Chapter XIX Protective Measures
“Fool!” muttered Lawrence, as he passed down the corridor toward the ballroom. “If that was meant as a joke, it was a poor one.”
Reaching one of the entrances to the ballroom, he hesitated. He had not the faintest desire to return and take part in that scene of festivity. He was tired of being pestered and having to talk and make himself agreeable. He wanted to get away and be let alone, so very swiftly he resolved to hunt up Mrs. Hamersley, and take his leave as gracefully as he could.
He found the lady after some trouble, told her that he was not feeling very fit—which was quite true—and said good night. Securing his things in the coat room, he made haste to take the elevator downstairs.
But, once on the steps of the building, with the cold wind blowing against his heated face, he paused, irresolute.
Where should he go? What could he find to take his mind from the disappointment he seemed unable to shake off? It was scarcely half past twelve, and he had never felt less sleepy. The idea of going back to his rooms and tossing restlessly about for hours, with only his thoughts to keep him company, was intolerable.
As he waited, undecided, the doors behind him were thrust suddenly open, and two young fellows issued forth precipitately. One of them was singing a popular song, to which the other beat time on the marble pavement with his stick, laughing boisterously at frequent intervals.
As Lawrence drew aside to let them pass, the song ceased instantly, and a pair of arms were flung about his neck with an unexpectedness and force which made him stagger back a pace or two.
“Li’l’ Barry!” exclaimed the youth, with maudlin joyousness. “M’ long-los’ college chum! Lemme give you good hug!”
The flash of annoyance which Lawrence had felt at first gave place instantly to a thrill of pleasure as he recognized Reggie Minturn, one of his classmates, whom he had not seen in months.
“Hel-lo, Reg!” he cried, removing the arms gently, but firmly, from his shoulders, and shaking the chap’s hand heartily. “What in the world are you up to, leaving the dance so early?”
Minturn, still gripping his hand, teetered gently back and forth on his heels, regarding Lawrence with a wide stare of preternatural gravity.
“Child’s play,” he presently announced solemnly. “Jack ’n’ I want some ‘citement. You know Jack? No, course not. Jack, this’s my frien’—very dear frien’. Wantche know—Mister—er—Barry. Shake han’s.”
The other individual, still chuckling inanely, took Barry’s hand, and shook it until Minturn forcibly intervened.
“That’s ’nough,” he said, linking his arm with Lawrence’s. “You’re comin’ with us, Barry. We goin’ to have some ’citement. Dean’s, you know.”
Barry started slightly, and a faint frown furrowed his forehead. Dean’s was one of the most select and high-class gambling houses in the city, and he pictured to himself the alacrity with which these two helpless chaps would be stripped of their last cent.
“What do you want to go there for?” he asked quietly. “Why don’t you come around to my place and have a game of poker? It’s much nearer.”
Minturn shook his head stubbornly. “Do’ want poker,” he announced. “Wan’ roulette. Come on!”
For a second Lawrence hesitated. Then, realizing his helplessness, he gave a resigned shrug, and allowed himself to be dragged out to where a taxi waited at the curb. If he could not keep the two away from the gambling joint, at least he might prevent their losing very much.
They piled into the car, with much laughter, and, when Minturn had given a certain address to the chauffeur, and settled down for a second, Barry proceeded to put his plan into operation.
“Look here, Reggie,” he said suddenly, “I can’t go into Dean’s without any money.”
“No money!” exclaimed the inebriated one jocosely. “Ha, ha! Tha’sh easy. We’ll lend you some—eh, Jack? Show your roll.”
Still chuckling, he reached his pocket with some difficulty, and produced a crumpled handful of yellowbacks which he thrust at Barry.
“Take all you want, ol’ man,” he announced. “Lot’s more where that came from, eh, Jack?”
That Barry could readily believe. The elder Minturn was almost sinfully wealthy, and his only son had hitherto led an existence as carefree and lacking in responsibility as the proverbial lily of the field. A swift glance told Barry that there was close to seven hundred dollars in the roll, mostly in fifties and twenties, with the single exception of one five-hundred-dollar bill. Without hesitation Lawrence took the latter, and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.
“This’ll do for me,” he said carelessly, handing the remainder back.
From the other youth’s generously extended bill case he extracted two one-hundred-dollar yellowbacks, leaving less than half that amount. After that he settled back, much more relieved. Of course, it was really none of his business, but he hated to see them simply throwing all that money away, even if they could afford it.
On a cross street, not far from Park Avenue, the chauffeur drew up before an unpretentious-looking brownstone front, and the party rolled out of the taxi. While his two companions were fumbling in their pockets, Lawrence paid the man, who drove off at once.
There was an instant expostulation, which Barry silenced, good-naturedly, following with a last attempt to dissuade the other two from their purpose. As he expected, it was quite useless. Both were fixed in their resolve to have some excitement, and Minturn led the way up the steps with firm, but somewhat swaying, gravity.
After a considerable delay, and a very careful inspection of them by an attendant, they were admitted to the lower hallway, which differed not a whit from the hall of any ordinary private house. Here Minturn and his companion were recognized, and, both vouching for Lawrence, they were allowed to proceed upstairs.
The second floor consisted of two large rooms furnished with great taste and luxury, and provided with all sorts of gambling paraphernalia. They were both fairly well filled with men, mostly in evening clothes; and, as he followed his companions into the one containing the roulette wheels, Barry smiled a little at the realization of how completely his mind was being distracted.
In spite of Minturn’s insistence that he chance