLES'S FIRST AMERICAN COCKTAIL 259 
 
 — and would wait. Alison Caerleon. ... In the mean- 
 time it behoved him to pull himself together and to 
 work — to get work first, and then to show that even in 
 America an Englishman can make a place for himself. 
 And there was his twenty-five thousand dollars — it 
 sounded better, more, when he said it that way. 
 
 He pushed away his plate, and took up his eyeglass to 
 polish before looking round the room. People had come 
 in and others had gone out. Charles had been very 
 leisurely over his meal. They had not hustled him. 
 Hardly anyone was left. One or two were amusing to 
 him as a visitor. The French bourgeois altered — and yet 
 altered so little — by foreign travel and foreign trade. In 
 a farther corner by herself a lady was dining. She, too, 
 was French. That, although Charles couldn't see her 
 face, wasn't difficult to tell. But something about her, 
 about the shape of her head, reminded him vaguely of 
 someone he'd known. Or was it that her head-dress was 
 like some other he'd seen recently. He questioned him- 
 self for a moment and then dismissed the subject from 
 his mind as of no importance. Whoever or whatever she 
 might be, and even if she was lovely as the Spring, she 
 would be of no use, no interest to him. His one hand 
 was at his eyeglass to take it out, the other was feeling 
 again for the Matin^ when she looked up. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 POOR HANDFUL OF BRIGHT SPRING- WATER 
 
 EVEN when the lady looked up Charles might easily 
 have failed to recognise her. But her own re- 
 cognition of him was so immediate, so happy, 
 that his memory was forced to respond. It was the young 
 girl of the Abbaye de Theleme. 
 
 And yet she was different. The little blue turban that 
 she wore was the same as she had worn on that fateful 
 night ; perhaps the dress was the same — but she herself 
 looked no longer weary ; her pallor had gone. Ten days 
 without anxiety had worked that miracle which repose 
 and freedom from being harassed work always in the 
 troubled woman. Looking up she caught Charles"'s eye. 
 The thing was inevitable; it was inevitable too that 
 he should cross the room to speak to her. Not to do 
 so would be cruel, slighting. She had no awkwardness at 
 this their second encounter. 
 
 " I am very glad to see you again. Monsieur- You did 
 me such a service " — her eyes looked for a moment as if 
 at the memory tears might come — " and I fear that at 
 the time I did not thank you, not thank you sufficiently, 
 at all events. . . .^ 
 
POOR HANDFUL OF BRIGHT SPRING-WATER 261 
 
 " You need not thank me. I did not do anything 
 that I would not in such circumstances willingly do 
 again — for you or for any other woman," he added. 
 
 " That is not so, Monsieur. And a Frenchman would 
 have behaved differently. And — may I speak of it.f* — 
 you gave, you lent me, so much money. Please, now that 
 I have met you, may I not give it back to you ? See, I 
 have it upstairs in my room." 
 
 " Now, you really make me cross. I was happy to have 
 been of assistance — but I mustn^t talk about all this now." 
 Charles was still standing up. 
 
 "See, Monsieur, I haven't finished my dinner; I'm 
 stopping here : if you haven't finished yours, won't you 
 tell the waiter to bring the rest of it to this table ? You 
 are alone, aren't you ? " 
 
 Charles didn't want to accept this invitation, entirely 
 without design though he believed it to be. He didn't 
 want to talk. He didn't want to make a friend, nor 
 even an acquaintance, of this young girl. In the past, 
 perhaps, he would have felt differently, but not now. 
 . . . Still, he had to do as he was asked. 
 
 " But, tell me, what are you doing in New York ';' I 
 shouldn't have thought you'd like America.?" 
 
 " I don't much, but a few days after you saw me my 
 friend brought me over here. I went down to Marseilles 
 to meet him ; we took the steamer to Naples, and the 
 next day sailed for this place. We got here yesterday. 
 But please let me go upstairs to get that money." 
 
 " I say that you make me very cross. I didn't lend 
 it you. I gave it you. I gave it you to annoy the 
 blackguard who was worrying you, and for my own 
 
262 CAVIARE 
 
 pleasure, and nothing would induce me to take it back. 
 It'd bring me bad luck. Giving it to you brought me 
 good luck, I do believe " — this was quite a new idea to 
 Charles. It hadn't occurred to him before. Indeed, I 
 doubt if he"'d even remembered the existence of the young 
 woman from the moment when he had parted with her 
 in the Abbaye. 
 
 She smiled. " Ifs kindness makes you say that — but 
 it's blague^ all the same," she said. " How could / bring 
 you luck ? You have everything you can want in the 
 world — money, friends, health, happiness. I could see 
 — I saw you afterwards in the restaurant." 
 
 " You shouldn't trust appearances — and, nevertheless, 
 I do believe you've been my mascotte. I hope your 
 turning up now means I'm to have some more good 
 luck. I want it : really, I do." 
 
 " I'm not sure whether you brought me luck exactly, 
 but I do know that you saved everything for me that 
 night : if it hadn't been for you I'd have been finished. 
 As it is, well" — and she shrugged her shoulders and 
 spread her hands. " As it is, I've pulled through this 
 time." 
 
 " And you're comfortable, I hope ? " Charles asked. 
 
 The girl smiled sadly. " Comfortable, yes ; happy, 
 no. My friend is generous, and not so bad. He's away 
 now — in — how do you say it ? — Chicago." 
 
 Charles wished to steer the conversation away from 
 domestic details. They didn't interest him ; and be- 
 sides, the girl was too nice for him to think happily of 
 her in such a relation. He looked at her again. Truly 
 she was pretty, more than pretty. Always her full, 
 
POOR HANDFUL OF BRIGHT SPRING-WATER 263 
 small mouth was a little open, her two lips like little 
 cherries. There weis something tender about her beauty, 
 unprotected, almost plaintive. And yet her eyes, sad 
 now, suggested happiness : laughter was in their depths. 
 Like a bird that sings, Charles said to himself. 
 
 " But you — why do you say you want good luck 
 now ? Tell me about it : if I brought you luck before, 
 perhaps I shall again."" She looked concerned. She 
 thought Charles was troubled, and she was troubled 
 herself for him. " You looked so happy when you were 
 in the Abbaye. The lady you were with was so beautiful. 
 She was not your wife — no ? nor the wife of your friend?''"' 
 She asked because it didn"'t occur to her French mind 
 that a young girl could go to such a place as the 
 Abbaye. Surely the lady must be married to one or 
 other of her companions ? She hoped, though, that it 
 was not to Charles. 
 
 Charles smiled in his turn. " No, the lady is not my 
 wife ; she is the daughter of the gentleman I was with."*' 
 
 " But she is married, surely ? "'"' 
 
 " No, not married — ah ! I see. English and American 
 people have odd ideas. When their daughters are away 
 from home and have reached a certain age, they don"'t 
 seem to mind where they take them or what they see. 
 Ifs a pity, perhaps, but there it is."" 
 
 The Blue Turban nodded. She knew, she did not 
 need to think, that it was a pity. She was a girl too. 
 
 Suddenly she put out her hand and placed it over 
 Charles"'s where it lay on the table. She did it instinct- 
 ively. Charles knew it was for encouragement. " You 
 will marry her ; you love her."'"' 
 
264 CAVIARE 
 
 " I love her ; but I do not know whether she will 
 marry me." 
 
 " She will marry you, for she loves you. Trust me. I 
 know perhaps better than she knows herself. I watched. 
 I could see her eyes.'^ 
 
 " I hope so — but I have not asked her."" 
 
 " My faith — and why not ? Attend : that lady does 
 love you, and that truly. It did not please me. I was 
 not glad to see it. I liked you myself — for more than 
 your kindness. So I could see better, because I cared." 
 She said all this so charmingly, with so much youthful 
 frankness, that Charles could feel no resentment. She 
 had sweet eyes. 
 
 "But what are you doing here.'' You are not 
 American ? The lady is. So ! I did not know. But 
 she is not here too. Then why are you here ? Not that 
 it matters. She will not forget you ; she will never do 
 that — nor shjill I," she ended lamely. 
 
 Charles couldn't help it : he'd been lonely so long ; 
 for so long he'd carried all his difficulties and doubts 
 in his heart. He'd wanted sympathy, and meeting it 
 now was carried away. He did not tell to that candid 
 figure opposite him all his story, all his troubles, but 
 he told enough. How unlike him it was ! Reticence was 
 a habit with him, a second nature. To no one of his 
 friends could he have brought himself to speak of what 
 he now cared for more than the world. But those brown 
 eyes drew him to being frank. He found comfort in her 
 beauty, her solicitude for his happiness. Perhaps it was 
 shameful of him to sit there in New York, in a French 
 restaurant, speaking of Alison. But it can be pardoned. 
 
POOR HANDFUL OF BRIGHT SPRING-WATER 265 
 He told her of Mr Gorham's obduracy and of the 
 task that was set him, and of his real hopelessness. 
 How could he who had never worked hope now to work 
 with such immediate success that he could return in a 
 year equipped with those weapons Mr Gorham seemed 
 to think essential ? And he told her of his luck at 
 Monte Carlo — " You can see why I think of you as my 
 raascotte, and why the trifle I gave you is as nothing in 
 the balance "" — and of how he had some hope that, using 
 this twenty-five thousand dollars as capital, he might 
 perhaps achieve something. 
 
 And the more he talked the more thoughtful grew 
 the oval face, the brown eyes. She smiled at him. It 
 was clear that she understood, understood more than 
 his mere words. Charles, who had known no mother or 
 sister, looked at her again, and felt that had he had a 
 sister he would, in spite of everything, have wished her 
 to have something of this young girl's character. . . . 
 He thought of the lines : 
 
 "... Poor handful of bright spring- water 
 Flung in the whirlpool's shrieking face." 
 
 They both were silent, thinking the same thoughts. 
 
 But, first of all, the Frenchwoman is practical. The 
 little Blue Turban suddenly became more alert, more 
 upright. Its wearer brightened : 
 
 " Listen : I want you to think of me as your mascotte. 
 I will be. I will bring you luck. I will bring you luck 
 again. But you must do as I tell you. You have so 
 much money — one hundred and twenty-five thousand 
 francs, you say. And you wish to make more. Naturally. 
 
366 CAVIARE 
 
 You shall. You must go to the Bourse here, and you 
 must buy some shares. They are called — no, laugh not 
 at how I say it — they are called Michigan and Illinois. 
 They are cheap now, but after to-morrow — after mid- 
 day to-morrow — they will be dear, and they will become 
 dearer and dearer. If you will buy all that you can, 
 then shall you make much money — and you shall be 
 grateful to me a little, and you shall not regret that 
 you helped me when I was alone. You must do that. 
 You will not lose your money. I know. No, I cannot 
 tell you how — but I am sure. And now, dear friend, I 
 am going to bed." She rose and gave Charles her hand, 
 and looked at him. They were quite alone in the 
 restaurant. He took it and looked into her eyes. He 
 could see that she loved him. He raised her hand to 
 his lips and kissed it. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A LITTLE EXPLANATION 
 
 CHARLES walked back to the Knickerbocker. 
 He was sobered ; he was unhappy. Astonishing 
 as Broadway was at this hour with its theatres 
 vomiting their audiences, with its million lights, with 
 flashing moving sky-signs — here a bottle of champagne 
 bubbling over, there a chariot race, there a fine lady 
 taking off her stays — astonishing as it all was to an 
 Englishman, yet his mind took in very little. He was 
 thinking. First of Alison and of Paris, and then of the 
 girl he had left. Not a word had she said about herself 
 when once she had answered his questions. She had been 
 concerned for him, grateful and troubled, anxious to do 
 what she could in return for the little help he''d given 
 her. That of course, was ridiculous, as ridiculous as the 
 idea that he could let her return his sixty pounds. 
 Michigan and Illinois ! It sounded like a railway. Any- 
 how, though, one wouldn't take a tip of that kind 
 seriously. If it had been in London where he knew 
 something of the ropes, it might have been different. 
 Perhaps then he might have risked a hundred pounds 
 
 or so. And anyhow, why hadn't she told him what made 
 
 267 
 
268 CAVIARE 
 
 her believe she was doing a service by giving him this 
 
 information ? Oh, but she had sweet eyes ! 
 
 And at the Frontenac the young girl as she undressed 
 asked herself the same question. Why hadn't she told 
 this Englishman, whose lips she could still feel on her 
 hand — why hadn't she told him how it was she knew 
 that Michigan and Illinois were worth buying? She 
 hadn't told him because she was sure that if she had he'd 
 have refused, even though he were convinced that she 
 was right, to have taken any advantage of her advice. 
 As it was, it was just possible that he might believe her. 
 . . . Oh, how she hoped he would ! She wished him all 
 that he longed for. 
 
 You see, she had not been alone in the hotel. 
 " Monsieur et Madame Finot," the hotel register said. 
 Monsieur Finot was a financier, a financier particularly 
 interested in American affairs. It was Monsieur Finot 
 whom Alison had seen at the Abbaye. Until that 
 morning his companion had had no idea on what 
 particular business he had come to New York and had 
 planned to go to Chicago. Something important, she 
 knew — but its importance was of no moment to her. 
 She hadn't even heard the name of Michigan and 
 Illinois until that morning she had been awakened by 
 the sound of Monsieur Finot talking on the telephone, 
 which was at the side of the bed, talking, a little care- 
 lessly perhaps, in French. It wasn't the kind of thing she 
 could make any use of, that she'd even listen to. She 
 didn't know why she had listened, or why, having heard, 
 she had remembered. 
 
 " Yes," he was saying. " I go this afternoon to Chicago. 
 
A LITTLE EXPLANATION 269 
 
 And I am sure that everything is clear, perfectly, per- 
 fectly clear. I had cables last night from both London 
 and Paris. In London they are ready for to-morrow. In 
 Paris also. Your Mr Gilder says that — what do you call 
 him ? — Gorham — is quiet, that he is sure he can do 
 nothing. And it's understood : we leave the market alone 
 to-day. Yes, you're right : it'll go down enough with- 
 out any assistance from us ; but to-morrow at midday 
 we'll begin buying — you, Chicago, London, Amsterdam, 
 Berlin. Oh yes, of course : I worked out the difference 
 in time. What do you think? . . . What's that you say : 
 Fm not alone . . .? No, of course, I'm not. No French- 
 man ever is. Ah ! Yes. Good bye." 
 
 That is what she had heard — but to her quick intelli- 
 gence it was enough. If you have the Gallic wit you 
 don't require to have every detail explained. She had 
 turned on her side, had been a little peevish with 
 Monsieur Finot at being disturbed in this stupid way by 
 matters which didn't concern her, and, as she fell asleep 
 again, had regretted that she couldn't make use of the 
 knowledge she had gained. Still, that kind of thing wasn't 
 her business. 
 
 She had remembered it just in time ! 
 
 She knew Monsieur Finot so well. He had come to 
 America to help arrange the matter, and she was sure 
 there'd be no hitch. He'd see to that. Michigan and 
 Illinois would be bought, and if they were worth ten francs 
 to-day they'd be worth twenty to-morrow. He would have 
 laid his nets carefully. And the more money he made out 
 of the deal the more she'd get for herself. But still this 
 Englishman had been so generous, so much a man. And 
 
270 CAVIARE 
 
 anyhow, with only a hundred and twenty- five thousand 
 francs he couldn't upset her friend's plans. If she had 
 thought that possible she'd have bitten her tongue off 
 rather than have told him anything. She couldn't betray 
 Monsieur Finot. Indeed, that reason alone would have 
 been enough to prevent her telling Charles all that she 
 knew. But now, perhaps — oh, how she hoped ! — he'd 
 take her advice, and he'd invest his money, and he'd 
 double it or treble it, and he'd think of her, even though 
 he never saw her again. She'd always have a place, a little 
 place, in his memory. He was so strong, so clean and 
 loyal. That young American girl was not good enough 
 for him. Still, though, she would get him. That was sure. 
 The women in my story weep constantly. Perhaps it is a 
 feminine habit. I can only answer for these two whom I 
 know. A little yellow head lay on its white pillow and 
 sobbed itself to sleep. If things had only been different ! 
 
 And Charles ? Charles walked home. He couldn't get 
 his young French acquaintance out of his mind. She 
 came between him and the morrow, between him and his 
 thoughts of Alison. Of course, all she had said about his 
 investing his money in some railway — he wasn't even sure 
 of the name now — was sheer February madness, but she 
 cared for him, and she was unhappy. . . . Was there 
 anything he could do for her ? Why do anything ? 
 Wasn't she as well provided for as was possible ? But 
 she had sweet eyes — and he knew she loved him. He 
 would never see her again. She was the last person of his 
 old life ; that night's dinner was its last hour. To- 
 morrow at ten o'clock he'd present his letter of introduc- 
 
A LITTLE EXPLANATION 271 
 
 tion, and then no doubt he would have to get busy. Of 
 the three hundred and sixty-five days that a year holds 
 he'd spent seven. He supposed Mr Gorham would count 
 from the day of his sailing. Well, you could do a lot in 
 three hundred and fifty-one days. That allowed seven for 
 his voyage back. The truth is, Charles was sleepy. He 
 couldn't keep awake. His dreams were as much of a little 
 blue turban in New York, as of Alison in Paris. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES PRESENTS HIS LETfER OF 
 INTRODUCTION AND GOES INTO WALL STREET 
 
 COMING down to breakfast the next morning, 
 his first in New York, Charles wandered across 
 to the news-stand. " Which is the most Ameri- 
 can, the most un-English, of all these papers ? " he asked 
 the pretty shirt-waist who was cheerfully engaged in 
 taking three cents for a two-cent article. You see, he 
 wanted something that was really in the picture, that 
 would, most quickly, let him, a stranger, into the secret 
 of this great city, this turmoil, this jungle, 
 
 " Try the New York American^ she answered. " I don"'t 
 believe thafs English.'' 
 
 Charles, who, still in pursuit of atmosphere, of local 
 colour, had started his breakfast with stewed pears and 
 cream and had gone on to sausages, maple syrup and 
 buckwheat cakes — all together, — soon found out that she 
 was right. The paper wasn't English, it wasn't even in 
 English. That's why he liked it. " I'll take this in," he 
 said to himself. " When I'm rich and get back to 
 England I'll have a New York American every morning. 
 It'll prevent things being dull. I can show it to people 
 
CHARLES GOES INTO WALL STREET 273 
 who abuse the Daily Mail.'''' Not that he found in its 
 pages much that was craggy to break the mind upon. 
 He read at it all, even the advertisements, and came at 
 last to the financial page. He might as well read that 
 too, especially as the letter of introduction he was to 
 present would take him into what he believed was the 
 financial district — somewhere at the other end of Broad- 
 way. He didn't understand much of it — but then, if the 
 truth were told, he hadn't understood more than a half 
 even of the pages that dealt with such everyday events 
 as railroad collisions, the last scandal in some European 
 royal family, murder and sudden death. He did under- 
 stand one thing, though, and that was that Michigan and 
 Illinois — the name he recalled of the stock his young 
 French acquaintance had urged on him so earnestly — 
 was creating quite a little flurry in Wall Street. It had 
 gone down so much during the last ten days that it had 
 seemed on the morning of which the financial expert 
 was writing that it couldn't go down any more. But it 
 had continued its evil course — it had gone down a lot. 
 And this was the stock that the Blue Turban had 
 begged him to buy ! He read on. The expert seemed to 
 think that now at last the bottom must be reached. 
 All the weak holders must have been shaken out and 
 have reached the earth long ago. Surely the balloon 
 would go up again. The expert didn't put it so baldly 
 as that ; he didn't prophesy — but he reminded his readers 
 of one or two occasions when railroad stock of this kind 
 had had a sharp and continued rally after a week or so 
 of selling. 
 
 Didn't this rather fit in with what he'd been told over 
 
 18 
 
374 CAVIARE 
 
 night ? Charles began to wonder whether there wasn't 
 something in the advice he'd been given, after all. It had 
 been foolish of him not to have pressed for more details. 
 No. That would have been to take it seriously ; and 
 even though he acted on it now, as one might back a 
 horse on any casual tip, yet it was sure that he hadn't 
 taken it seriously. Should he take a flyer at the game 't 
 — he thought that was the right American phrase. 
 Should he try to make a little money ? He pretended to 
 himself that he'd think it over, but he knew perfectly 
 well that he'd already decided. But it was time to go 
 down town. He could come back later on and institute 
 inquiries of those members of the New York Stock 
 Exchange who seemed to have an office in the hotel 
 itself. A convenient idea, that. The money you don't 
 spend on rooms, valet service, and complicated American 
 dishes, you can lay out on mining shares or railroad 
 bonds. You can either leave the hotel earlier or stop 
 longer, according to your luck. 
 
 In the Subway station Charles bought an evening 
 paper — the Fost. It was very much more conservative, 
 he found. It gave him no thrills, but, in a different way 
 and in a very different manner, its financial man was a 
 good deal worked up about Michigan and Illinois. He 
 too thought it possible there'd be a reaction. But when, 
 and whether it'd be intermittent, were matters about 
 which he offered no opinion. 
 
 Charles began to think. 
 
 Ill news travels fast. No one in New York outside the 
 very small circle of people who were in " Old Man Pyle's " 
 
CHARLES GOES INTO WALL STREET 275 
 confidence in the working of his Michigan and Illinois 
 pool, knew that Mr Gorham had been put out of opera- 
 tion. But one or other must have dropped a hint that 
 the Gorham Waterloo was approaching. It must have 
 been suggested that all wasn't right with the Gorhani 
 interests. The Zulus have some wonderful method — so 
 far unexplained, I believe — of signalling news over vast 
 tracts of country. The same thing, in a slightly different 
 way, happens in Wall Street, and even sometimes in the 
 districts around Angel Court. 
 
 And so when Charles presented his letter of intro- 
 duction it wasn't fancy that made him believe his re- 
 ception was rather frigid. The letter itself ought to 
 have carried him into the good graces of any one of Mr 
 Gorham's friends ; it was not enthusiastic, but it made it 
 perfectly clear that the financier wished Charles well, 
 and that if his correspondent, Mr Hepburn Z. Davison, 
 could help him along he''d be obliged. It said that its 
 bearer wanted a chance — that he was capable, interested 
 in railroads, would begin at the foot of the ladder, and 
 so on. Its delivery was after the fair. Charles would 
 have found a very different welcome if he had brought 
 it a month earlier. Mr Davison wasn't a business associate 
 of Mr Gorham's ; his fortunes would be untouched, 
 whatever happened to his absent friend. But he was a 
 man who liked to row in with success, and something 
 or other made him know that Mr Gorham was under a 
 cloud. Charles suffered accordingly. Mr Davison was 
 polite. He drew Charles out. He discovered that his 
 knowledge of railroads, even of English railways, was 
 merely the result of schoolboy interest and amateur 
 
276 CAVIARE 
 
 curiosity, and that he''d never done a stroke of work in 
 his life. He looked at Charles's eyeglass ; he looked at 
 his spats. Charles was uncomfortable. Nevertheless, Mr 
 Davison was cordial, in a frigid way. Yes, he would be 
 delighted to be of service to any friend of Mr Gorham's. 
 He would inquire. Of course, yes, of course, openings 
 of a really promising kind weren't easy to find — but 
 still he'd be delighted to do what he could. He drew 
 his lips back from his very white and even teeth, and 
 smiled like a wolf. And where was Charles stopping ? 
 At the Knickerbocker ? Indeed ! That was right in the 
 theatre quarter, wasn't it ? Mr Caerleon must come and 
 see him again. And in the meantime he'd look round. 
 He'd write as soon as he could, and then, glancing at 
 Charles's card again and at Mr Gorham's letter : 
 
 " You must come and dine with us one evening, 
 Mr Caerleon, and go to the play. I'd like you to see our 
 New York actors. Mrs Davison'll be delighted." 
 
 Even an American is attracted by a title, though it 
 be but a courtesy one. 
 
 Now Charles, although he hadn't done a stroke of work 
 in his life, was no fool. I hope I haven't given you the 
 impression that he was. I certainly didn't mean to. He 
 tumbled to the inwardness of Mr Davison's attitude 
 almost as soon as he entered the room. And after that, 
 while he fidgeted under his cold scrutiny, and gave one 
 ear to the platitudes that were being uttered, his mind 
 was working on its own account. He realised that he 
 wasn't going to drop into a soft and immediate job 
 through any patronage of which Mr Davison might 
 dispose. As a result, he did a rather stupid thing. When 
 
CHARLES GOES INTO WALL STREET 277 
 Mr Davison had finished what he had to say and was 
 evidently prepared to get rid of him as quickly as pos- 
 sible, he broke in : 
 
 " Mr Davison, there is something you can help me 
 in now. I want to have an introduction to, if possible, 
 a good stockbroker, Ifs so easy for a stranger to get 
 hold of the wrong kind of people. I wonder whether 
 you'd tell me of someone Fd be safe with ? ^ 
 
 Mr Davison evidently didn''t like the idea, didn't 
 approve of it. He darted a glance at Charles, examined 
 him in a flash, comprehensively from top to toe. 
 
 " Oh yes, Mr Caerleon, I can tell you of a broker 
 easily enough. But if you'll take the advice of a man 
 much older than yourself — and much more experienced, 
 I think" — he bared his teeth again in an automatic 
 smile - " you'll keep out of Wall Street. Still, that's your 
 business. Sit down ; I'll write you a line to my friends. 
 Capper, Zanthro and Company. You'll be safe with them. 
 They're conservative." And he sat down at his desk 
 and wrote with his own hand the briefest of letters, 
 introducing "Mr Charles Caerleon who has just arrived 
 from London and who wants a broker on whom he can 
 implicitly rely." Charles thanked him and went away. 
 He didn't know that before the elevator had reached 
 the street level Mr Davison had got Mr Capper on the 
 telephone, and was telling him that all he knew about 
 the gentleman who was coming round with a note was 
 that he'd come to him with a letter from a friend in 
 England, and that nobody in Mr Capper's business was 
 to think that he, Davison, would answer for his having 
 a cent. Mr Capper quite understood. 
 
278 CAVIARE 
 
 Charles did feel rather like a sheep as he walked into 
 the palatial offices of Capper, Zanthro and Company. 
 I can't describe them to you. I've never been in Wall 
 Street — in that sense, anyway. I have to go on what 
 Charles has told me. And, as by and by you'll under- 
 stand, he not unnaturally looked back on that episode 
 in his career as a sort of Thousand and Second Night. 
 He brought away few clear impressions. 
 
 As he announced himself by handing to the door- 
 keeper his own card and Mr Davison's letter; and as Mr 
 Davison was a person of some importance in this world 
 of cash values, he wasn't kept waiting more than a 
 minute. The private office he was shown into was 
 something new in his experience. In the middle was 
 a huge roll-top desk of metal. It carried three tele- 
 phones. The room was big, but there was hardly any 
 free space in it. The walls were crowded with what 
 at first sight looked like indifferent oleographs, but 
 which Charles afterwards identified as bad examples of 
 the woi'st period of English painting — I take the worst 
 period to be the late Victorian — of the Barbizon School, 
 of recent German. The floor was largely covered with 
 massive bronzes — busts, dying warriors, elephants, and 
 so on. You'd have looked in vain for anything really 
 good as a work of art. Mr Capper had no taste ; he only 
 had money, and a love for posing as a patron of the fine 
 arts. And he liked to be busy all the time at this re- 
 spectable hobby. He liked to have dealers write to him 
 by every mail from London and Paris and offer him unique 
 examples. He liked to buy something every few days. 
 When he'd bought it he generally forgot all about it. 
 
CHARLES GOES INTO WALL STREET 279 
 
 Mr Capper was seated at his desk. He had an intel- 
 lectual forehead, Charles thought that it was perhaps 
 in the wish to do something worthy of this forehead 
 that he'd taken up the arts. 
 
 " Take a seat, Mr Caerleon, take a seat. I'm mighty 
 glad to know you, sir. Mr Davison says you want a 
 broker. I hope we can fix you up. What exactly can 
 we do for you } "" 
 
 He didn't give Charles any time to " get acquainted," 
 and indeed the shocking taste of the objects in his 
 room, his high forehead, and the rapidity with which 
 he fired out his words, almost frightened the English- 
 man away. But Charles had come for a purpose. Mr 
 Gorham's friend had said that Capper, Zanthro and 
 Company were trustworthy. He didn't see how you 
 could doubt the respectability of a man who had such 
 a Sidney Cooper on one side of him and such a Diaz 
 on the other. If he went away he might fare worse — 
 and also he might lose time. Time, he had an idea, 
 was the essence of the matter. It was to be only a 
 question of minutes before the stock in which he was 
 interested would go soaring up. ... So Charles, even 
 while he thought that at last he had discovered on what 
 prey the second-rate dealers of London and Paris lived, 
 pulled himself together. 
 
 " Mr Capper, I should like to know, as I'm thinking 
 of having a mild flutter " — the American language was 
 not yet altogether ascendant -"what you think of Michi- 
 gan and Illinois, if you'll be kind enough to tell me." 
 
 " Michigan and Illinois — oh, well, yes — um " — Mr 
 Capper wrinkled his broad forehead in an impressive 
 
aSo CAVIARE 
 
 manner and looked round at his possessions — " Capper, 
 Zanthro and Company don't like to express an opinion 
 about the stock their clients are interested in. It's so easy 
 to be wrong. But you, Mr Caerleon, have come with so 
 good an introduction, and you are an Englishman. I 
 must make an exception in your case. Of course you want 
 to sell. Naturally. I think they'll go down a little more 
 and then stop down for a while. Nothing will go up. It's 
 a bear market. And it'll remain so until this disgraceful 
 attempt on Colonel Roosevelt's part to get the Republican 
 nomination is finally disposed of — it's scandalous ; but 
 you're not interested in our politics, Mr Caerleon. Let's 
 stick to business. Here ; I'll be very frank, although it's 
 against my interest : I think that, whatever you propose 
 to deal in, the present market's a very good one to stop 
 out of. There may be a rally. You never know : M. and 
 I. may go up — a point or two. / don't think so, but they 
 won't ask my permission. Still, if you do want a flutter — 
 that's what you called it, didn't you ? I like to learn 
 English slang ; it's so expressive — I daresay you'll be as 
 safe selling a bear of that stock as in anything else." 
 
 " But I don't want to sell a bear — I don't want to sell 
 Michigan and Illinois. I want to buy — I want to buy as 
 many as I can afford." 
 
 " To buy ! But you must be mad, Mr Caerleon. Excuse 
 me. Of course if you want to buy, and to pay for, and 
 to put the scrip away — all right, well and good. Some 
 day, when Taft's got his second term and the market's 
 pulled itself together, you'll perhaps find you've made 
 something. But what do you want to buy M. and I. for ? 
 Is it too much to ask ? " 
 
CHARLES GOES INTO WALL STREET 281 
 
 Charles couldn't answer that question. He'd have had 
 some difficulty in answering it even to himself. To buy 
 a stock simply because it was recommended to him by a 
 little French demi-mondaine, as new to the country as 
 he was himself, didn't suggest itself to him as a satis- 
 factory reason. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know, Mr Capper. I just have a hunch 
 that it's a stock worth buying at this moment." 
 
 " Well, young man, perhaps you're right. It'll be your 
 funeral. The stock's gone down steadily for days and 
 days — no, not steadily : there have been little rallies. 
 They didn't amount to anything, though. If indications 
 count for anything it'll continue to go down. But I've 
 said all that. What exactly do you propose we should do 
 for you ? " 
 
 Charles put his hand into the opening of his waistcoat 
 and pulled out his carefully folded Bank of England 
 notes. Mr Capper with his shoddy bronzes and his imita- 
 tion Millets had unbalanced him a little. He hadn't 
 intended to go the whole hog. But why not, while he was 
 about it .'' He was rather at sea as to the procedure, but 
 he drew quickly on his memory of American financial 
 novels. 
 
 " Mr Capper, here are five Bank of England notes : 
 each is for a thousand pounds — roughly, I suppose, 
 twenty five thousand dollars in your money altogether. 
 I want you to buy at once for me as much Michigan and 
 Illinois shares as this will carry — on margin, I mean : 
 you do call it margin, don't you ? But stop. How does 
 the stock go ? I mean, does it go up or down a dollar a 
 time or does it jump or drop several dollars .? " 
 
282 CAVIARE 
 
 "Heaven knows, Mr Caerleon. It was thirty-seven 
 yesterday when the Exchange opened. It was thirty-two 
 when it closed. I really don't know what it is now. Til 
 find out '"' — and he looked at the door. Presumably he 
 touched some bell with his foot. 
 
 A clerk came in, a meagre person. " What's M. and I. 
 now ? " Mr Capper asked. 
 
 The clerk was well posted. "Twenty-nine seven- 
 eighths, and going down all the time.'" 
 
 Mr Capper looked at Charles. " You see, ifs not a 
 market to buy in. It's dropping all the time, isn't it, 
 Mr Murphy ? " Mr Murphy, who was more like a shadow 
 than an Irishman, assented. 
 
 " That answers my question, Mr Capper," Charles said. 
 He glanced at the ormulu clock. It was eleven minutes 
 to twelve. " Let's suppose — and I take it that even that 
 drop's pretty unlikely — that the drop may be half a 
 dollar a time. There are five dollars in a pound. Buy 
 me twenty thousand of the stock. That gives a dollar 
 margin — and leaves a little for contingencies." 
 
 Mr Capper jumped in his chair. He wasn't very used 
 to English fools. He looked at Mr Murphy, and then at 
 his mad client. But Charles didn't look mad. 
 
 " I'll say again, Mr Caerleon, that it's your funeral. I 
 hope you've got a lot more notes like these. You'll want 
 them if you're coming into Wall Street on this scale. 
 All the same, if twenty-five thousand dollars is all you're 
 going to put down, I'll take the liberty reducing your 
 order. Hurry, though, Mr Murphy. Buy Mr Caerleon 
 five thousand M. and I. at the market. Come back at 
 once." Mr Murphy slipped through the door. " Twenty 
 
CHARLES GOES INTO WALL STREET 283 
 thousand's too many with this margin, Mr Caerleon. 
 You'll excuse me, but we're from Missouri here, and we'll 
 presume for the moment that that's all you've got to lose. 
 Where'd we be if the stock ran away like the Gadarene 
 swine ? In the cart, you call it, don't you ? Yes, ten 
 thousand's enough. Mr Murphy'll be back in a moment, 
 and then I'll tell him to buy another five thousand. Or 
 no, I'll give the order myself." He turned to his telephone 
 that connected with the floor of the Exchange, and after 
 a moment's delay told someone to buy five thousand M. 
 and I. right away — and then to report. 
 
 Mr Murphy came back. " It's done : twenty-nine five- 
 eighth's the price." 
 
 The telephone bell rang. Mr Capper attended to it. 
 He repeated what he heard. " They've bought you the 
 other five thousand : twenty-nine and a half." 
 
 Charles, who was used to gambling in thousand-franc 
 notes but not in thousands of pounds at a time, felt 
 his spine turning to water. But he didn't propose to 
 let Mr Capper see that. He was in the soup now, and 
 he must trust to his good luck. He seemed to have lost 
 five thousand eighths of a dollar already. One hundred 
 and twenty-five pounds ! " Gee whizz ! " But he said that 
 to himself. He'd be ruined when this had happened 
 thirty-nine times more. It would take about twenty 
 minutes at the present rate ! He looked at his watch. 
 Three minutes to twelve. 
 
 Mr Capper wasn't one of those brokers who keep a 
 ticker in his own private office. He only kept a desk 
 there, three telephones, and a medley of costly rubbish. 
 His affectation was that he was a lover of art first and a 
 
284 CAVIARE 
 
 broker afterwards. And he was supposed to frown on 
 undue speculation. He engaged Charles now in a little 
 genial conversation. It didn't advance far. Mr Murphy 
 came in again. " I thought you'd wish to know that M. 
 and I.'s down to twenty-eight seven-eighths. There seems 
 no end to the selling." Mr Capper told him to clear out 
 and to come back when it was down another quarter, and 
 then he looked at Charles once more — a process of which 
 both he and his client were a little tired. " Mr Caerleon, 
 you've lost round about fourteen hundred pounds in your 
 money; say seven thousand dollars. Wouldn't you like 
 to quit ? " 
 
 Nothing would have pleased Charles better. He'd have 
 liked to quit and to come back in a quarter of an hour 
 and to start again. He'd started too soon, he supposed. 
 But there was something in Mr Capper's eye that irritated 
 him. A gambler often feels like that. " Confound it 
 all," he says, " I'll show them I can lose ! " He felt this 
 specially with Mr Capper. He wouldn't show the white 
 feather before such an American. No, indeed. 
 
 " Thanks, Mr Capper ; I appreciate your good advice. 
 But I'll hang on. Perhaps it's reached the bottom now." 
 
 "Perhaps; but why should it-f*" — and even as he spoke, 
 Murphy, bird of ill omen, reappeared. 
 
 " It's gone off another quarter." 
 
 Mr Capper drew a long breath and looked commis- 
 eratingly at Charles. " That ought to settle it, Mr 
 Caerleon. Wait, Mr Murphy. Look here : let's close this 
 transaction, Mr Caerleon. You'll lose a lot more in a few 
 minutes." 
 
 " Mr Murphy needn't wait for me, Mr Capper," Charles 
 
CHARLES GOES INTO WALL STREET 285 
 answered. He was considerably rattled, but he'd give 
 nothing of his state of mind away. "I put down that 
 twenty-five thousand dollars as margin. I've not lost half 
 of it yet " 
 
 " Pretty near," was Mr Capper's happy interruption. 
 
 " Yes, and perhaps half has gone by now. But I put 
 it down prepared to lose it, and if I'm not in your way 
 I'll see it out — I shan't keep you long, if you're right." 
 
 Mr Capper was getting rattled himself. He rang up 
 on the telephone again. " Showing every sign of going 
 on dropping, is it .? Twenty-eight and a half now." Charles 
 listened. He yawned — not because he was tired, but be- 
 cause his nerves were giving way. He thought of nothing 
 at all. His mind was a blank. 
 
 Mr Murphy came back once more — with a repetition of 
 the news that Mr Capper had just gained on the telephone. 
 " Oh, get out," Charles wanted to say. He'd have liked 
 to throw a rotten little couchant leopard that was near 
 his elbow at the man's stupid head. 
 
 Suddenly, however, Charles's wits returned. He felt 
 master of himself again. He was ashamed. What had 
 happened might have been anticipated. It wasn't till 
 midday or something of the kind that Michigan and 
 Illinois was to start going up. If he was paying any 
 attention at all to what had been told him last night, 
 then it certainly behoved him to pay attention to the 
 whole of it. Now it was simply a question of the correct- 
 ness of the information, and, in the event of its being 
 correct, whether his twenty-five thousand dollars would 
 enable him to hold out till the market turned. The next 
 
286 CAVIARE 
 
 quarter of an houi* would answer that question. And if 
 what he had was swept away — well, he"'d be where he 
 was before he went to Monte Carlo. No better and no 
 worse off. He turned to Mr Capper, who, having come 
 to the conclusion that his new client was beyond saving, 
 was engaged in an attempt to understand an article on 
 Houdon in the Burlington. 
 
 " It's very interesting to see a collection like this, Mr 
 Capper ; but your French paintings seem to stop with 
 the Barbizon people. Don*'t you take any interest in the 
 Impressionists, say .'' And what about the modern men ? 
 Cottet — Vuillard — Simon — Fergusson. I take it for 
 granted you don't like the cubistes^ so I won't ask about 
 them." 
 
 Charles was bluffing, of course. He wasn't as cool as 
 all that. His senses were alert to hear the step of Mr 
 Murphy and more bad news. Still he took Mr Capper in. 
 
 " I don't approve of the tendencies of modern French 
 art, Mr Caerleon " — and Mr Capper again wrinkled his 
 forehead, and looked prophetic. " Mark my words, none 
 of the men nowadays will be remembered in twenty years. 
 And as for the Impressionists, I wouldn't give that for 
 them, sir. They have no sense of beauty, no reverence, 
 no patience, no technique." Charles thought he'd read 
 something suspiciously like that in the duller English 
 newspapers. He was just on the point of declaring his 
 own sense of Mr Capper's wrongness when the door 
 opened. It was Mr Murphy. 
 
 " M. and I. has taken a turn, Mr Capper. It's a 
 
 quarter up from what I last told you " He was cut 
 
 short by the telephone bell. Mr Capper turned to it. 
 
CHARLES GOES INTO WALL STREET 287 
 " Hullo. M. and I. up, is it ? I'd just heard. Lots of 
 buying orders suddenly. Same as yesterday, I expect : 
 don't you .? Just a temporary rally. What's it now ? 
 Twenty-eight seven-eighths. Thanks. Ring up again in 
 a few minutes, Marsh, will you ? I want to hear if the 
 buying continues." And then, turning to Charles, 
 " Well, it's coming your way a little now, Mr Caerleon. 
 Let's hope it'll come far enough. If you take my advice, 
 you'll close the deal if it once gets over thirty. That'd 
 let you out." 
 
 " We'll see," Charles answered. " But to go back to 
 what we were talking about. Do you seriously mean to 
 tell me that Manet's got no technique, that Monet's 
 got no beauty ? And although it's difficult to see what 
 you've got here among all your beautiful things, yet I 
 don't notice any Carpeaux or any Dalous among your 
 bronzes." 
 
 Charles was getting Mr Capper on the raw. It was a 
 good thing that the broker didn't control the movements 
 of M. and I. They'd have gone down with a flop, if he 
 had. He didn't like having his taste questioned. And 
 besides, he really didn't know what Charles was talking 
 about. He hadn't the slightest idea of what technique 
 was in relation to painting. He'd heard of Manet and 
 Monet, but he hadn't heard of the other painters Charles 
 had mentioned, and he wasn't clear whether Carpeaux 
 was a kind of bronze or a sculptor. In any case, his 
 real reason for not buying the Impressionists was that 
 they cost more than he cared to risk. He followed the 
 line of least resistance in his purchases. Dealers offered 
 him what they knew he'd take. He was in their books 
 
288 CAVIARE 
 
 as a jay. He'd take anything as long as it didn't come 
 over a certain figure, and as long as he could be induced 
 to think it was high art. Of course his Millets were 
 forgeries ; his Diaz was about as bad as it could be ; 
 Corot never put that careless signature on the woodland 
 scene that he had over the mantelpiece in his Long 
 Island drawing-room. 
 
 " When you've been collecting and studying art as long 
 as I have, Mr Caerleon, you'll know what is worth while 
 and what isn't. You'll have a taste that'll tell you that 
 some things are meretricious and won't last. You'll realise 
 that you can't buy all schools, the bad as well as the good." 
 The strange thing was that Mr Capper really believed in 
 all his truck ; he really believed in his own taste, his own 
 prescience. The dealers who had him in tow had managed 
 him well. One of them had been very clever. Every now 
 and then, when he was on one of his American forays, he'd 
 drop in to Mr Capper's office and would ask after such 
 and such a picture or bronze he'd sold him. " Oh, I've 
 got that at home," Mr Capper would answer. " It's been 
 greatly admired." The dealer would sigh. " Yes, I know. 
 I ought never to have sold it to you. I suppose you 
 wouldn't like to let me have it back at twice what you 
 gave ? I wish you would. I don't mind telling you that 
 the Louvre came after it, and are always reminding me 
 now that I ought to have asked them before I let it go 
 to America. They'd take it now, and, even if I pay 
 twice what you paid, I'll make a handsome profit." He 
 had, that dealer, all the appearance of extreme frank- 
 ness. And he knew his customer. Never once had Mr 
 Capper taken his offer. He thought, did this brilliant 
 
CHARLES GOES INTO WALL STREET 289 
 collector, that he knew a rising market when he saw 
 one. 
 
 It was, however, no part of Charles's programme to 
 irritate Mr Capper's self-complacency. He got up and 
 began to examine the crowded walls. 
 
 "So that's a Troyon, is it.? A very unusual and 
 curious example. . . ." But he was not to be allowed 
 to browse at will in this museum of curiosities. The 
 telephone bell rang again. He turned round. Mr Capper 
 looked at him and held his hand up. In a minute he 
 hung up the receiver. 
 
 " Well, Mr Caerleon, you seem to have dropped into 
 Wall Street at the — what do they call it ? — the psycho- 
 logical moment for M. and I. My man tells me there's 
 a great deal of buying, and that there seem to be orders, 
 judging by the firms who are dealing, from both Europe 
 and the West." 
 
 " What's the stock now, though, Mr Capper ? " 
 
 " It was thirty and five-eighths a minute or two ago. 
 I'll give you advice again, Mr Caerleon. I told you that 
 this is a good time to keep out of the market — it's a 
 better time to get out of it, especially if you can do so 
 at a profit. I hate to see our clients lose. Now just write 
 me a memorandum to sell your shares when it's reached 
 thirty-two. Personally, I'd like to sell it now, but I don't 
 suppose you'd stand for that ? " He looked at Charles, 
 who shook his head. 
 
 " Well, if indications count for anything, it'll go up 
 for a while. Three or four dollars, perhaps. Let's sup- 
 pose that you get out at thirty-four: you'll be five 
 points to the good. You've got ten thousand, bought 
 
 19 
 
290 CAVIARE 
 
 at twentj-nine five-eighths and twenty-nine and a half. 
 
 You'd have cleared over five thousand pounds in your 
 
 money." 
 
 Charles took out a pencil and asked for a bit of paper. 
 He made some rapid calculations, and then : 
 
 " Mr Capper, isn"'t there something you call pyramid- 
 ing on this side of the water ? What I mean is, can't I 
 use my profits as further margin ? " 
 
 " You can if you like, certainly, Mr Caerleon." This 
 Englishman was a very nervy proposition. 
 
 "Well, I've made ten thousand dollars on the last price 
 given you. That's two thousand pounds. If I'm right, ask 
 your clerk, please, to buy me another ten thousand as 
 quick as he can, and to start buying an additional five 
 thousand at each dollar advance. Please do it at once." 
 
 Mr Capper summoned Mr Murphy and repeated the 
 instructions. Mr Murphy blinked and disappeared. 
 
 " I'd better write that down, Mr Capper ; and I want 
 to add something more." 
 
 "Yes, you'd better, Mr Caerleon. Don't let's have 
 any misunderstanding. Come and sit here," and he 
 swept on one side a lot of Christie's catalogues so as to 
 make a clear place for Charles to write. 
 
 Charles was very business-like. Wasn't this his first 
 day of real work ? 
 
 " To Messes Capper, Zanthro and Company. 
 
 " Having bought for me this morning five thou- 
 sand Michigan and Illinois at twenty-nine and five- 
 eighths and five thousand at twenty-nine and a half, 
 please buy an additional ten thousand now that 
 the price is thirty and five-eighths, and start buying 
 
CHARLES GOES INTO WALL STREET 291 
 
 an additional five thousand at thirty-one and at 
 each even dollar advance, until forty is reached. At 
 that point start buying ten thousand, and start 
 buying ten thousand more at each dollar advance. 
 If there's a drop, hold on to the stock as long as 
 my margin is sufficient ; but if ifs nearly swept 
 away, sell at the point that your own interests 
 demand that you should avoid risk. But don't sell 
 till you have to. Charles Caerleon 
 
 (Knickerbocker Hotel)." 
 
 He blotted the paper and handed it to Mr Capper. 
 
 " Is that clear, Mr Capper ? " 
 
 Mr Capper read it, and whistled, and whistled again. 
 " Yes, ifs quite clear, Mr Caerleon. It's also, if I may 
 say so, rather mad. Isn't there a phrase in England — 
 going for the gloves ? Is that what you're doing ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know." Charles got up and took his hat 
 and stick. " I don't know that I'm going for the gloves, 
 but I do know that Michigan and Illinois is going up. 
 I'll see something of New York now. I've got the 
 Baedeker map in my pocket. But please tell me, Mr 
 Capper, am I right in believing that it'd be worth my 
 while to go right down to the end of the island — the 
 Battery, they call it, don't they ? " 
 
 Mr Capper wondered if he'd misjudged the English 
 character. All he could say was, that it would be very 
 well worth Mr Caerleon's while to go and see the 
 Battery ; but hadn't he better stay where he was now 
 and see what was happening to his stock ? 
 
 Charles thought not. " You see, I've only been here 
 since yesterday morning, Mr Capper. I'd like to know 
 more of your city. And I must get some lunch. That 
 
392 CAVIARE 
 
 stock's all right. Itll go up all the time. You see. 
 You"'ll let a clerk give me a copy of that paper, won"'t 
 you, so that there mayn't be any misapprehension in 
 my mind as to what my instructions were. I'll come 
 back for it after lunch." 
 
 Mr Capper answered that of course a copy would be 
 made, and Mr Murphy, appearing opportunely, was 
 given the paper as Mr Caerleon's last instructions. " M. 
 and I.'s at thirty-one and a half now." 
 
 Mr Capper became human under these signs of his 
 client's prosperity. " You're going some, young man," he 
 said. " I'd like to show you some of this section of the 
 city myself, and take you to the club to lunch, especially 
 as you're a stranger ; but I guess I'd better stop here 
 and keep an eye on your stock." 
 
 " I hate to spoil your lunch, Mr Capper ; but still, if 
 
 you think so Tell me one thing, though, before I 
 
 go. Is Michigan and Illinois a railway ? " 
 
 Mr Capper is never sure whether he answered that 
 question. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 IN WHICH THE LIITLE BLUE TURBAN PROVES HERSELF 
 A VERY MASCOTTE 
 
 CHARLES did find the Battery very much worth 
 while, but he was hardly in a fit state to appre- 
 ciate the beauties it commanded. It isn't to be 
 wondered at that his mind was in a ferment. He hadn't 
 made quite five thousand pounds that morning, but he 
 was most of the road to their making ; Mr Capper had 
 talked on that basis. What ought he to do ? Ought he 
 to sell out ? He thought not. After all, he was here to 
 make money. And he had no other interest to his hand. 
 Besides, it would be flying in the face of Providence to 
 quit at the very moment when everything was coming his 
 way, when all was happening as he had been told it would. 
 And there was another reason for his disquiet. He'd 
 passed, as he walked down Broadway, the steamship 
 offices. He had had to take a grip on himself to avoid 
 going into the Cunard office and booking a passage in the 
 very ship that had brought him over. And then when he 
 got down to the Battery the first thing he saM' was a boat 
 starting for the other side. It made a brave show in the 
 
 sunshine. 
 
 993 
 
294 CAVIARE 
 
 Charles was lonely, and he was homesick. 
 Later on, in a rather more cheerful mood, and having 
 lunched, Charles went back to Wall Street and the office 
 of Messrs Capper, Zanthro and Company. He wasn't in 
 any hurry : he'd had as much excitement as he cared for 
 for one day. He didn't want to take up again this tale 
 of eighths and quarters. But it was certainly necessary 
 to return. Perhaps he'd have reached the five thousand 
 by now. He was a little curious about his brokers too. 
 Mr Capper's office, with all its gimcrack contents, didn't 
 evoke any great confidence. True, he hadn't really seen 
 it. He'd only seen an ante-room, from which he'd been 
 ushered straight into Mr Capper's private room. How 
 different that was, though, from his conception of a 
 Wall Street office. This time, entering the ante-room 
 and finding it for the moment untenanted, he pushed 
 through into the further rooms. There he found the 
 real thing. This was what he'd read about. Here were 
 enough tape machines, enough clerks, and enough clients 
 too, apparently, if he could judge from the fact that there 
 were several people sitting about who didn't seem to 
 have any work to do. There was also a large blackboard 
 with words and hieroglyphics on it. But Charles wasn't 
 allowed to look round for long unattended. Mr Murphy 
 rushed across the room. " Come, Mr Caerleon, come in 
 to Mr Capper. He's been asking for you." 
 
 Mr Capper had indeed been asking for Charles. He 
 was walking to and fro and more than a little worried 
 at the non-appearance of his client. Michigan and 
 Illinois had increased its upward pace. Its last price was 
 thirty-nine seven-eighths. The execution of his client's 
 
A VERY MASCOTTE 295 
 
 instructions wasn't easy. You don't buy big block of 
 stock after big block by just nodding your head. It 
 wanted some doing. He couldn't understand why Charles 
 hadn't come back. Seeing him, he started at once : 
 
 " Mr Caerleon, I wonder you weren't in before. You 
 still want us to hold on to that stock ? Don't you think 
 you'd better clear out now ? " 
 
 " Why, has it been going down .?" Charles didn't think 
 it had, but thought he'd better speak as if he was pre- 
 pared for eventualities. 
 
 " Going down ! Do you mean to tell me you've not 
 seen ? Why, it's worrying the whole change." 
 
 " Yes, but has it gone down ? Have 1 lost all I've 
 made.?" 
 
 " No, sir. You have 7iot ; the blessed stock's at more 
 than forty now, I should think. You must have made 
 more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, what 
 with your first purchases and what we've bought for you 
 since." 
 
 "Oh well, Mr Capper, if it's as good as that" — 
 Charles was being purposely slow in his manner of speak- 
 ing ; he didn't exactly want to irritate the broker, but 
 he did wish to show that Englishmen didn't get so very 
 easily excited — " and if it's reached forty, you've started 
 buying me ten thousand at each point advance. Isn't 
 that so.?" 
 
 " Yes, it is, and I don't mind telling you that, glad as 
 we are to have a good customer, it's giving us plenty of 
 work. I've been on the floor myself. You're not the only 
 man who is buying. Of course, there's the crowd who are 
 buying small lots just because the stock's going up, but 
 
396 CAVIARE 
 
 there are several other large buyers acting, as far as I can 
 see, for the big fellows. The bears are getting frightened 
 too ; there^s a lot of bear closing."" 
 
 Charles didn't know who " the big fellows " were, and 
 he hadn't time to ask. He supposed they were the men 
 whose purchases were to send the stock up. Certainly, 
 they'd done their work. 
 
 " I'm grateful to you, Mr Capper, for the trouble 
 you're taking. How much stock have I got now ? I 
 wonder if you can tell me ? " 
 
 " I can't : we're placing your orders as fast as ever we 
 can. But Murphy will know how you stand. I'll ask. . . . 
 Mr Murphy, how much stock has Mr Caerleon now ? " 
 
 "We've just started buying Mr Caerleon's third ten 
 thousand. The stock's over forty-two now. That'll make 
 his holding ninety-five thousand." 
 
 " That ought to be enough even for an Englishman, 
 Mr Caerleon," Mr Capper said. " Shall we stop buying 
 now.?" 
 
 "No, Mr Capper, but you can stop buying when 
 you've bought me another two hundred thousand ; that'll 
 be when the stock reaches sixty-two, or something over, 
 according to the trouble you have in getting it, I suppose." 
 
 " And can we start selling — discreetly, of course — at 
 the first dollar rise after all your orders are executed ? " 
 
 " You may not. But now tell me : how much do I 
 make with each dollar advance on the basis of my present 
 ninety-five thousand ? " 
 
 " Why, that's simple. With every dollar advance you 
 make ninety-five thousand dollars — not much less than 
 twenty thousand pounds in your money." 
 
A VERY MASCOTTE 297 
 
 Charles did not find it very easy to control his emotion. 
 He took out his case and selected a cigarette. " May I* 
 smoke, Mr Capper ? " 
 
 Mr Capper objected very much to anyone smoking 
 among his treasures, but he didn't say so. 
 
 Charles's brain hadn't really grasped the figures he'd 
 been given. He realised that by some extraordinary 
 fortune he was on the crest of the wave, that he was 
 making more money than he'd ever dreamed of having, 
 but what it all meant he hadn't thought. Perhaps if he 
 had been better prepared for these possibilities he'd have 
 understood more clearly, and would have been more 
 moved. Twenty thousand pounds every half-hour or 
 so — that was about what it worked out at. 
 
 He thought he'd better leave Mr Capper to his 
 treasures and to the execution of his new instructions. 
 Perhaps if he went back to the Knickerbocker and had 
 a hot bath he'd feel less rattled. 
 
 " Well, I'm going. I'll look in again to-morrow 
 morning. It's understood you cease buying for me after 
 I've got two hundred and ninety-five thousand. That's 
 so, isn't it ? And oh, tell me — I know some of the names 
 of your magnates here — who are the ' big fellows ' you 
 speak of as perhaps buying Michigan and Illinois ? " 
 
 " I can't say with any certainty. But Ream is buying, 
 I think : it's a pool, I fancy. One doesn't know what 
 they're aiming at. Control, perhaps. Pyle's in it too, I'm 
 pretty sure " 
 
 " Oh, Pyle — what do they call him ? Hasn't he got 
 some sort of nickname ? " 
 
 " Not a nickname exactly, but people call him * Old 
 
298 CAVIARE 
 
 Man Pyle ' generally. If I'm right and he's in this deal, 
 he won't like you, you can bet your bottom dollar. Old 
 Man Pyle don't approve of anyone butting in when he's 
 doing business." 
 
 Charles's brain began to go round and round. So he 
 was interfering with " Old Man Pyle's " game, was he — 
 with "Old Man Pyle," who was responsible for Mr 
 Gorham's kidnapping ? What an odd mix-up ! 
 
 Making some excuses to Mr Capper, who didn't wish 
 him to leave, and telling him that he didn't think he'd be 
 anywhere where he could be called on the telephone till 
 after midnight, Charles started to go away. Mr Capper 
 was full of respect for his English client now. " I've 
 sent a card for you to the University Club and one to 
 the Union I^eague, Mr Caerleon : they're both comfort- 
 able. You can go straight to either of them, if you like. 
 But I wish you'd stop here till the Exchange closes." 
 
 Charles shook his head, expressed his gratitude for 
 the cards, and beat a retreat. He wanted air. 
 
CHAl^ER XI 
 
 IN WHICH THR AMIABLE CHARLES HAS AN ENTIRELY NOVEL 
 SENSATION AND ONE OF WHICH FEW OF US CAN BOAST 
 
 IN vulgar phrase, Charles didn't know whether he was 
 standing on his head or his heels. Here he was in 
 New York. He'd reached it yesterday, and already 
 within thirty-six hours he'd made as many thousand 
 pounds. He felt he was Aladdin's friend, or that Second 
 Calendar, son of a King, on whom so many mysterious 
 things had been so vehemently enjoined. In the heart 
 of New York, among Americans, it had behoved him to 
 be self-possessed : he thought he'd carried himself well 
 enough. But now — oh, thirty thousand pounds! Perhaps 
 only his pride had prevented his seizing them at the 
 moment he knew he'd made them. He felt now that in 
 the background of all that had passed Alison's eyes had 
 watched him. Thirty thousand pounds ! Wouldn't that 
 alter Mr Gorham's whole attitude H 
 
 I've said somewhere that Charles had contradictory 
 sides to his character. Indeed, it was true. And one of 
 the sides, one of the facets, was of extreme common 
 sense. He knew, and he didn't conceal from himself as 
 he walked up Broadway past Grace Church and the 
 
300 CAVIARE 
 
 Wanamaker store, that thirty thousand pounds might 
 in the present circumstances make all the difference with 
 Mr Gorham — but that he'd think worse of Mr Gorham 
 if it did. After all, what was thirty thousand pounds ? 
 An income of fifteen hundred pounds, at the most. That, 
 in Mr Gorham's view, would pay for the upkeep of 
 his daughter's cars ! And it hadn't been earned — unless 
 anxiety earns money ! He might as well have tried to 
 tempt Mr Gorham with the initial five thousand of his 
 new fortune. Mr Gorham had laid stress on his working, 
 on his actually earning, money. 
 
 Charles argued with himself as he walked. Mr Gorham 
 had intended that Mr Davison should find him work. 
 That was clear. Mr Davison wasn't likely to. That too 
 was clear. In the circumstances, he must take advantage 
 of everything that came his way. Add what had just 
 come — provided it hadn't, like fairy gold, vanished in 
 the morning ! — to what he'd brought from Monte Carlo, 
 and he'd got enough to use with some chance of success, 
 granted any share of fortune. Remained the problem 
 of whether or not in the morning he should be satisfied 
 with his profit, and promptly sell out. That problem 
 should rest for a few hours. He wouldn't attempt to 
 decide it until after to-morrow's breakfast. 
 
 And he was damned if he'd find out the afternoon 
 happenings to Michigan and Illinois in the paper, either. 
 The fates had helped him. He'd leave himself in their 
 hands. 
 
 Arrived at his hotel, Charles went to his room and 
 at once into a hot bath. He lay in it — and thought 
 and thought. Hot baths were a habit with him. He 
 
CHARLES'S ENTIRELY NOVEL SENSATION 301 
 thought of Alison, of his luck since he had left her at 
 the Gare de I^yon, of the share the young Frenchwoman 
 had had in what had happened, of Mr Gorham's fortunes : 
 his mind wouldn't be still — it ran to and fro like a 
 squirrel. Never in the whole of the thirty- three years 
 of his life could he remember — unless it had been a week 
 ago at Monte Carlo — being afraid of the emptiness of 
 the coming hours. How could he spend in this fierce, 
 unfriendly city the rest of the day ? What could 
 he do? 
 
 The hours passed. Charles dressed and went down- 
 stairs and pleased his friend, the French mditre (Thotel, 
 by telling him what he thought of the hotePs cuisine. 
 What he was really thinking of, though, was how he 
 could best communicate with Allison. There was no 
 mail for thirty-six hours. To cable would be too fussy. 
 But perhaps a cable letter— — Charles sent quickly for 
 a cable form, and as he finished his coffee, thought out 
 what he could usefully say : 
 
 " May I not have your news Am here for present 
 Please let me hear Am naturally anxious Is there 
 anything I can do for you or Mrs Phillips in New 
 York." 
 
 " As if she hasn't a hundred friends to whom she can 
 appeal if she wants anything done over here ! " Charles 
 added to himself, as he signed his name "Caerleon, 
 Knickerbocker Hotel." All the same, he was proud of 
 his diplomacy in adding the " or Mrs Phillips." 
 
 Alison would get the cable when she was called in 
 the morning — for it was about midnight in Paris. He 
 could hope for an answer during the next day — if only 
 
302 CAVIARE 
 
 she cared to cable. But he felt that was unlikely. She 
 
 had not been too kind. He had very little confidence. 
 
 Charles then did what he would have done in England : 
 he went to the theatre. He couldn't expect that it would 
 occupy his mind, but it might help to pass a couple of 
 hours. He chose a musical comedy. At least it wouldn't 
 make too great a demand on his attention. Besides, 
 he'd seen " The Belle of New York." That had taught 
 London a lot. Perhaps all American plays of the kind 
 were like it. 
 
 Charles soon found they weren't. And he couldn't 
 bring himself to like the energetic rubbish that he 
 learned generally passed for musical comedy on Broad- 
 way. However, New York — he'd discovered already — 
 did so many things better than they're done where 
 Charles came from that it could afford Mr George 
 Edwardes his triumphs. 
 
 Coming out of the theatre, Charles heard and saw 
 that there had been excitements on Wall Street. People 
 were speaking of the stock market, and the bills of 
 the papers were eloquent of something unusual. He 
 wouldn't listen, and he averted his eyes. If there'd been 
 an almighty slump, and if he'd lost all he'd made and 
 all he'd bought — well, he'd learn it soon enough. He 
 couldn't do anything between now and breakfast, any- 
 how. If Mr Capper had had to sell out his stock, he'd no 
 doubt done so at some moinent that meant no risk to 
 himself, and that equally would mean that he'd have a 
 few hundred dollars to hand back. They couldn't have 
 lost the exact five thousand pounds. He wondered 
 whether he should have supper. He might look in at 
 
CHARLES'S ENTIRELY NOVEL SENSATION 303 
 the Knickerbocker Hotel grill-room. His friend, the 
 mditre (Thotel, had told him it was a sight after the 
 theatre. It certainly was. Charles approached it from 
 the hall of the hotel. An attendant asked for his coat 
 and hat. He wouldn't give them up, as he wasn't sure 
 he wouldn't go at once to his room after looking round 
 the room. Room, do I call it ? He could see it over the 
 heads of the crowd that were clamouring for admission. 
 It seemed the size of a football field. Indeed, one of the 
 things that most astonished Charles, who had been used 
 to the smaller publics of London, Paris, and Berlin, was 
 the enormous number of people who throng the supper 
 places of New York. There seemed to him a half- 
 hundred places, each as big as any place he knew of in 
 London or Paris, all of which became crammed as mid- 
 night approached, and each of which was not only as 
 big, but far more gorgeous, more splendid, more ornate 
 — even sometimes in better taste. But he wasn't to get 
 into the Knickerbocker grill-room. As he was stopping 
 in the hotel, and as he was always in the habit of having 
 the waiter-mind recognise his ascendency, he pushed past 
 the first guardians of the velvet rope that was stretched 
 across the entrance. He had the impression that police- 
 men were being employed to keep back the crush. Per- 
 haps that was an exaggeration. But certainly the keep- 
 ing back was on the strong-arm principle. Charles had 
 a vague Paris memory of the mditre d'hote! who was the 
 Peter of this heaven, and asked with customary politeness 
 if he could have a table. The rnaitre cThotel glared : 
 " Can't you see the crowd ? You've not booked a table. 
 Anyhow, you can't go in with your coat and hat." 
 
304 CAVIARE 
 
 Charles found himself pushed on one side. Poor Charles ! 
 Where was the amenity he'd been used to ? And the 
 gibe at his coat and hat cut him to the quick. His hat, 
 it was true, was on his head, because he wasn't yet in the 
 room, but his coat was on his arm. 
 
 The episode distracted his mind. He went, indignant, 
 to bed. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES REFUSES TO HAVE HIS 
 BREAKFAST DISTURBED, AND ACCEFTS AN INVITATION 
 TO DINNER 
 
 SLEEP well, and there is no trouble, no anxiety, no 
 ecstasy of happiness or good fortune that will 
 shake the nerves. Charles slept well. He had 
 gone to bed so indignant with the whole American 
 system, that for the time he hardly remembered he had 
 troubles of his own. But he dreamt, and he woke rather 
 earlier than usual, and it was many minutes short of 
 eight o'clock when, with a New York American in his 
 hand, he sat down to breakfast. 
 
 Anxious curiosity tore at his vitals, but he wouldn't 
 give way to it. He eat his stewed pears and cream just 
 as if a great fortune wasn't in the balance, and he read 
 all the scandals and sensations of his newspaper's first 
 page exactly as usual. Partly it was courage, nerve, but 
 even more it was cowardice. He knew that if he turned 
 the leaves he would find Mr Thomas C. Shotwell explain- 
 ing to the world the true inwardness of whatever had 
 happened overnight in Wall Street. Michigan and 
 
 Illinois had had a place in the headlines yesterday. To- 
 
 305 20 
 
306 CAVIARE 
 
 day, surely, it would figure in letters an inch high. But 
 
 how? 
 
 So Charles read on, and didn't really know what he 
 read. And as he turned from page one to page two, as 
 he saw with averted mind how " woman falls out of 
 window as auto kills small boy," and how " police 
 hypnotised Anna B. Runyon defence contends," as he 
 struggled with the latest news from Mr Hammerstein 
 and the adventures of Mutt and Jeff', he thought of all it 
 would mean to him if the price of Michigan and Illinois 
 hadn't broken. He would be content even if it had 
 remained at the figure it had reached when yesterday he 
 left the offices of Capper, Zanthro and Company. Thirty 
 thousand pounds, say. It was all very well for him to 
 have said yesterday that, while as an argument with Mr 
 Gorham that sum might now be sufficient, yet as a 
 provision for his future and Alison's it was really in- 
 adequate. He'd said that when he'd been excited. He 
 wasn't excited this morning. But perhaps it was fairy 
 gold. 
 
 He felt at length that he could no longer postpone 
 turning the page which would tell him his fate. He 
 took a mouthful of tea, looked at his watch, glanced 
 round the room and took up the paper 
 
 " Mr Caerleon, Mr Caerleon, Mr Caerleon." 
 
 He was being " paged." Such a thing hadn't happened 
 to him before. It was rather odd to hear his name called 
 out in these alien halls. The idea shot into his mind 
 that to be called by one's name was altogether more 
 happy than by the number of one's room. And yet there 
 were hundreds and hundreds of people in the hotel. 
 
CHARLES ACCEPTS AN INVITATION TO DINNER 307 
 His room was one thousand and twenty-three. Another 
 thing they do better in America ! 
 
 " Here," called Charles to the bell-boy, who, seeing 
 him, grinned all over his freckled face. " Aw, I needn't 
 have called out your name if I'd known it was you — I 
 wouldn't forget 1/our glass eye." A monocle has its com- 
 pensations even in America, Charles thought. The little 
 slip of paper handed him showed that he was wanted at 
 the telephone. 
 
 " This is Mr Capper speaking. Mr Caerleon, I've rung 
 you up so early because Mr Marsh has been talking to 
 me. He tells me that " 
 
 Charles never thought so quickly in all his life. 
 Everything of importance in connection with Mr Capper 
 passed through his mind : how he'd tried to dissuade 
 him from buying Michigan and Illinois, and how again 
 and again he'd tried to get him to sell out — while the 
 stock was going down and as soon as it had started to 
 go up. He felt certain that Mr Capper was on the point 
 of suggesting some course of action to him, and he felt 
 equally certain that if he tried to decide it now he'd 
 decide it to his own disadvantage. And he knew it 
 would be no use to argue. No sooner had he learned 
 who had called him than his brain began to work, and 
 he was in time to stop the broker before he could hear 
 what the no doubt capable Marsh had to say. 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr Capper, I'm not ready for business 
 yet. I'm only just up. We'll talk at a quarter to ten. I'll 
 be at your office then. The Exchange doesn't open till ten, 
 does it ? Good-hye ! " and before Mr Capper's expostula- 
 tions could take shape he'd hung up the receiver. 
 
308 CAVIARE 
 
 " If anyone wants Mr Caerleon on the telephone,"" he 
 told the neat shirtwaist at the telephone desk, " please 
 say he's not to be found." 
 
 But this was all very well. He''d have to go back to 
 his breakfast and his paper. Presumably Mr Capper 
 hadn"'t had to sell out his stock the previous day, or else 
 he''d not have any reason to tell him Mr Marsh's views 
 of this morning. He was still in the soup, apparently. 
 He went back, gripped his teeth, took up the paper, and 
 turned to the Stock Market news. 
 
 " Who's buying Michigan and Illinois ? " a headline 
 asked ; and then on another column " Stock Market 
 stagnant, but M. and I. like a balloon. Bears seeking 
 cover." 
 
 But what was the actual price when the exchange 
 closed ? Charles had enough sense to look for that. 
 621,500 Michigan & I . . . . 62^ 28| 62^ + 31^. 
 
 It took Charles quite a time to dig out the import of 
 the line, but after a time he realised what it meant to 
 him. The first figure showed the amount of stock dealt 
 in, the second the highest price during the day, the third 
 the lowest, the fourth the closing price, and the fifth the 
 rise since the previous day. It was evident, therefore, 
 that he'd been lucky enough to begin his buying at the 
 lowest — or almost at the lowest : at twenty-nine and 
 five-eighths and at twenty-nine. And when the exchange 
 closed the price was sixty -two and a half! 
 
 Charles sat before the remains of his breakfast for 
 several minutes. His mind was a blank — or it was a 
 blank in that he was aware of no coherent thoughts. 
 
CHARLES ACCEPTS AN INVITATION TO DINNER 309 
 He'd laid the paper down and had tried for a moment 
 to reckon out in his head what he'd made, but his brain 
 refused to function. He tried with a pencil on the table- 
 cloth ; the result was the same. It was then that he'd 
 lapsed into blankness. . . . 
 
 Everything came back with a flash. He sat upright, 
 folded the paper, and called for his check — we should 
 call it a bill in England. Giving the waiter a tip of ten 
 cents, and wondering whether it was enough, he went to 
 a chair in the barber's shop. You ought to get a lot 
 of attention for tenpence, he said to himself — and he 
 certainly got it. We are only beginning to know what 
 shaving is in Europe. 
 
 During this time he managed to avoid any detailed 
 calculation of his position. His mind was clear enough 
 now, but he didn't want to mix things up ; he didn't 
 want to make a mistake. But back in his room —it was 
 still short of nine o'clock — he sat down at his writing- 
 table and started figuring. 
 
 Mr Capper had told him at a very much earlier stage 
 of the game, and when his holding was only ninety-five 
 thousand shares, that with every dollar advance he made 
 nearly twenty thousand pounds. That was when the 
 stock stood at forty-two. It was over sixty-one now. 
 He supposed it possible that they hadn't been able to 
 buy him any more — not because he thought that likely, 
 but because he wanted to discount his good fortune. 
 Even so, nineteen times twenty thousand was three 
 hundred and eighty thousand pounds. And Mr Capper 
 had estimated he'd made about thirty thousand before 
 that last calculation came into operation. Good heavens ! 
 
310 CAVIARE 
 
 He'd made four hundred thousand pounds at the very 
 least — and much more very likely. He was a million- 
 aire — in dollars — more than once ! 
 
 But was he ? Anything might have happened over- 
 night. Charles was pretty innocent of stock markets, 
 but he did know that London business often ruled the 
 prices (by grace of New York, of course ! ). While he'd 
 slept, London had been buying or selling. And oh ! what 
 was it Mr Marsh had said ? Why hadn't he listened "i 
 When directly the Exchange opened, perhaps Michigan 
 and Illinois would be several points lower ; perhaps the 
 whole thing was a temporary rally, a spurt. Feverishly 
 he searched for support for this view in his paper. Mr 
 Shotwell didn't believe the advance was exhausted. All 
 the indications were the other way, in fact. 
 
 Charles hurried on his overcoat, and started for Wall 
 Street. But he was not to go further than the head of 
 the elevator shaft without interruption. Just as he was 
 pressing the bell a letter was shot pneumatically into 
 the hands of the floor-clerk — " Oh, Mr Caerleon, here's 
 something for you." 
 
 It Avas a note from Mr Davison : 
 
 "My dear Mr Caerleon, — You were to come 
 and dine with us one night. Mrs Davison suggests 
 this evening. It will give us great pleasure if you 
 will. The hour is eight o'clock. If this note finds 
 you in the hotel, perhaps you can let me have a 
 reply by the bearer. — Yours very truly, 
 
 " Hepburn Z. Davison." 
 
 « That's odd," Charles thought. " Mr Davison didn't 
 like me. What's he in such a hurry to a.sk me to dinner 
 
CHARLES ACCEPTS AN INVITATION TO DINNER 311 
 for ? " Charles didn't know it, but as a matter of fact 
 the reason was very simple. Mr Davison had met Mr 
 Capper overnight, and Mr Capper hadn't confined him- 
 self to thanking his friend for the introduction of a new 
 client : bubbling over with excitement at the events of 
 the day, he had been indiscreet enough to tell him in 
 confidence about Charles's extraordinary methods and 
 commissions, and of his success. It occurred at once to 
 Mr Davison that the man who was at least half respon- 
 sible for the flurry on change, and who seemed to be on 
 the way to making, at least temporarily, a fortune, even 
 though by a compound of sheer good luck and ignor- 
 ance, was worth cultivating. Besides, as Mrs Davison 
 remarked, he was a brother of Lord Bude's. 
 
 Anyhow, Charles accepted. There wasn't any reason 
 why he shouldn't. He hadn't disliked Mr Davison, and 
 it was certain that when the evening came he would be 
 searching about for some means of killing time. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHAELES RECEIVES A CABLE AND 
 CELEBRATES A FICTITIOUS BIRTHDAY BY TAKING MR 
 CAPPER TO THE WALDORF 
 
 CHARLES arrived very punctually at Mr Capper's 
 office. He found that gentleman by no means 
 as cool and collected as he had been at the 
 moment of their first interview. It really was a fact 
 that his firm didn't care very much for the more specu- 
 lative kind of business. They preferred, encouraged, 
 and knew more about investment accounts. Mr Capper 
 therefore found himself in a sea of whose navigation, 
 while not ignorant, he was timorous. He greeted Charles 
 with a sort of veiled resentment. He'd not been insen- 
 sible of, indeed he'd admired, the Englishman's courage 
 and nerve, but he knew very well that it was more good 
 luck than courage, or nerve, or skill that had put him 
 so much on the right side of the market. His client 
 certainly wasn't acting in conjunction with the interests 
 who'd started bulling M. and I. He doubted even if he 
 were being used as a cat's-paw. He was obviously as 
 innocent as he could be — a tender-foot. He didn't even 
 know who the other bulls were. No, Mr Capper had 
 
CHARLES RECEIVES A CABLE 313 
 
 made a pretty shrewd guess. He was sure that Charles 
 was simply acting blindly on a tip. It might have 
 reached him by chance, or through some breach of 
 confidence — but whatever the means, he'd had the nerve 
 to go nap on it. He was a sport, anyway. And he'd 
 got Capper, Zanthro and Company into the business, 
 and there the senior partner supposed they'd have to 
 stop until he could either induce him to close his 
 trade, or until matters were settled automatically by 
 the sudden dropping of prices. Such things had hap- 
 pened. It didn't look as if they were going to happen 
 here, though. And then again, even if Charles did decide 
 to take his profit and to clear out, what a job it'd be 
 selling such a deuce of a block without breaking the 
 market. Two hundred and ninety-five thousand would 
 want some selling. Unless the men who had been buying 
 so eagerly yesterday were going on picking up every- 
 thing that was offered, he didn't see how it was to be 
 done. . . . 
 « " Good morning again, Mr Caerleon. You seemed in a 
 hurry this morning. I hope I didn't spoil your breakfast. 
 But I did think I ought to have your views about this 
 stock of yours." 
 
 " To tell the truth, I hadn't got any views, Mr Capper. 
 I hadn't looked at the paper when you telephoned. I'd 
 only just come down to breakfast ; and I feared that if 
 I talked then, my ignorance of what had happened would 
 likely drive me into some stupid decision." 
 
 " You didn't know what happened overnight ! I don't 
 understand." 
 
 " I mean I know no more of what had happened to 
 
314 CAVIARE 
 
 Michigan and Illinois than when I left you here after 
 
 lunch." 
 
 " Good lord ! Do you mean to tell me that you went 
 away with, so to speak, a hundred thousand shares in 
 your pocket, all bought on margin with your day''s profits, 
 and didn"'t even take the trouble to find out how things 
 had gone when the Exchange closed ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do. Stupid, isn't it ? But let's make up for 
 lost time now. Have you bought me all the shares I 
 wanted ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mr Marsh bought the last lot oft'ered last night. 
 Mr Murphy is figuring out the account now. It's pretty 
 complicated. We had to buy your shares in all sorts of 
 lots, just as we could. However, I daresay you'll be able 
 to make it out."" 
 
 " What were you going to tell me this morning when 
 I so impatiently finished the conversation ? " 
 
 Mr Capper smiled a little sourly. " I was going to tell 
 you that £is the market was still — as far as M. and I. goes, 
 I mean — so very bullish, I thought it'd be a good time 
 for you to start selling. It was clear from what Marsh 
 said he'd be able to get rid of quite a lot of your shares 
 right away, and it might prove to be a good thing to 
 have done. One never knows which way the cat will 
 jump." 
 
 " Yes, but what's the feeling ? And what about 
 London ? On the face of it, is the stock better now than 
 it was last night .'' " 
 
 " Oh yes, a lot : there was a great deal of buying in 
 London, and there are, I know, a lot of European and 
 Western orders this morning. Certainly it's gone up. 
 
CHARLES RECEIVES A CABLE 315 
 
 But we can't be sure if it'll last till the Exchange opens. 
 And when it does, shall we sell a little of your holding 
 as a start ? "" 
 
 " No, not to begin with, anyhow. You say IVe got the 
 whole two hundred and ninety-five thousand. Ill just 
 look at your pictures here if you'll let me, until the 
 prices begin to come through — and then we'll see." 
 
 Mr Capper subsided. " Very well ; do as you please, 
 but there is such a thing as overstaying your market, 
 Mr Caerleon. Don't forget that." 
 
 So Charles devoted his attention — or pretended to — 
 to the study of the indifferent coverings of Mr Capper's 
 walls, and Mr Capper read letters, and made little notes 
 on their comers, and was very restless and unhappy. 
 He'd already given Mr Murphy instructions to bring 
 him the first Michigan and Illinois price that came up on 
 the tape, and he knew that he'd get a telephone report 
 from the floor of the Exchange directly things began to 
 shape themselves there. 
 
 The three or four minutes before Mr Murphy appeared 
 seemed to Charles an eternity. He looked at all the 
 pictures on one wall, and then began looking at them 
 all again, as if they were too good to pass over rapidly. 
 He wasn't thinking of impressing Mr Capper. He was 
 thinking of passing the time. Even the simulation of 
 interest did that. He'd examine a picture and then walk 
 back and look at it critically in the large ; then he'd 
 start examining it in detail as if with a magnifying glass 
 — but he couldn't even have told what it pretended to 
 be. . . . 
 
 The door opened. 
 
3i6 CAVIARE 
 
 " M. and I. has opened at sixty-five." 
 
 Mr Capper leant back in his chair and stretched him- 
 self. Charles took out his eyeglass and began to polish 
 it with his handkerchief. The movements of both men 
 were dictated by their nerves. 
 
 " What does that mean to me, Mr Capper — approxi- 
 mately, of course ? "" 
 
 " It means, my dear sir, that youVe making a great 
 deal of money as fast as ever you can make it. The last 
 block of shares that Marsh bought for you last night 
 was at sixty-two and a half. If you assume that all you^'e 
 bought cost that figure — and of course we know that 
 they\'e cost you all sorts of prices, from twenty-nine and 
 a half up — then you've made — oh ! I don't know what 
 youVe made. But with a jump of three and a half since 
 last night, you've obviously made — since then, and on 
 paper, you understand, for heaven only knows what '11 
 happen when you start selling all your shares ! — over a 
 million dollars — about a couple of hundred thousand 
 pounds." 
 
 Charles had to light a cigarette. He realised that Mr 
 Capper didn't like his smoking, but he couldn't help that. 
 It was a relief to his nerves. He'd added the two hundred 
 thousand pounds to the sum he'd arrived at in his bed- 
 room that morning. 
 
 " It really looks as if there isn't going to be a break 
 just now, anyhow : doesn't it, Mr Capper ? " 
 
 " Yes, it does." Mr Capper was laconic. 
 
 " Well, you say that Mr Murphy is making up my 
 account — a list of my purchases, I suppose. It'll be ready 
 in an hour or so, I hope. I don't think it's good for my 
 
CHARLES RECEIVES A CABLE 317 
 
 nerves to stop here, and, anyhow, I'm interrupting 
 business " 
 
 " Not at all ; stop here as long as you like," Mr Capper 
 broke in. " I'd very much rather you were here, as a 
 matter of fact." 
 
 " No, I guess I'd better go and look at something. You 
 see, if I stopped I might be tempted to buy some more 
 — and I don't believe you'd approve of that. I'll go along 
 now, and I'll be back before twelve, and then we'll really 
 decide — if you'll be good enough to help me — what I'd 
 better do." 
 
 It was certainly better to go out and to look at New 
 York than to stop in Mr Capper's rather stuffy room 
 and to continue the nerve-racking business of waiting 
 Mr Murphy's announcements. Charles felt that a whole 
 morning of that kind of excitement would finish him 
 entirely. It was not only that he felt the excitement, but 
 there was also the necessity of hiding that he felt it. To 
 make dollars at each tick of the clock was all very well in 
 theory, but when it was complicated by the additional 
 fact that at any moment the skein of money that was 
 being wound so quickly might begin to unwind with 
 even greater velocity, it became altogether too wearing. 
 All the same, to spend a couple of hours looking at a 
 place in which for the moment you take no interest, 
 having a great, an absorbing, interest elsewhere, is not 
 easy. So Charles found. And it wasn't till the first hour 
 was over that it occurred to him that it was at least 
 possible that there might be a cable from Paris at his 
 hotel. He had looked for one in the morning both 
 before breakfast and before coming out, and, not finding 
 
3i8 CAVIARE 
 
 it, had come unhappily to the conclusion that the only 
 news he was likely to get would arrive by post. Some 
 day — next week, perhaps. However, he'd go now and see. 
 There was a cable. It could only be from Alison or 
 her father. No one else knew his address. So he reflected 
 as he tore it open. It was not short, anyhow. 
 
 "Father with me again very ill he wishes very 
 much to see you it is asking great deal but if you 
 are not settled should be infinitely grateful if you 
 could come tell no one of illness. — A.'" 
 
 Charles had read the cable as he walked to his room. 
 It took him no moment to make up his mind and to plan 
 his course of action. He summoned a valet by telephone. 
 " Pack all my things, please ; perhaps I shall be leaving 
 to-night." Then, hurrying to the hall, he examined the 
 board which announces the departures of the European 
 boats. It was eleven o'clock on a Thursday ; a French 
 boat had gone early that morning, and there was nothing 
 else till Saturday — a slow English and a fast German 
 boat : both would leave at midday. Satisfying himself 
 that there was no supplement to this information, he 
 countermanded the packing and hurried down-town to 
 the office of the German line. Yes, their boat went 
 Saturday. Under normal conditions it would land him in 
 Paris very late on Friday. And he could be given a single 
 room. Not that the quality of accommodation mattered. 
 Charles would have gone steerage or as a stoker rather 
 than be left behind. He tried to express this zeal in 
 answering Alison's request in the cable he now sent, but 
 it wasn't possible to say very much without saying too 
 much. 
 
CHARLES RECEIVES A CABLE 319 
 
 "Cable received after to-day's boat had gone 
 shall come by next Prinzessm Mathilde Saturday 
 arrive Paris about midnight to-morrow week will 
 telegraph hour from Cherbourg. Charles Caerleon.*" 
 
 Concern for Mr Gorham's health was swallowed up in 
 Charles''s mind with delight that he was to see Alison in 
 a little over seven days, and in satisfaction at all the 
 implications of her father''s wish for his presence. 
 
 Charles remembered now his business duties. For the 
 last hour he'd entirely forgotten Michigan and Illinois, 
 Mr Capper, and all the problems connected with his 
 newly acquired interests. They'd be more difficult than 
 ever now that in forty-eight hours he'd be showing his 
 heels to New York. He wondered whether he could 
 extricate himself in that space of time from the complica- 
 tions which Mr Capper had foreshadowed. He'd require 
 all the broker's good nature, and unhappily he found 
 that he'd begun this last stage by irritating him by 
 arriving not " before twelve " as he'd promised, but 
 several minutes after. Michigan and Illinois were still 
 soaring, but Mr Capper was peevish. The attention that 
 he'd had to give to Charles's commissions was taking him 
 away from his other interests. He ought, he remembered, 
 to have cabled to London yesterday about a Turner 
 which one of his correspondents had just unearthed. 
 Very likely now it would be too late. So he answered 
 Charles's greeting and his inquiry as to how things stood 
 with an unhappy blankness of expression : 
 " Your stock's still going up, Mr Caerleon." 
 " Hurrah ! " Charles answered : he felt a little like a 
 schoolboy ; " let's get to business, then. Send out and sell 
 
320 CAVIARE 
 
 the odd forty-five thousand as quick as ever you can, and 
 after tha^s done we'll talk. It'll be easier when we've 
 only got the round figure to bother about it, won't it ? " 
 
 Mr Murphy appeared and was told of Charles's wishes. 
 " The sale of a big block like that's sure to affect the 
 market," was his comment ; " however, we'll let 'em go 
 in lots." 
 
 " Your beautiful clock there, Mr Capper — a museum 
 piece, surely — says it's twenty-five to one. It's time for 
 lunch. I wish you'd do something for me. It's my birth- 
 day to-day. I've just remembered. You're about the only 
 man I know in New York. Come and have lunch with 
 me. It'll celebrate my coming of age and also the way in 
 which your Michigan and Illinois has responded to an 
 appeal from the old country. Now, now, please don't 
 say ' no.' I'll tell you a secret. It's about the only chance 
 you'll have. I'm going the day after to-morrow — no, not 
 West, but back to Europe. You see, I only came over to 
 buy Michigan and Illinois and to see your skyscrapers — 
 and to avoid coming-of-age celebrations in England. I've 
 heard lots about your Waldorf Hotel. Let's get a taxi 
 and go up there. We can be back in an hour and a half. 
 And when we get back we can sell all my other stock if 
 the market hasn't gone to blazes. Anyhow, we'll have to 
 sell ; I want to take the swag away on Saturday." 
 
 Mr Capper, gasped, and would have protested, but 
 Charles, who incidentally, I should mention, had not 
 drunk a cocktail or anything else of an alcoholic nature 
 since dinner on the previous evening, anticipated his 
 movements by handing him his hat and overcoat. " I've 
 only got forty-seven hours," he added ; " I can't spend 
 
CHARLES RECEIVES A CABLE 321 
 
 a couple of them better than in finding out what terra- 
 pin's like." 
 
 "Oh, if ifs terrapin you want," Mr Capper said, 
 " we'd better telephone to them to have it ready " ; and 
 as he wasn't going to let his office know of his sudden 
 midday excursion into the extra-business world, he rang 
 up at once, ordered a table in half an hour for Mr 
 Osgood Capper, and said that the terrapin was to be 
 prepared in some special manner which Charles didn't 
 catch. 
 
 " I'm so glad you can come," Charles said. " I've re- 
 membered my birthday just in time ; the terrapin'll be 
 on the table at about the exact minute, allowing for 
 difference of time, that my old nurse told me I made my 
 first appearance in the world. So it'll be a regular bean- 
 feast." 
 
 As mad as a hatter, Mr Capper thought. But the 
 fact that Charles, in spite of a certain assuredness of 
 manner and maturity of expression, was only just twenty- 
 one, explained a great deal. It was a good thing that 
 he hadn't started their acquaintance by telling the broker 
 he was under age. If he had, Mr Capper would certainly 
 have refused to deal for him. 
 
 21 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 BEGINS WITH A RETURN TO WALL STREET, AND ENDS IN THE 
 DAVISON HOUSEHOLD 
 
 ACOMING-OF-AGE birthday has to be cele- 
 brated with all kinds of rites. Both Mr Capper 
 and Charles were the better for their lunch, and 
 very much more cheerful when they got back to Wall 
 Street. Mr Murphy had a very good report to give. The 
 sale of the forty -five thousand hadn't had any evil effect. 
 They'd been snapped up quickly enough by brokers 
 who looked as if they'd be glad of more. No, of course 
 they'd employed another firm to do the selling. After 
 buying so much yesterday it wouldn't do for them to be 
 the first to start on the other tack. The price was still 
 going up — more slowly, naturally. 
 
 Charles had refused to talk business over lunch. 
 They'd talked American politics and the state of the 
 picture market, and he'd told Mr Capper why he thought 
 he ought now to go to London and to buy Steers, and 
 Sickerts, Rothensteins, Johns and Epsteins, rather than 
 continue in his present path. Mr Capper had been 
 brought to agreement and had promised to come and 
 stop with Charles in the spring, and to study under his 
 
ENDS IN THE DAVISON HOUSEHOLD 323 
 direction these new movements with which at present 
 he wasn't entirely in sympathy. The phrases are his. 
 But now, with Mr Murphy waiting for further instruc- 
 tions, it wasn't any longer possible to evade the necessity 
 of planning out a campaign. 
 
 " Supposing you tell Mr Murphy to sell another thirty 
 thousand as discreetly as he can, but as quickly, and 
 then to come back and report," Charles suggested. 
 " We'll have settled things by then, I expect." 
 Mr Capper agreed, and Mr Murphy went off, 
 Charles couldn't quite see what there was to talk 
 about. He explained to Mr Capper he'd just got to go 
 Saturday, and that he'd like to have all his stock sold 
 in time for him to take back with him a cheque for his 
 profit. Was that possible .? Mr Capper said it was 
 possible enough, but that it would want a lot of doing. 
 The influence of 1904 Pol Roger had helped to alter his 
 views. He was really rather sorry now that his client 
 was selling out. He'd like to have seen him stop in the 
 market until he'd made a sum which would cause his 
 present generous winnings to seem a mere modest 
 pittance. It was possible. Someone was trying to get 
 control of Michigan and Illinois, and the stock might go 
 to anything. There might be a repetition of the Northern 
 Securities scramble. Besides, he was beginning to like 
 Charles. He was sorry he was going back so soon. Still, 
 he would no doubt be as stubborn in his determination 
 to sell as he had been in his orders to buy. It was only 
 a question of how much stock the market could absorb 
 without the price going down. They talked round and 
 round the subject. 
 
384 CAVIARE 
 
 There wasn't much immediate fear about the market, 
 apparently. Mr Murphy came back earlier than was 
 expected to say that the thirty thousand were gone, and 
 that although naturally the rise was much less rapid, it 
 was still continuing. He didn't see why they shouldn't 
 sell another fifty thousand before the Exchange closed. 
 
 " You'll have to do better than that. Get some more 
 help. You've got to try to get rid of another hundred 
 thousand." 
 
 But Mr Murphy was gone. And it'll save time if I 
 say at once that when the Exchange closed that evening 
 Charles had only a hundred and twenty thousand left of 
 his holding, and it was understood that the energetic 
 Mr Marsh was to get rid of as many of these as possible 
 directly the Exchange opened the next morning. 
 
 Mr Capper's last words to Charles were that he hoped 
 with luck to have cleaned up the whole transaction 
 before midday to-morrow — and if that wasn't possible, at 
 least by two o'clock. " I'll have my car down here then, 
 anyhow, and if things have gone as I hope they will, I'll 
 take you for a couple of hours' joy ride. There are a lot 
 of things that you ought to see before you leave New 
 York. I'll show you Central Park and General Grant's 
 tomb anyway." 
 
 Charles left Wall Street without any idea of his 
 position, even his approximate position, with regard to 
 the stock he'd bought or sold. He did know that if the 
 rest of his stock, the last hundred and twenty thousand, 
 was sold as easily as what had gone during the day, he'd 
 come out an enormous winner ; but he'd long ago given 
 up the attempt to calculate transaction by transaction 
 
ENDS IN THE DAVISON HOUSEHOLD 325 
 where he stood. He didn't as a matter of fact know at 
 what prices most of his stock had been bought, and all 
 he knew of the prices at which it had since been sold was 
 that Mr Capper and Mr Murphy had considered them 
 satisfactory, and that, as Michigan and Illinois was still 
 going up, it was certain that he couldn't be worse ofF 
 than his rapid paper calculations of the morning had 
 indicated. He'd be able to go back to Paris with the 
 knowledge that Mr Gorham could no longer say to him 
 that he hadn't enough even to keep up Alison's cars. 
 Why, he could even undertake to pay those dressmakers' 
 bills which had formed part of the dark horizon of 
 her father's conversation. 
 
 However, the size of the fortune he was making didn't 
 affect very greatly Charles's thoughts. They were in 
 Paris, or on the steamer that was to take him there. 
 Even though Mr Gorham were very ill, he'd be able to 
 hear his visitor's decision not to wait another day without 
 telling Alison all he was carrying in his heart. Charles 
 had promised to wait a year, but surely his new fortune, 
 added to Mr Gorham's reverses, made reason enough for 
 his claiming to have his promise handed back to him. 
 
 It was exactly eight o'clock when Charles arrived at 
 Mr Davison's house in 79th Street. He found himself 
 the first. 
 
 " Dinner's at quarter past eight," his host said, " but 
 I asked you to come early that we might have a few 
 minutes to talk. I haven't been idle in your affair : I've 
 been inquiring about work for you, and I think I can 
 get you a start. However, I won't say anything more 
 
336 CAVIARE 
 
 about that for a day or two, when I shall know for 
 
 certain/^ 
 
 It was at this point that Charles ought, of course, to 
 have disclosed the fact that he would be gone in less 
 than two days. He didn't refrain from any design. He'd 
 seize a later opportunity of telling his host. 
 
 Mr Davison, like so many business men in America and 
 in England, was a very diff'erent person in his office, 
 where his attitude was that of a man whom everyone 
 would if possible take advantage of, and in his house, 
 where he could dispense lordly hospitality, and where, 
 in fact, he was really happy if his guests were pleased 
 and amused. He was telling Charles about his fellow 
 guests. It was quite a large party. What he was told 
 didn't hold Charles's attention very much until he heard 
 a familiar name : " And then there's a man whom I 
 daresay you've heard of in England. He's always in the 
 papers. And he's a friend of Mr Gorham's, too — Mr 
 Pyle. I must remember to tell him you're here with a 
 letter from Gorham. He's got a very ferocious reputa- 
 tion in Wall Street. ' Old Man Pyle,' they call him, but 
 he's young enough when it comes to work." 
 
 At this point Mrs Davison appeared, very gentle, very 
 beautiful, like a fine piece of old lace. She had had no 
 children, and she knew more about Mr Davison's business 
 than he knew himself. She did everything by calculation, 
 but her greatest success was that nobody suspected it 
 except her husband. She made Charles at home at once ; 
 she made him feel that she was sincerely glad to entertain 
 him. As indeed she was. She told him whom he was to 
 take in to dinner and who would sit on his other side ; 
 
ENDS IN THE DAVISON HOUSEHOLD 327 
 she told him that she'd ordered certain American dishes 
 specially for him ; she insisted on his drinking a cock- 
 tail of which she said only her own coloured butler had 
 the recipe — and then she left him to welcome other 
 guests, and hardly spoke to him again all the evening. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 " OLD MAN PYLE " 
 
 IT was Dostoievsky who remarked that, as a general 
 rule, people, even the wicked, are much more 
 naive and simple-hearted than we suppose. And 
 we ourselves are too, he goes on to say. It is the 
 second half of the Russian's thought that is most worth 
 pondering, but it was of the first that Charles was 
 reminded as he looked at " Old Man Pyle,""' who had 
 taken a seat almost opposite to him at the table before 
 he had succeeded in identifying him. An old gentleman, 
 slightly prognathous, clean-shaven, soft-eyed, white- 
 haired, with exquisite hands, of which evidently he took 
 such care that they looked years younger than his face. 
 Such a man wouldn''t be a church-w^arden in England. 
 But why " Old Man " Pyle ? And why the ferocious 
 reputation ? Charles knew he did ferocious things. 
 Kidnapping wasn't a gentle business. But he didn't 
 look ferocious. 
 
 Mr Davison, glancing round the table, saw Charles's 
 inspection of Mr Pyle. " Oh, Pyle, I want you to know 
 
 Mr Caerleon. He only arrived from England yesterday. 
 
 328 
 
"OLD MAN PYLE" 329 
 
 He's a friend of Gorham"'s — in fact, I owe it to Gorham 
 that he's here — so you ought to know one another." 
 
 The old man laid down his soup spoon and looked 
 benevolently at Charles. " I am always glad to meet 
 any friend of Mr Gorham 's," he said with a pleasant 
 smile. Charles looked for, but couldn't discern, the 
 slightest sign of embarrassment. Mr Pyle continued : 
 " And I hope we may see something of one another. 
 When did you last see my old friend Cyrus ? I hope he 
 was well." 
 
 Charles thought he'd test the old gentleman's com- 
 placency. "Oh, I was with him in Paris a fortnight 
 ago — he was very well, I think, when I saw him last." 
 
 " In Paris ! I knew he was in Europe. I've a good 
 mind to run over to Europe for a fortnight, myself. 
 Cyrus and I could have a high old time together," and 
 Mr Pyle turned to the lady on the right. . He hadn't 
 moved a hair ; nor his mouth nor his eyes had quivered. 
 Perhaps, after all, Mr Gorham was wrong, and " Old Man 
 Pyle " was innocent of his kidnapping. It had only been 
 a surmise. But no doubt he didn't have that ferocious 
 reputation for nothing. 
 
 From both of his neighbours Charles received invita- 
 tions before they rose from dinner — not the cold and 
 polite invitations that one gets in England, but invita- 
 tions that show that one's hosts are prepared to take 
 trouble. First they found out what he was interested in, 
 and then they undertook to show it to him. As he 
 hadn't told Mr Davison that he was leaving for Europe, 
 he hesitated to excuse himself on that ground. But he 
 had to. " I shall send round to Mrs Havemeyer's house 
 
330 CAVIARE 
 
 to-moiTow morning and get permission for you to see 
 her pictures," the lady he had taken in told him. " If 
 our Metropolitan Museum Manets have disappointed 
 you, you ought to see those she has as quickly as pos- 
 sible. And youll be going to Boston, of course. Fll see 
 that Mrs Jack Gardner asks you to see her things." 
 
 " Ah, I shall have to come back to New York to avail 
 myself of all your kindness and hospitality," Charles said, 
 " for I'm sailing on Saturday. No, I hadn't expected 
 to, but I had a cable to-day that makes it impossible for 
 me to stop." 
 
 "Then Vm afraid you won't see Boston this trip. 
 But there's no reason why, if you can spare the time, 
 you shouldn't see the Havemeyer collection to-morrow. 
 What are you doing at lunch? Are you engaged.?" 
 She also was genuinely interested in pictures, and she 
 was anxious that her new acquaintance should take back 
 with him some knowledge of what America had to show. 
 
 Charles explained that he might not be free, that 
 business had the first claim on his time. 
 
 " Oh, that's all right : we American women are used 
 to that. I'll expect you at half-past eleven if you don't 
 telephone. We can see the pictures before lunch, and 
 you can get away before two. Henry'll come too, won't 
 you, Henry ? " and she called to her husband, who was 
 doing his social duty further down the table. "Mr 
 Caerleon is coming to see the Havemeyer pictures with 
 me to-morrow. You'll come along, won't you ? " Henry 
 said he would. 
 
 " It's a good thing for him to leave his old work every 
 now and then," the lady added. 
 
"OLD MAN PYLE" 331 
 
 Charles's other neighbour, as he couldn't do anything 
 towards showing him America, fell back on another 
 device for helping the stranger. "If you must go Satur- 
 day, you must, I suppose. What boat ? " 
 
 Charles told her. 
 
 " Prinzessin Mathilde. That's the Bremen-New York 
 line, isn't it .? I thought so. My brother's one of the 
 American directors of it — or something of the kind. I 
 shall write and tell him you're sailing, and he'll see 
 you're made comfortable. Perhaps they'll give you the 
 bridal suite ! Anyhow, he'll be so glad if he can be of 
 use. And you must come and see us when you come 
 back." 
 
 Charles asked her if she knew the Gorhams. 
 
 " Of Philadelphia ? Oh yes — very well. Or rather, I 
 know Alison Gorham very well : her father's like all 
 American men, too busy to catch more than a glimpse 
 of But Alison's the nicest girl I know — and one of the 
 prettiest." 
 
 Charles was happy now. Nor Manet nor the prospects 
 of his having a good voyage could drag him away from 
 the subject of Miss Gorham's qualities. Poor young man ! 
 he gave himself away completely. 
 
 When the women had left the table, Mr Pyle came 
 round and sat down next to Charles. He wanted to know 
 more about his old friend. And his daughter ^ How was 
 she ? He is either a consummate old fox, Charles thought, 
 or else he is very much misjudged. Obviously, if Charles 
 had been with Mr Gorham in Paris a fortnight ago, he 
 must almost certainly be aware of his disappearance ; 
 and yet Mr Pyle was ambling happily along with his 
 
332 CAVIARE 
 
 conversation as if nothing of the kind had ever occurred 
 to his friend. Charles thought he''d have another shot at 
 destroying his equanimity. 
 
 *' I met another man in Paris I think you know — 
 Gilder was his name.'' 
 
 Mr Pyle smiled. " Oh, Gilder— Tim Gilder.^ So he's in 
 Paris too. Yes, I know him well — too well, I think some- 
 times. He's nobody's enemy — I needn't finish the tag. 
 He's almost in my office — of it, but not in it. If I knew 
 you better, I'd ask — but it wouldn't be fair. I hope he's 
 enjoying himself, poor fellow ....?" 
 
 " You can't tell if a man's enjoying himself, but he 
 certainly wasn't being dull on the evening I saw him — I 
 can answer for that." 
 
 " Perhaps that's what's the matter with Gilder. He's 
 too busy. He can't leave things alone. He'd do business 
 at his father's funeral, and he wouldn't be in Paris 
 more than a couple of hours before he'd got something 
 humming." 
 
 " So I should suppose " Charles was interrupted 
 
 by his host's movement. He was glad enough to get 
 away from Mr Pyle. He felt he was unevenly matched, 
 handicapped. His antagonist was too experienced. 
 
 Later in the evening the buccaneer came his way again. 
 " Mr Caerleon, if you're going to be in New York, come 
 and see me. I'm a bachelor, but I can show you a few 
 things. Any friend of Gorham's is a friend of mine. I'd 
 like you to come and spend a day or two — a week-end, 
 perhaps — in my country place." 
 
 Charles excused himself, explaining that he'd been 
 called back to Europe by the illness of a relation — nearly 
 
"OLD MAN PYLE" 333 
 
 enough true : Mr Gorham was to be a relation, surely. 
 And as he looked at Mr Pyle he congratulated himself 
 that no one was likely to have told him that, in addition 
 to having been mixed up in the futile protection of Mr 
 Gorham in Paris, he'd got mixed up in Michigan and 
 Illinois, that he was interfering with the Pyle plans. He 
 was quite sure now in his own mind that the old gentle- 
 man had dictated the Gorham kidnapping. He'd felt 
 it in his bones ever since he'd broached the name of 
 Gilder. And he was equally sure that, if it were known 
 that he had butted into the Michigan and Illinois 
 gamble, he'd be made to suffer for it. It was lucky for 
 Charles that Mr Capper's indiscretion had gone no 
 further than Mr Davison, who had told his old friend 
 that the Englishman was a friend of Gorham's, but had 
 kept locked up in his own breast the one fact that was 
 really answerable for his presence there that night. 
 And for once Mr Pyle's aids had failed him. He rather 
 prided himself on his intelligence system. But Charles's 
 buying of Michigan and Illinois had synchronised so 
 exactly with that of the brokers who were buying for 
 the Pyle faction, that, kept in the dark as they always 
 were, they had leapt to the conclusion that the Capper 
 men were playing the same game in the same interests. 
 The amount of stock that had been bought in the day 
 ought to have told Mr Pyle ; but for once he'd been 
 careless. He hadn't compared the total of shares dealt in 
 with his brokers' returns. With Gorham out of action, 
 why should he fear any opposition ? All the shares 
 would be his. It was only a question of how long it 
 would take him to get them and the exact price he'd 
 
334 CAVIARE 
 
 have to pay. For a day or two at least he and his 
 associates would have the market to themselves. And 
 we know that Charles was already getting out of it — so 
 Mr Pyle wasn't so very wrong. 
 
 Charles walked away from the Davison house, mar- 
 velling. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES SEARCHES FOR 
 THE LITTLE BLUE TURBAX 
 
 CHARLES woke, turned on his pillow, said to 
 himself that to-morrow would be Saturday and 
 that he'd be on the sea, and telephoned for a 
 paper to be sent up to his room. Michigan and Illinois 
 was still the feature, and it was still going ahead. That 
 he'd made a fortune, and not a small one, was no longer 
 in question. But he'd have to hustle. The Capper firm 
 had to sell the rest of his shares ; he had to see the 
 Havemeyer pictures ; he had to uphold the honour and 
 dignity of his country at lunch ; he had to go for a joy 
 ride — whatever that might mean — with Mr Capper ; and 
 he had to make sure of closing his account and getting a 
 cheque. It'd be a busy day. 
 
 He found Mr Capper optimistic, and told him he'd 
 met " Old Man Pyle " at dinner. " That's all right," he 
 was told, " as long as he didn't know you were long of 
 M. and I. But anyhow, you're almost out. Wait till one 
 o'clock, and you will be altogether out if the market 
 opens as it closed. You'll know then how you stand. 
 
 MS 
 
336 CAVIARE 
 
 And we'll have our ride. I've told the car to come at 
 
 quarter-past two." 
 
 That day Charles did everything that he'd set out in 
 the hope of doing, save one thing, and that the most 
 important. He had the satisfaction of hearing that all 
 his holding of Michigan and Illinois had passed into 
 other hands ; he'd seen, and had been amazed at the 
 pictures ; he'd lunched with the uxorious Henry and his 
 amiable wife; he learnt what a "joy ride" meant, and 
 he'd seen squirrels in Central Park ; he'd closed his 
 account with Messrs Capper, Zanthro and Company — 
 but he had not succeeded in lifting a cheque. That was 
 reserved for to-morrow. Mr Capper assured him there 
 would be time and to spare. And indeed, learning at 
 length what profit he had made, Charles was not surprised 
 that it was not a mere question of putting a signature 
 to a piece of paper. In the first place, the amount, when 
 translated into English currency, was one million three 
 hundred and forty-three thousand pounds seventeen 
 shillings and fourpence, and in the second, Charles, even 
 before he knew and had been numbed by the extent of 
 his fortune, had asked Mr Capper if he might have it in 
 a banker's cheque on London. 
 
 " Certainly," Mr Capper had replied ; " a Morgan 
 cheque'U be good enough for you, I daresay. Your boat 
 goes at midday. Come here at ten ; we'll go round and 
 get the cheque, and I'll take you across to the boat." Mr 
 Capper was genuinely sorry at Charles's departure, but 
 he was cheerful. A really big gamble had been carried 
 through,his client had got away with it, and his own profit 
 in the way of commissions was not inconsiderable. And 
 
SEARCH FOR THE LITTLE BLUE TURBAN 337 
 perhaps the best of it was that, large as Charles's profit 
 was, no one seemed to have tumbled to the inwardness of 
 his transactions. Mr Capper's own office staff had been 
 trained in discretion, and while Mr Davison had been 
 told of the beginnings of the affair, he'd been warned 
 not to let it go any further. As we know, he hadn't said 
 anything to Mr Pyle. If Mr Capper had one regret, 
 it was that Charles hadn't carried the affair further. 
 It appeared that he could have done so with success. 
 Michigan and Illinois, in spite of all his unloading, was 
 still crescent. Mr Capper smiled grimly when he thought 
 what a hole he could have made in the pool's profits if 
 he'd had Charles's information — whatever it was — had 
 believed in it equally, and had had his nerve. Then he'd 
 have been able to buy Rembrandts and Velasquez. He'd 
 have been able to hold his own in any market. 
 
 And now Charles nerved himself to do something 
 that he ought to have done before. Again and again 
 he'd thought of his little French acquaintance at the 
 Frontenac, and again and again he'd dismissed the 
 thought. What was he to do ? What could he do ? 
 To retrieve the past was impossible. So he had said to 
 himself on the morrow of the evening he had spent 
 with her. He wanted to help her ; he would do 
 all that he could to pluck her from the burning. But 
 how ? 
 
 Three days ago he had seen her — for the second time 
 in his life ; and she had appealed strangely to him. He 
 remembered how for many nights after his first meeting 
 with her at the Abbaye, and although he had never 
 thought of her in his waking houi-s, that little yellow 
 
338 CAVIARE 
 
 head, crowned with a blue turban, had come into his 
 dreams. Her tenderness on the night he had dined with 
 her, her care for him, her eyes misty with the dreams 
 which she did not need to confess, her little motion of 
 sympathy and affection when she had covered his hand 
 with her own — all came back to him. And he had put 
 off looking for her again ; and now to-day, because she 
 had liked him, because he had befriended her, he was a 
 millionaire. How much more difficult did this make his 
 duty ! True, he had listened to her, had even left her, 
 with no kind of intention of taking the tip she had 
 given him. Nor would he have done so if the next day 
 at breakfast he had not chanced to read that the stock 
 she had recommended had become the feature of the 
 market. 
 
 Charles argued with himself. How much in thanks 
 did he owe her ? In very fact, to what extent was he 
 her debtor ? It was a problem that would want a colder 
 brain than his to answer. Knowing not at all what he 
 would say to her, what thanks he should render, but 
 knowing too that he must go to her and that he must 
 thank her, and that he must find some way to help her, 
 he left Wall Street and walked, thinking rather of the 
 girl he was going to see than of the fortune he had 
 made, up and across town to Washington Square and 
 the Hotel Frontenac, 
 
 Idiot ! The word was Charles's, and it was addressed to 
 himself. Here he was on the very steps of the hotel, and 
 it came to his mind in a flash that he had no idea for 
 whom to ask. Neither in Paris, nor three nights ago here 
 in New York, had he thought to ask her name, had he in- 
 
SEARCH FOR THE LITTLE BLUE TURBAN 339 
 deed cared to ask it. What, he had thought — if he had 
 thought at all — would it matter ? Only by chance would 
 he ever see her again. However, in French hotels they 
 are used to such dilemmas, and when Charles, going 
 through into the restaurant, found the maitre cThotel 
 who had waited on him, dropped a two-dollar bill into 
 his palm and asked vaguely if the lady with whom he 
 had dined three nights previously had been lunching, 
 he was answered as if his question were of the most 
 ordinary and matter-of-fact kind. 
 
 " Ah, Madame Finot. No, monsieur, Madame Finot 
 left for Europe yesterday in the Provence."" 
 
 Charles felt more than disappointment. "Are you 
 quite sure ? " Perhaps, he thought, she might have gone 
 west to join her friend in Chicago. 
 
 " Quite sure, monsieur : I waited always myself on 
 Madame, and she bade me good-bye." 
 
 There was little else to be said. Charles went to the 
 bureau. " Madame Finot left an address for her mail ? 
 If I give you a letter for her, will it be forwarded ? " 
 
 "No, monsieur, we have no address for the mail, 
 either of Monsieur or Madame Finot. Monsieur Finot 
 did not live here all the time, and he had no mail here. 
 I did ask," the clerk added, " for an address, but I was 
 told that nothing would come." He knew his world. 
 
 Charles went away. How could he find her.'' He 
 couldn't send a wireless to the ship. No doubt Monsieur 
 Finot was with her, and the arrival of a marconigram 
 might have unhappy consequences. His heart ached. 
 " Poor handful of bright spring-water " — whose very 
 name he didn't know. He might search and search the 
 
340 CAVIARE 
 
 world which held such figures, and, without a clearer 
 description than he could give, he might search in vain. 
 Fate had decided this parting, and fate might keep 
 them apart. He could look for her in Paris, at Monte 
 Carlo or Nice or Vienna. Some day he would meet her 
 again, perhaps. . . . 
 
 That night, his last in New York, Charles had no 
 heart for amusement, for distraction. His nerves were 
 ajangle. His very certainty of fortune, and of Alison, 
 was insufficient to cheer his spirit. Perhaps he was worn 
 out. 
 
CHAFfER XVII 
 
 IN WHICH A MANET IS BOUGHT, MR CAPPER IS PLEASED AND 
 DISAPPOINTED, AND MR CARLINE GETS CHARLESES PRIVILEGES 
 
 THE next morning as he breakfasted Charles 
 was called again to the telephone. It was 
 the lady who had so generously taken the 
 comfort of his voyage on her shoulders. Unfortunately 
 her brother couldn't come down to the dock : he'd had 
 to go out of town over the week-end, but Charles was, 
 he'd told her, not to worry at all. He'd find everything 
 fixed up on board. He could just go to his stateroom 
 and not bother. Her brother had assured her he should 
 have all the comfort the ship could afford : he was to 
 have a better room, and his chair on deck and his place 
 at table were being reserved. " Where'd you find an 
 Englishwoman who'd take all that trouble for a compara- 
 tive stranger .'* " Charles asked himself as he thanked her. 
 The quality, and the quantity, and the generosity of 
 American hospitality again amazed him. 
 
 He was with Mr Capper at the exact moment that 
 had been arranged, and Mr Capper was ready for him. 
 " Don't take off your coat ; we'll go round at once," and 
 
342 CAVIARE 
 
 they stepped across the street and walked up half a 
 block. Charles found himself entering the house of 
 J. S. Morgan and Company, and in exchange for certain 
 documents a very antique but no doubt very capable 
 gentleman handed him a cheque for the enormous figure 
 that he'd anticipated — a cheque which he had, being 
 still a business man, the forethought to have crossed 
 and marked " Messrs Coutts and Company, Payee's a/c." 
 Curious, he thought, but this place where the American 
 republic is managed — more or less — is rather more old- 
 fashioned than a London private bank. 
 
 " Can"'t I see Mr Morgan ? "'"' he asked Mr Capper as 
 they left the counter. 
 
 "No, you can-t,"" Mr Capper replied. "You don't 
 see Mr Morgan by asking." 
 
 " Oh, don't you ? " Charles replied. " I thought all 
 your business men were so accessible, and that all you 
 had to do was to walk right in." 
 
 Mr Capper could only reply that it wasn't so at the 
 corner of Wall and Broad. 
 
 " Another illusion gone " ; and Charles looked at his 
 watch. It wasn't half-past ten. His things were to meet 
 him at the boat. He had nothing to do. 
 
 " Now, Mr Capper, I'm going to complete my good 
 work. I want you to have a good painting " 
 
 " What ! " Mr Capper thought he'd not heard aright. 
 
 " I want you to have a good painting — no, that's a 
 joke : Fm pulling your leg. I mean, I want you to have 
 a good painting to remember me by. We've got time. 
 You're coming up town with me and we're going to 
 Durand-Ruel's, and if they've got anything that I think'U 
 
CHARLES IS DONE OUT OF HIS PRIVILEGES 343 
 do you good and help you on the right path, I''m going 
 to give it you with a nice inscription — ' from a grateful 
 client,"' or something of that kind." 
 
 Mr Capper flushed with pleasure. IVe said before that 
 he had got to like his eccentric client. 
 
 The dealer had many pictures which Charles would 
 have liked for himself, but, watching Mr Capper out of 
 the comer of his eye, he could see that very few of them 
 would have been welcome in that gentleman's collection. 
 Nor had Mr Capper any idea of their commercial value. 
 He thought they were worth a few hundred dollars apiece. 
 He distinguished not at all between Monet and Sisley, 
 Cezanne and Maufra. "French Impressionists," all of 
 them ; " they evade all problems of drawing," he wanted 
 to say. It was a phrase he'd picked up. He thought 
 it had the sanction of Sir William Richmond. And 
 Charles was amused at the comedy. He had half a mind 
 to give his victim a large Degas, of a woman whose face 
 it is impossible to see : her head is bent, one sees its top, 
 and her hair flowing down and being combed with a 
 lifted and clumsy arm. But Mr Capper had served him 
 honestly. It would be a shame to give him anything 
 at once so fine and so difficult. But there were two 
 Manets, and one, of a beggar musician, Charles chose. 
 Mr Capper did know that Manet was really a painter. So 
 far his knowledge carried him. But his sympathies were 
 not aroused. The picture left him cold. Charles saw that. 
 Some day or other he'd find out that it was a worth- 
 while painting all right. Then he'd be surprised. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry, Mr Capper, but you'll have to 
 help me out here. I can't ask this gentleman to change 
 
344 CAVIARE 
 
 Messrs Morgan's cheque. Besides, ifs crossed. Youll 
 have to go bail for me. They'll no doubt be willing to 
 send the painting to your office, and you can tell 'em I'm 
 honest and that I can be trusted to pay for it. They'll 
 send the bill to me in London." 
 
 Later, let me add, in the following week, when Charles 
 was on the sea, Mr Capper showed the picture to a few 
 friends on whose judgment he placed some weight. They 
 all thought his young friend might have been more 
 generous. However, that his client should have given it 
 him gave the broker in the meantime a great deal of 
 satisfaction. He was quite sorry when the bugle sounded 
 and he had to leave Charles on the steamer. As he did 
 so, and as their hands parted, Charles leant forward and 
 whispered in his ear : " I've another secret. It wasn't 
 really my birthday yesterday, you know : I'm more than 
 twenty-one." 
 
 Charles sought his stateroom. He had left America. 
 He was on his way back to the world, the life he knew. 
 He'd visited New York ; he'd done his best to do as Mr 
 Gorham had suggested — and he'd failed. He couldn't 
 pretend he'd done any work. He'd used his wits — a 
 little — and that was all he could say. But that he'd done 
 before — often, in Mount Street, in Paris, at Monte Carlo. 
 It wasn't enough. His one defence, if defence proved 
 necessary, was that he'd been prepared to stop where 
 he was. Events had moved rapidly, and he'd made a 
 fortune ; but it wasn't altogether his fault. Chance had 
 favoured him. Fortune, though, or no fortune, he'd been 
 called back. Mr Gorham wanted him, and he'd answered 
 
CHARLES IS DONE OUT OF HIS PRIVILEGES 345 
 his summons. After all, they hadn't given him much 
 chance to work. And yet, if Mr Davison had taken him 
 more seriously at that first interview, and had really 
 tried to help, then perhaps, in spite of his preoccupation 
 on that morning with Michigan and Illinois, he'd never 
 have gone into Wall Street. Things would be very 
 different now in that case ! 
 
 Back in his room Charles sat down on his bed. It 
 wouldn't be worth while to unpack. He'd be moved 
 directly, and if he did get out his things they'd only get 
 in a muddle. He wished the purser would hurry up. 
 They were outside the harbour now, and the boat was 
 pitching a good deal in a head wind. Charles was a fair 
 sailor, but still. . . . After a while he lay down, covered 
 himself with a rug, and went to sleep. When he awoke 
 it was already dark. And it was nearly time for dinner. 
 He felt better, and he got up and dressed. He didn't 
 call this delay in telling him where his new room 
 was exactly satisfactory management. It was a German 
 boat. 
 
 Ready for dinner, he made his way down to the saloon. 
 He'd been told to leave the question of his place at table. 
 He sought the head steward, to whom the name of 
 Caerleon didn't seem to mean much. He was given a 
 card with the number of his place. It was near the foot 
 of the long centre table. Soon his neighbours joined him. 
 Charles was dismayed to find that they were all Germans, 
 and all, as far as he could make out, drummers. They 
 returned his bow and afterwards ignored him. Perhaps 
 they didn't talk English. The meal passed without 
 Charles uttering a word. He was still a little under the 
 
346 CAVIARE 
 
 weather and wanted some soup and a wing of chicken, 
 but to reach the latter course he had, he found, by the 
 rules of this German line, to wait through all the other 
 courses. And each course was timed by a piece of music. 
 It would begin, and the stewards would march in, carry- 
 ing dishes. Charles supposed he'd have to stand it for 
 six nights. But surely the special instructions for his 
 comfort hadn't yet filtered down to the dining saloon. 
 He'd no doubt be better off to-morrow, and with people 
 who talked something else than the harsh gutturals of 
 the Fatherland. It isn't a language, Charles said rudely 
 to himself; it's a disease. His chicken finished, he bowed 
 again to his neighbours and went at once to his room. 
 He didn't feel well enough to seek the purser. Besides, 
 he expected to find that while he had listened to Wagner 
 and Brahms and Lehar his room had been changed. It 
 hadn't. He went to bed. 
 
 For a few minutes the next morning he lay half awake 
 thinking that one day on the homeward journey was 
 nearly over. This very week he'd see Alison. Then he 
 thought he'd declare himself to the purser. Why be 
 uncomfortable when all he had to do was to ask for 
 something better ? His stateroom was horribly small 
 and crowded and stuffy, and the porthole couldn't be 
 opened because of the waves. Ringing for the steward, 
 he sent a card to the purser requesting him to spare a 
 minute or two of his time. An assistant came to him. 
 The purser himself was sorry, but he could not leave his 
 office. What could he do for Mr Caerleon ? Charles felt 
 that something had gone awi'y. 
 
 " I asked if I could see the purser himself, because I 
 
CHARLES IS DONE OUT OF HIS PRIVILEGES 347 
 understood before coming on board that I was to have 
 a better room, and that I was to be made rather more 
 comfortable than I had at first expected." 
 
 The assistant had heard that tale before. He bowed, 
 and said he would inquire. " Mr Caerleon is the name, 
 is it not .'' " He pronounced it Kay-er-leon. 
 
 Charles turned on his side and tried to go to sleep 
 again. The more time he could spend in unconscious- 
 ness the quicker the days would pass. But he was soon 
 aroused. This time the purser himself. A very high 
 ober-purser (If that means nothing at all, blame Charles : 
 it represents his attempt to reproduce in all its Teutonic 
 dignity the greatness of the officer who now waited on 
 him). 
 
 " I'm afraid, Mr Caerleon, there's been a mistake — oh ! 
 a terrible mistake." 
 
 " Whafs happened .'' Surely the boat goes to Cher- 
 bourg ? I'm not on the way round the Horn by any 
 chance, am I ? " 
 
 " Yes, the boat goes to Cherbourg." The purser didn't 
 smile. The situation was far too serious. " They tele- 
 phoned from the office the night before we sailed to say 
 I was to take special care, as I thought, of Mr Carline. 
 There is a Mr Carline on board. He's often sailed with 
 us. He's a gentleman in the drug business. They said I 
 was to see that he got a room and a bathroom on B 
 deck, and a good chair, and a good place at table. He's 
 got them. It's the mistake of the clerk for not making 
 the name clear. Now what can I do .^^ I can't very well 
 take him out of the stateroom he's been given. And I 
 can't take his place at table away from him. If only I'd 
 
348 CAVIARE 
 
 known before ! '' The poor man was genuinely concerned. 
 
 As well he might be, thought Charles. 
 
 " And now ? There isn''t another empty room on the 
 ship, except one or two much inferior to this, and there 
 isn't a place at table to which I can alter you." The 
 more he talked the more guttural, the more German he 
 became. 
 
 " Well, it can't be helped,"" Charles said. " Anyway, 
 Fve got what I paid for — only I do wish my table com- 
 panions talked something else than German." 
 
 A little later, as he walked up and down the deck, 
 trying to work out from the previous twenty-four hours' 
 run at what time they should get to Cherbourg, he 
 heard his name called from one of the near-by chairs. 
 Turning, he saw an old friend, an attache at the British 
 Embassy at Washington. He dropped into an empty 
 place at his side. 
 
 " What have you been doing in America .'' " his friend 
 asked. 
 
 Charles had to lie with readiness. " Oh, I went over 
 for three days to do a little business. I only arrived 
 last Wednesday. I'd intended to look you up if I'd 
 stopped any longer." 
 
 " I saw your name on the list, but I couldn't suppose 
 it was you. I don't associate you with America, some- 
 how. But where's your room i And where are you at 
 table? I wish I'd known. We could have been to- 
 gether." 
 
 Charles told him about the room and the place that 
 some other passenger had secured. His friend slapped 
 his knee, and went off into a peal of laughter. " Oh, 
 
CHARLES IS DONE OUT OF HIS PRIVILEGES 349 
 that w good ! I shan't forget that in a hurry. We've 
 been wondering why they put the dullest ass that ever 
 sailed up at our end of the table. Carline's his name, 
 all right. He sits between me and von Donigsmark, and 
 he's got absolutely nothing to say. Sugden — you know : 
 one of those men who make millions a year packing 
 meat — is opposite us. He's got the captain's suite, and 
 last night we went up to his sitting-room to talk and 
 play bridge. It's a sort of party we're to have every 
 day — it'll be a haven of refuge. Sugden asked your 
 namesake — he couldn't help it exactly, as he was there 
 right in the middle of us at every meal — and the man 
 came up after dinner. He couldn't play bridge, and he 
 didn't know what we were talking about. Never in my 
 life did I see a more absolute fish out of water." And 
 he went off into laughter again. 
 
 Still, even one friend helped the voyage to pass. 
 Charles's neighbours at table continued to behave as if 
 English was a language they understood not at all. They 
 talked across him and behind him and over him — but 
 they ignored him. Of course he was an Englishman. 
 The voyage was unconscionably dull, but it came to an 
 end. And long as it seemed, even the run to Paris from 
 Cherbourg could not last for ever. Charles reached the 
 Chatham at half-past two on the morning of Friday. 
 He had left it not three weeks ago. " I never expected 
 to come back a millionaire," he said to himself ; " I'll 
 just have to be responsible now. Old Pyeman shall re- 
 spect me at last ! " 
 
CHAPITER XVIII 
 
 IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES FINDS MR GORHAM 
 AND BEGINS TO UKRAVEL A VERY TANGLED SKEIX 
 
 C">|HARLES had warned Miss Gorham of his 
 arrival. He had telegraphed from Cherbourg 
 ^ that he'd call at the Meurice at ten o'clock — 
 or earlier, if she sent for him. Otherwise, anything before 
 ten would hardly be decent. 
 
 Miss Gorham didn't send for hira, but she sent him 
 a letter. He got it as he dressed. 
 
 " Dear Mr Cakrleon, — I can never thank you 
 enough for your kindness to my father in coming 
 back from New York at his wish. I want to warn 
 you that he is very ill. He cannot talk to you. He 
 cannot speak or even move. When he came back 
 last week and read his letters and cables he was 
 terribly upset ; but he seemed to pull himself to- 
 gether, and I thought he'd soon be himself again. 
 But almost at once another cable came, and after 
 a little while he had a stroke. The doctors seem 
 to have little hope. I will tell you more when I see 
 you. Although he can't talk, he can understand — 
 but he gets so easily tired. Your name was the 
 last word he uttered. — Yours faithfully 
 
 " Alison Gouham." 
 
CHARLES UNRAVELS A VERY TANGLED SKEIN 351 
 Charles put the letter down, went to the window and 
 threw it open. What did it mean ? What news from 
 America ? What news could have broken a warrior so 
 redoubtable as Mr Gorham had seemed ? And Miss 
 Gorham said " last week." Nothing had happened in 
 America when he was there — and nothing had happened 
 since. All important news had reached the Prinzessm 
 Mathilde day by day. 
 
 Another knock at his door. Another letter. " A lady 
 has just left this," the chasseur announced, and, inter- 
 rogated, added that she had gone. The handwriting on 
 the envelope was different from that of which he had 
 been thinking. Alison's handwriting — which he'd just 
 seen for the first time — was like its maker. Who else 
 could know of his arrival ? It was Mrs Phillips : he might 
 have guessed. 
 
 "Dear Mr Caerleon, — Please do not tell Miss 
 Gorham Pve written this to you. I'm leaving it at 
 your hotel myself, to be sure you get it. I want only 
 to say one thing. She is terribly overwrought. She 
 is hardly mistress of herself, although she has borne 
 up wonderfully since her father's illness began. I 
 am afraid of a breakdown. She ivill do everything 
 herself. Do all you can to find out what it is that 
 Mr Gorham wants of you — he wants something : he 
 asked for you again and again — and then, if you can, 
 grant his wish. I may not have the opportunity of 
 talking to you. Please forgive the officiousness of 
 
 " Constance Phillips." 
 
 What had happened ? What could be the trouble 
 behind these letters .^ What could Mr Gorham, even Mr 
 Gorham so stricken, want of him ? However, it was no 
 
352 CAVIARE 
 
 use to ask himself these questions. And it wouldn''t do 
 to answer Mrs Phillips. Alison might see the letter and 
 recognise his hand. If only the kind woman had waited 
 after delivering the letter, that he might have talked to 
 her and found what really had brought her friend down. 
 
 Ten o''clock struck as Charles gave his name to the 
 Meurice porter. Alison came to him at once. " I have 
 been waiting anxiously for you, Mr Caerleon,'" and she 
 gave him her hand so freely and with so open a welcome 
 that his heart warmed. He looked hard at her. She had 
 altered. Something was lost, but more had been gained. 
 There had always been something a little too sensible 
 about Alison, a little too self-reliant and contained. Her 
 father had said that she spent his money, and that she 
 didn't trouble herself or know how it was got. That, 
 perhaps, had been the keynote of her character. It had 
 come from ignorance of the world. She had been shielded 
 from trouble. Things that harass and strengthen had 
 been kept from her. Now she was in Paris almost alone, 
 and for the first time she was learning that life wasn't a 
 fair for her amusement. And she had gained in beauty. 
 
 There was little Charles could say. " I was very happy. 
 Miss Gorham, to come directly I heard that your father 
 wanted me. You see, I never should have gone away. 
 Please tell me. I know nothing save that your father is 
 so ill — I only know what your letter told me." 
 
 " I don't know very much myself, Mr Caerleon."" 
 
 Charles could see that she was near to breaking down. 
 Those black shadows Ijeneath her eyes told of sleepless 
 nights. 
 
 Alison continued : " When you went. Poppa was still 
 
CHARLES UNRAVELS A VERY TANGLED SKEIN 353 
 away, wasn't he ? We knew — you told me, I remember — 
 that he'd been kidnapped so that he couldn't go on with 
 some business he was doing. Well, I think his enemies 
 were even more successful than he'd feared. You know, 
 he said he thought he'd be free in so many days. That, 
 apparently, was the time it'd take them to get even with 
 him and upset some plan of his. He was right. In the end 
 he was simply told he could go. They didn't even make 
 any secret of where he'd been kept. But all that doesn't 
 matter now. He came back to me and read at once his 
 letters and cables. It was about four o'clock in the after- 
 noon. He sat there and opened one after another, hardly 
 speaking to me. I watched him. They seemed to disturb 
 him greatly; but, as you know, he wasn't a man" — 
 Charles noticed the past tense — " to show what he felt 
 if he could help it." 
 
 " Did you know why he was disturbed, Miss 
 Gorham.?" 
 
 " No — but I learned. But wait. When he'd read all 
 there was, he looked at me and smiled rather oddly. 
 'They've not left me much, my dear,' he said. Then 
 he got up and walked into his own room and shut the 
 door. I could hear him moving about. A few minutes 
 later another cable came. It was the regular afternoon 
 cable. I called out to him, and he came to the door 
 and took it. I thought he looked terribly ill. You see, 
 I'm explaining everything to you, Mr Caerleon. Then 
 I heard nothing at all for a minute or two, and then 
 suddenly a fall. I knew it was Poppa. He'd fallen in 
 a heap in front of his writing-table. I thought he was 
 dead. He didn't seem to breathe. I left him and ran 
 
 83 
 
354 CAVIARE 
 
 quickly to Constance, who's only four doors down the 
 passage. She came, and then she telephoned to the 
 office to send a doctor at once. We laid Poppa on his 
 bed and loosened his collar. I could see then that he 
 was still alive. It was a French doctor. He said Poppa'd 
 had a stroke. Another doctor was sent for. And they 
 were with him over an hour, while Constance and I 
 sat in the other room. It was so, so awful. I shall never 
 forget it." 
 
 " Did you look at the cable ? Was it there still when 
 you went in ? " 
 
 "Yes. I have it upstairs. But I remember what it 
 said. It was simply, 'Price now twenty-eight five- 
 eighths.' I don't know what it means." 
 
 Charles did, of course. He realised that Mr Gorham's 
 speculations must have gone even more awry than the 
 financier had anticipated. But he wasn't allowed to 
 carry his thoughts far. 
 
 " When the doctors came in they said I was to get 
 a couple of nurses at once. I didn't : I only got one. 
 I wanted to do as much for Poppa myself as I could. 
 The nurse looks after him all day ; I stop with him at 
 night. One of the doctors stayed all the evening — till 
 midnight. He said Poppa might come to himself a 
 little— and he did, later in the evening. Oh, it was so 
 dreadful ! He lay there on the bed quite white ; all his 
 colour was gone. I was watching him, and his eyes 
 opened and he looked at me. Then he whispered — for 
 he could not speak out — ' Caerleon, I want Caerleon,' 
 and a minute later he said the same words. After that 
 — it is more than a week ago — he seemed to become 
 
CHARLES UNRAVELS A VERY TANGLED SKEIN 355 
 unconscious ; perhaps he fell asleep. And since then 
 he's been quite helpless. He can move his fingers a 
 little, and his eyes and eyelids ; but that is all. And he 
 can understand what I say to him, but not, I think, what 
 the others say. I told him you were coming directly I 
 got your cable, and he seemed to have been made 
 happier, more peaceful. He knows you are to be here 
 at half-past ten — I told him that time that I might 
 talk to you first." Alison broke off for a minute and 
 looked at Charles. " But, Mr Caerleon, I haven't thanked 
 you for coming. I don't know whether you were in New 
 York on business, but I am sure that I know no one 
 else whom I could have relied on to come at my call 
 as you did. I want you to know how grateful I am, how 
 very grateful." Her voice quivered, and Charles took 
 her hand. A hundred sentences came to his lips, but 
 he said no one of them. 
 
 " Miss Gorham, I am very happy if I can be of any 
 service to you ; my voyage was nothing." 
 
 Alison rose. " Come," she said. " Let us go up. 
 I'll go in first and tell Poppa I've brought you. Speak 
 to him clearly, and I think perhaps he'll understand you. 
 I shall leave you with him. The doctor comes at twelve." 
 
 When a few minutes later Charles was called to Mr 
 Gorham's bedside, he was shocked at the spectacle the 
 financier presented. When he'd seen him last he had 
 been ruddy and well covered. Now he was white and 
 emaciated. His hair too seemed to have dropped away. 
 His head appeared a dead thing on the pillow. Its 
 immobility terrified. 
 
356 CAVIARE 
 
 " I am sorry, Mr Gorham, you should be so ill," 
 Charles said, " but I am glad you sent for me." They 
 were alone. " Your daughter tells me you can't speak 
 yet, but that your eyes are all right. You must let me 
 find out what you want by asking questions, and you can 
 answer ' yes 'or * no ' — by closing your eyes if it's * no ' 
 you want. There is no hurry. I've all the time there is." 
 Charles looked at Mr Gorham : he fancied his eyes showed 
 appreciation and intelligence, but he could not be sure. 
 It was stupid not to have found out from Alison if there 
 was any kind of code already in operation. But he must 
 make sure that what he'd himself suggested would work. 
 
 " Do I tire you, Mr Gorham ? Now you know I'm 
 here, would you rather I came back .'' " 
 
 The eyes in that still head closed. 
 
 " I am glad," said Charles ; " and because I think that 
 more talking than is necessary will tire you, I'm going to 
 plunge straight into things. When I was here you told 
 me your enemies in New York wanted to kidnap you 
 so that they might defeat your Stock Exchange plans. 
 They've succeeded, I take it .'' " The eyes did not move. 
 " And in some way things are even worse than you ex- 
 pected they'd be .'' Yes. You risked your fortune in one 
 deal, and it's gone awry ? You learned how far wrong 
 from the cables that waited you when you got back here, 
 and specially from the last one that came just before you 
 fell ill ? You want me to read them that I may under- 
 stand ? Miss Gorham has them ? " The eyes closed. 
 "■ Then I must find them. They are in the pocket of the 
 coat you were wearing ? No ? In one of the drawers of 
 your writing-table ? Yes," 
 
CHARLES UNRAVELS A VERY TANGLED SKEIN 357 
 Charles went to the table and opened the drawers one 
 by one. Those at the top had been usurped by the nurse. 
 One at the side contained a little pile of cables. Charles 
 looked at the one on the top. It read : ' Price now thirty 
 and quarter.' And those same words, but with a difference 
 in the numerals, were in each of the cables beneath it, 
 while those sent on the days immediately following the 
 date of Mr Gorham's disappearance had additional 
 messages, commenting, mildly to begin with, and then 
 with obvious dismay, on the fact that none of the usual 
 replies had been forthcoming. At last their sender 
 seemed to have lost heart. His remonstrances ceased ; 
 he returned to the bare announcement of the state of 
 the market. 
 
 Charles looked up. " I've read all these, Mr Gorham. 
 It comes to this : you've lost your fortune, isn't that it ? 
 Practically all you have in the world ? " The eyes did 
 not move. " Then we must start from that. You know 
 I hope soon to be your son-in-law, so you must consider 
 me one of the family. To begin with, you must give me 
 back my promise — you must let me choose my own time 
 to ask your daughter." Still the eyes did not move. 
 " That, then, is understood. But if you've lost your 
 fortune, I've made one. Almost by an accident I've made 
 nearly seven million dollars since we parted. No, you 
 think I'm talking nonsense, but I'm not. Here, see " — 
 and Charles took out the Morgan cheque and held it 
 before Mr Gorham's eyes. 
 
 " I must explain. I had some money when I got to 
 New York, and a friend told me that if I bought at a 
 certain time a certain stock I'd make a lot. I did. It 
 
358 CAVIARE 
 
 went down and I was nearly cleared out, and then it 
 bounded up and never ceased going up ; I bought and 
 bought more shares with my profits, and this is the 
 
 result. It's all for Miss Gorham. Michigan and 111 " 
 
 But Mr Gorham had stirred, and his lips moved. 
 Words came from his mouth, whispered words. " Go — 
 call Alison — wait other room." 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 IN WHICH THE TAXGLE IS UNRAVELLED AND THE AMIABLE 
 CHARLES PARTS WITH FIVE MILLION DOLLARS AS IF IT 
 WERE HALF A CROWN 
 
 CHARLES was not to see Mr Gorham again that 
 morning. While he waited the doctor arrived, 
 and after a while Alison came out to say that 
 he was to go away and to come back, if he would, at 
 three. In the hours that had to pass he thought over 
 what Alison had told him and what he had managed to 
 learn from Mr Gorham himself. He felt he could recon- 
 struct what had happened to Mr Gorham with tolerable 
 accuracy and in some detail. But, curiously, to two things 
 which might have leapt to his intelligence he was blind. 
 
 Going back at the appointed hour, Charles found the 
 doctor still with Mr Gorham. He had lunched with 
 Alison. There had been developments. 
 
 " Doctor Leduc says he cannot understand the sudden 
 change that has come over Poppa since he saw him 
 yesterday. He must, he says, have had a great shock 
 again. I tell him that's impossible. I don't think you 
 can" have given him any shock, Mr Caerleon. But what- 
 ever it was, it has done him great good. You know he 
 
36o CAVIARE 
 
 spoke some words this morning to you. They were his 
 first for more than a week. Ami in other ways he's 
 better. Doctor Leduc says ifs wonderful — and he even 
 seems a little hopeful. Although, perhaps thafs only my 
 fancy. But here is Doctor Leduc." 
 
 " This is the gentleman who was with Poppa when 
 he called for me this morning, doctor." 
 
 " Indeed ! I am glad to see him. There are one or 
 two questions I want to ask. Were you — I understand 
 from Mademoiselle Gorham that you were — talking to 
 Monsieur Gorham ? Yes. Well, he asked for you just 
 after he fell ill. Had you, may I ask, any business 
 together .'' " 
 
 " Not exactly," The question was a little difficult to 
 answer. " We had talked about business, and it happened 
 that he'd explained to me something of what he was 
 doing, and then I — well, I wanted him to do something 
 for me ; but that wasn't business exactly." 
 
 Doctor Leduc's eye twinkled ; he looked shrewdly at 
 Charles. 
 
 " Can you remember at what point in your conversa- 
 tion — or, it wasn't conversation, since you must have 
 done all the talking — Monsieur Gorham altered, and 
 called for his daughter ? " 
 
 Charles tried to remember, and succeeded. "I had 
 told him of certain good fortune Fd had in America, 
 had shown him a cheque for what I had made, and — yes, 
 I remember —I had just mentioned the name of the rail- 
 way in which I'd been speculating and had made money. 
 Why, it was at its name he moved first. I recall now 
 that I didn't finish the words." 
 
CHARLES PARTS WITH FIVE MILLION DOLLARS 361 
 " Well, Mademoiselle Gorham and I have made it out 
 that it has been some business anxiety that caused her 
 father's illness, and some great loss. You may depend 
 on it, I think, that your railway had something to do 
 with it. But go to him now. He's spoken once since I 
 came, and then it was to say your name again. I told 
 him I'd fetch you as soon as I could. Talk to him. It'll 
 tire him, but that's better than his fretting. Find out 
 more if you can." 
 
 Charles fancied that Mr Gorhara's eyes followed him 
 with a greater alertness than in the morning. He took 
 up the conversation where he'd left it. 
 
 " I was telling you, Mr Gorham, of my good luck. I 
 made my money buying Michigan and Illinois shares. 
 You have something to do with that stock, haven't you?" 
 And then, as he asked and as he watched for the possible 
 closing of Mr Gorham's eyes, illumination came. Michi- 
 gan and Illinois — " Old Man Pyle " — the figures on the 
 cable forms in the drawer there — the kidnapping: of 
 course they were all connected. Michigan and Illinois 
 was evidently the railway in which Mr Gorham had been 
 operating, of which he'd told him the night they'd dined 
 together at Paillard's. Mr Gorham had been put out of 
 the way — it had been made impossible for him to support 
 the market, — and then the shares had been run down to 
 a point at which even his large fortune had been swal- 
 lowed up, and Mr Pyle and his associates had started 
 securing, or resecuring, control. That's where Charles 
 had come in. He just happened into the market at the 
 psychological moment. He'd helped run the price up, 
 and his buying must have interfered even more than Mr 
 
362 CAVIARE 
 
 Capper had thought with the Pyle operations. Why, 
 the money that Mr Gorham had lost he had made. It 
 was all clear as daylight. But he must make sure. 
 
 " Mr Gorham, I think IVe got this thing right in my 
 mind now. Close your eyes at once if Tm wrong in any- 
 thing I say "" — and he proceeded to tell the story of the 
 last fortnight as he saw it. " Now, then, I'm beginning 
 to understand, and I'm beginning to see a way in which 
 I can be of use. You've lost more than you ever thought 
 possible, Mr Gorham.'' They've just cleaned you out, 
 isn't that so .'' That last cable giving the price as twenty- 
 eight five-eighths showed you you were done for for the 
 present. But you haven't lost everything, have you ? 
 You've got something left ? " 
 
 Mr Gorham's lips shaped themselves to a " no " ; 
 perhaps he whispered the word. 
 
 "Nothing.? But you haven't lost more than you've 
 got ? What do you call it .'' — you'll be able to meet your 
 obligations ? " 
 
 This time the "no"" was unmistakable. 
 
 " Then I must find out by how much you're short. I'll 
 put it in dollars — I'm getting quite used to them ! — and 
 I'll jump a hundred thousand dollars at a time." 
 
 It was a tedious business. The end of it was that Mr 
 Gorham made clear that he was bound to fail, and that 
 the extent of his deficit would be something over five 
 million dollars. Then — and days later when he talked 
 the matter over with Alison — he came to the certainty 
 that it wasn't the loss of his fortune that had brought 
 Mr Gorham down. That he could have stood. No, what 
 had come as the one unbearable thing was that he'd lost 
 
CHARLES PARTS WITH FIVE MILLION DOLLARS 363 
 more than he could pay, that he''d be bankrupt. Not 
 even of Alison had he been thinking, although he'd 
 never provided for her. He was thinking not of her, but 
 of the name of Gorham. 
 
 And Charles, who wasn't a business man, who had 
 been until the last few days a stranger to all the con- 
 ventions of that business which was Mr Gorham 's life 
 and soul, knew, as he stood by his bedside, exactly how 
 the old man felt. It was Alison's father who was there. 
 But how simple it'd be to put the matter right. 
 
 " Mr Gorham, we can fix that. Your daughter knows 
 what I don't know — the address of your office or re- 
 presentative in New York, and of your banker. I'm going 
 out to her now. She'll send a cable to each. She'll say, 
 in the briefest possible manner, that ten days ago you 
 fell so ill that since then till to-day you've been uncon- 
 scious, but that now you're better, and that because your 
 account may want fortifying — I know that's the word in 
 England, and perhaps it's right in America too, — you are 
 cabling five million dollars from London in the morning 
 (my cheque's on London, you know), and that they're 
 to cable if they want more." " I hope to goodness they 
 won't," he added to himself. 
 
 A light seemed to come into the old man's eyes. His 
 lips moved, but no words came. And then a fresh wonder. 
 He moved his head a little, a very little. His fingers 
 opened. Charles had the feeling that they were open 
 for his. He placed his hand in the old man's and pressed 
 it. . . . 
 
 He could add nothing. " I am going now," he said. 
 " The cables will be sent at once. It's hardly morniDg 
 
3^4 CAVIARE 
 
 in New York. And then I shall speak to Miss Gorham 
 
 —Alison." 
 
 The old man's hand responded. Charles left him. 
 
 Doctor Leduc had to be told of the change in his 
 patient's condition. He went to him at once, and Charles 
 had to explain to Alison the necessity of cabling. She 
 was too tired, too weary to understand or question. 
 Besides, she took it for granted that if Charles was 
 cabling that five million dollars were being sent, they 
 were being sent by her father's instructions, and she 
 supposed that Charles had to go to London to get them. 
 She was grateful, but she didn't try to realise what it 
 all meant. They wrote the cables together. 
 
 Going out — for he would trust them to no one else, — 
 Charles met Mrs Phillips at the entrance of the hotel. 
 He told her something of what had happened, and of 
 Mr Gorham's improvement, and he told her rather 
 proudly that he'd been able, he thought, to find out 
 what Mr Gorham wanted and to do it for him. 
 
 " And now, Mrs Phillips, since you've treated me with 
 so much confidence, I want you to do something for me, 
 and I want to return your confidence if you'll let me. I 
 have to go to London to-night for Mr Gorham. I shall 
 come back by the eleven train to-morrow ; but I shan't 
 be here in the hotel till eight o'clock. I want to see 
 Miss Gorham alone before I go. She tells me she hasn't 
 been out for days. The doctor is going to stop there, 
 he said, for some hours. I shall be back in a few minutes : 
 I'm just sending some cables. Won't you make Miss 
 Gorham be ready to go out with me — if only for half 
 an hour. We will walk in the Tuileries Gardens. Please 
 
CHARLES PARTS WITH FIVE MILLION DOLLARS 365 
 do that for me. You can. I need not tell you why I 
 want it — I think you know." 
 
 Mrs Phillips held out her hand. " Mr Caerleon, I do 
 know — and 111 do all I can ; and I do wish you the 
 happiness you want, indeed I do."" 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 HAPPY LOVE IN THE TUILERIES GARDENS 
 
 CHARLES found Alison waiting for him, dressed 
 for a walk. "It is a good idea of yours, Mr 
 Caerleon. Fll be very glad to go out. It's the 
 first time I've had the heart for it. But youVe done 
 Poppa so much good. He looks so different. Doctor 
 Leduc won't leave him ; but he's delighted. Where shall 
 we go ? I can be out a whole hour." 
 
 Still a little of the winter sun shone on the leaping 
 fountains of the Tuileries Gardens and on the wheeling 
 pigeons of the Cour du Louvre and gilded the roofs 
 on the Quai d'Orsay when Charles and Alison walked 
 together alone for the first time of their friendship — the 
 first time alone, save on that dark morning in February 
 when they had walked down in search of aid from the 
 rue Lepic to the Place Pigalle. They spoke hardly at 
 all. Charles was summoning his courage, saying to him- 
 self that he'd enjoy the first half- hour before he put his 
 fate to the test, that perhaps he would do it when they 
 got to that point there, or to that further on. Suddenly 
 Alison turned to him. 
 
 " Mr Caerleon, I feel you are a friend both of Poppa's 
 
 366 
 
HAPPY LOVE IN THE TUILERIES GARDENS 367 
 and of mine. I want to ask you a question. You needn't 
 answer it if you don't want to, but if you do answer it, 
 I'm sure you'll tell me the truth. You must forgive my 
 being so odd and so curious, as you may think — but it 
 isn't curiosity." She wouldn't have been able to explain 
 what it was, poor girl, if it wasn't curiosity ; but then 
 she hadn't considered the implications of the question 
 she had for Charles. Even if she had, she might have 
 asked it. American girls don't beat about the bush. 
 
 " You may ask me any question you like, Miss Gorham, 
 and I shall be very proud to answer it with absolute 
 frankness." 
 
 "Mr Caerleon, I want to know whether on that 
 evening on which Mrs Phillips and I saw you off to 
 Monte Carlo you were alone ? " 
 
 " I don't quite understand. Miss Gorham." 
 
 " I mean, did you travel to Monte Carlo by yourself.? " 
 
 Surprise at the question made Charles's "No, I 
 didn't" sound rather awkward. Alison's heart sank. 
 But she was going to make sure that there was no 
 mistake or misunderstanding when Charles interrupted 
 her. 
 
 "I should have travelled by myself if it hadn't 
 chanced that I shared a compartment with a man I'd 
 met some months before — a man called Bain. We struck 
 up a friendship then, and continued it at Monte Carlo 
 afterwards. But please tell me why you ask. Do you 
 know him, by any chance ? " 
 
 " No, Mr Caerleon, I don't. But surely you had other 
 friends on the train and at Monte Carlo ? " 
 
 "I didn't see anyone else I knew on the train. At 
 
368 CAVIARE 
 
 Monte Carlo I'd lots of friends, but I did my best to 
 avoid them. I hardly spoke to a soul except Bain and 
 one or two people he knew. But do please tell me, if 
 you don't mind, the reason of your questions." 
 
 Alison felt she in turn had to be frank. "I asked 
 because I saw in the train — and it was that that made 
 me take Constance away without waiting for you to 
 start — the same girl whom I had seen two or three 
 nights before at the Abbaye de Theleme and whom 
 Poppa and I knew you'd been talking to. I thought 
 you'd arranged to meet her on that train, and I was 
 angry, hurt if you like, that you should have allowed 
 me to come to see you off in those circumstances." 
 
 "Thank you. Miss Gorham, for telling me. May I 
 explain ? I didn't see that girl in the train ; I had no 
 idea she was there." He was on the point of adding 
 that he believed she'd got out at Marseilles, but he had 
 enough sense to stop the words in time. "I don't think 
 she was at Monte Carlo. As for what happened at the 
 Abbaye, it was an accident " ; and very briefly he told 
 Alison what had occurred on that evening, adding : " I 
 didn't and don't even know her name, to say nothing 
 of her address." 
 
 Another, an older, woman might have asked him if 
 he had seen the girl since. Luckily Alison didn't. 
 Charles was relieved. He had experience enough to 
 know that that way danger lay, and an even greater 
 misunderstanding. And he had, in effect, nothing to 
 conceal. The more need to conceal it, wisdom told him. 
 But how he hated having to conceal anything. Poor 
 yellow bead! So good, so harmless, and destined for 
 
HAPPY LOVE IN THE TUILERIES GARDENS 369 
 so much trouble. Alison looked frankly at him, " I'm 
 glad — and you'll forgive me." For a little while they 
 walked in silence. 
 
 " Miss Gorham, is it too cold for us to sit down for 
 a minute or two ? I too have something I want to ask 
 you.'"' They had walked to and fro, and were now near 
 the round pond on which the little Parisians sail their 
 little boats. They found unoccupied chairs under a 
 statue of Diana. 
 
 Charles turned and looked at his companion. Alison, 
 stirring uneasily, quivered as if the night were cold. 
 
 " Miss Gorham, I have something to ask you. You 
 must answer me as frankly as I answered you. Won't 
 you take the right to ask me questions for all your life ? 
 I love you — I have loved you ever since I saw you come 
 into the Cafe de Paris three weeks ago. All, all my 
 thoughts have been for you. Can you care for me ? " 
 
 Alison had turned away her face. She was looking at 
 the ground, at the little hole she was digging in the 
 gravel with the tip of her umbrella. A minute passed. 
 
 " Alison ...."" Charles knew no more to say. 
 
 And then slowly her right hand, a shy brown mouse 
 of a hand, came from the muff that lay on her lap and 
 held itself open for his. 
 
 But even before he could take it she had drawn it 
 away. Now she turned her face towards him. He covdd 
 see that she had been crying. Tears were still in her 
 eyes. But they were happy tears. 
 
 " No, dear," she said. " I do not want to give you 
 my hand gloved. It is too much yours for that." Her 
 glove was oflF by now, and her fingers answered to his. 
 
 24 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 A CLEARING UP 
 
 I HAVE known odd people, financiers, bankers, men 
 who were in the habit of dealing with large sums, 
 who have been terrified at the fact that they have 
 had at some unusual moment actually to caiTy money, real 
 money, in their pockets — a few hundred pounds, I mean. 
 They seem to imagine that the lynx-eyed criminal 
 detects its presence, and they've told me they've bolted 
 along Threadneedle Street, run into the Tube, have 
 tried to sit by themselves in the carriage, and haven't 
 breathed till the burden has been handed over. In 
 America, where every man carries a roll — if he can afford 
 to — such fear doesn't exist, I suppose. 
 
 In this matter Charles had the American habit. The 
 truth was that he hadn't a nervous mind, and yet it did 
 occur to him the next morning when he let himself in 
 to his lonely flat at half-past six and cleared his pockets 
 prior to taking a bath and changing his clothes, that he 
 might well have been worried at carrying about Messrs 
 J. S. Morgan and Company's cheque for over a million. 
 There was no need now, however, to fret about that. It 
 was there safe enough in his letter-case. Of course it 
 
A CLEARING UP SJi 
 
 might have been stolen, but it hadn't been. And even 
 if it had, he supposed the thief wouldn't have been able 
 to do anything with it : he had done his best to render 
 it unnegotiable. 
 
 Once more he had to hustle. Alison and he the 
 previous evening had gone back to the hotel from the 
 Tuileries Gardens, and he'd left her at the door. He 
 was to return to Paris on the eleven o'clock train, 
 and to dine with her that evening — with her and Mrs 
 Phillips ; and what had happened between them was to 
 be no secret. In the meantime banks open at nine o'clock ; 
 the eleven train goes from Victoria — a good long way 
 away from the Strand. The operation of clearing a cheque 
 for such a sum and arranging for the cabling of a million 
 pounds was likely to make a big hole in a couple of hours. 
 But Charles caught his train. 
 
 At the Meurice at eight o'clock he learned that Mr 
 Gorham was much better. Charles alone had the key 
 to the reason. He saw no necessity for giving it either 
 to Alison or to her friend. Indeed, not yet — if ever — 
 did he realise what he had done. He'd given away — 
 pitched away, some of his friends would tell him if they 
 knew — which they never would — a million pounds. For 
 a moment, let me confess, he wondered whether he'd 
 bought Mr Gorham's acquiescence in his suit with this 
 timely assistance. His good sense told him better. Mr 
 Gorham had asked for his return from America, he 
 felt sure, just because, believing himself to be stricken 
 fatally, he wanted Charles to win, and to shield, his 
 daughter. He hadn't known, he couldn't have suspected, 
 Charles's changed fortunes. And after all, what was the 
 
372 CAVIARE 
 
 million ? It was that two hundred pounds that he'd 
 taken to Monte Carlo three weeks ago. And he had 
 still more money lying at his bank than he had ever 
 imagined himself having, more than he could use. But 
 again, Mr Gorham's reverses would, it was likely, require 
 more financing : he'd said he was more than five million 
 dollars short. Perhaps, after all, not so much would be 
 left when all the old man's anxieties were cleared away. 
 
 Not that evening was Charles to see Mr Gorham. 
 The old man had been better, and he'd looked easier all 
 day. He had even spoken a few words to Alison. Now 
 he was sleeping. The nurse was with him. He would 
 get back his speech. Doctor Leduc said, and he would get 
 back some command of his limbs, but always he would 
 be a cripple ; he would never be able to walk. " His 
 recovery is marvellous. Never have I knovm such a case. 
 I would have sworn that he would never speak again." 
 
 The dinner was a happy one — oh, how much happier 
 than that other they had taken, all three together, at 
 the same table on the day Mr Gorham disappeared ! 
 Mrs Phillips had ordered some white roses for the 
 occasion, and one of them Alison extracted and gave 
 to Charles for his button-hole. " My first gift to you, 
 dear," she said. It was a moment of joy. Under cover of 
 the table he seized her hand, and when she withdrew it 
 for its proper work her finger sparkled with the ring he 
 had made time to get her in London. Mrs Phillips was 
 almost as happy as they were themselves. They were 
 three children, and perhaps they did not think very much 
 of the old man upstairs. He would not have had it 
 otherwise. 
 
A CLEARING UP 373 
 
 In the morning the cable that Charles feared arrived. 
 He didn't have the anxiety of opening it himself. It had 
 come addressed to Alison, and, having opened it, she sent 
 it on to Charles with a brief note saying that as he was 
 arranging her father's affairs, she'd better let him have it. 
 And her father was better. And would he come as soon 
 as ever he could. And would he — please — take her out 
 to lunch. " We have, dear, so much to talk of." Then 
 the cable. It amounted to a plain statement that the 
 five million dollars was insufficient to cover Mr Gorham's 
 liabilities by another million and a half; it might be less; 
 luckily it was certain that it couldn't be more. Charles 
 attended to the message at once. He'd remained a business 
 man. Anticipating this call, he'd arranged a code with 
 Messrs Coutts, and he was able to telegraph to them to 
 cable the money in order that it might be in New York 
 when the day began. " I can tell Mr Gorham directly, 
 and then he and I can forget Michigan and Illinois." 
 He had no regrets. That huge sum had come in such a 
 way that he had never realised its existence, had never 
 handled it even in his imagination. Besides, even when 
 one other deduction was made, there'd be enough left to 
 buy a house and to furnish it, and perhaps even to 
 invest something against that future that young lovers 
 contemplate with so little care. 
 
 And that other deduction ? It was bound up with the 
 one preoccupation that had never left Charles for more 
 than an hour since the moment he had failed to find his 
 little French friend at the Hotel Frontenac. Something, 
 something he must do for her. He must find her — now, 
 or later. At the moment, perhaps, she was prosperous, 
 
374 CAVIARE 
 
 happy in her way. But how long would such happiness 
 last ? How long, indeed ? Health goes, and youth. But 
 how could he shield her ? He could not, indeed, be sure 
 of finding her. That he must do before it was too late. 
 Already he had tried — in vain. From the Meurice over- 
 night he had gone — a strange errand, he knew, to follow 
 after such a dinner — to the Abbaye. Perhaps she might 
 be there. But no. Neither Albert nor his lieutenant 
 knew her from his description. Charles was persistent. 
 He''d insisted on seeing whether on that evening when 
 he and the Gorhams had supped together, a table had 
 not been reserved in some name which would enable her 
 to be identified and traced. It was fruitless. And he 
 had spent uselessly several louis in following certain 
 clues gained from the list of the Provence passengers, 
 who had sailed to and from New York when she had 
 sailed. Certainly the name of Finot didn't appear any- 
 where. 
 
 Still, it could only be a question of time. So Charles 
 now set to work to make provision against the moment 
 when they should meet. He had discovered that to buy 
 for a girl of say twenty-four an annuity of twenty- 
 five thousand francs would cost twenty-two thousand 
 pounds. That sum now he put aside. In a few weeks he 
 would have a search made for her. Perhaps he would 
 advertise. He would take advice. It would, he supposed, 
 be necessary that he should see her once — once only. He 
 would tell her of the provision he had made for her ; he 
 would thank her ; that would be all. 
 
 And soon he would tell Alison. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 IN WHICH THE AMIABLE CHARLES IS TOLD TO FORGET RESTAU- 
 RANTS, TRAVEL, NEW YORK, PARIS AND APPARENTLY 
 
 SUCCEEDS 
 
 WHAT more is there to add ? Very little. 
 Extricated from his difficulties, Mr Gorham 
 recovered rapidly — to a point. But his place 
 was a long chair, and he who had been so \agorous did 
 everything with the aid of a nurse. Always he was grate- 
 ful to Charles, but he yielded to his wish that Alison 
 shouldn't know how his recovery had been brought about. 
 He talked little, and that with difficulty. " I want," he 
 said, " to rest. No, I won't go back to America. Alison 
 shall go when she will, but she shall go without me. 
 There I was a master ; I won't go back a cripple, to be 
 pointed out as the man who was Cyrus K. Gorham." 
 
 But Alison had no wish either to go back to Phila- 
 delphia — for the present, at least — or to leave her father. 
 " You will let him live with us," she said to Charles. 
 " Perhaps, dear, he won't be here so very long. Cannot 
 we go and live in the country ? Cannot we have a small 
 house by the sea, and a garden, and a boat ? Let us 
 forget New York and Paris, restaurants, travel. Let us 
 be quiet." 
 
376 CAVIARE 
 
 And Charles was content. When all his own debts 
 had been paid, he had, as he had hoped, money for a 
 house — and to spare ; and he had another nine hundred 
 a year to add to his income. Partly for old sake's sake, 
 partly because he was able to satisfy himself that it was 
 a perfectly sound security, and in spite of his determina- 
 tion to forget Michigan and Illinois, he'd invested what 
 capital all his deductions had left him in the first bonds 
 of that railroad. They gave a good return. 
 
 Their house was at Helford — on the Helford River — 
 a cottage with its rose-filled garden running down to 
 the river. He had had it modernised. An American 
 architect had done it — with reverence, and success. 
 Among the other things that Charles had brought back 
 from New York was a determination to employ an 
 American architect if ever he built a house, and a de- 
 termination that that architect should provide a bath- 
 room for each chief bedroom. It cost a deuce of a lot, 
 but he was very proud of the result ! Also he did carry 
 out his determination to have the New York American 
 every day. Alison sniffed at it and laughed at him ; 
 Mr Gorham refused to look at it —and read it regularly 
 in secret. 
 
 It was a day in June. Charles had ridden into Fal- 
 mouth and had come back rather earlier than had been 
 expected. Mr Gorham had been wheeled out into the 
 little terrace, and there in the shade, amid clambering 
 raesembryanthemums, Charles found him reading the 
 despised sheet. 
 
 " I've caught you, sir.'' 
 
NO MORE RESTAURANTS, NO MORE TRAVEL 377 
 " It was a name on the page that attracted me," Mr 
 Gorham replied, " or I wouldn't have touched the paper. 
 Do you remember Mr Rolker and his Italian prince son- 
 in-law ? Well, the joung man won't live in America any 
 more. He's bringing suit against his wife because she 
 declares in her turn that she won't live in Italy. I said 
 that night at Paillard's that Rolker was a fool. I've 
 done better than Rolker, my boy ; but " — and his eyes 
 twinkled — " I said the same evening that I didn't think 
 you could ever do any real work ; and I was right in that 
 too ! " 
 
 It was the longest speech Mr Gorham had made. 
 Charles turned to Alison, who came at that moment to 
 welcome him, put his arm about her shoulders, and 
 laughed. 
 
 " Dear father-in-law, you didn't make many mistakes : 
 perhaps you were right about me ; I daresay you had 
 reason. But I have Alison." 
 
 THE END 
 
 PBIMTES BT NBILL AND CO., LTD., XDINBUBOa 
 
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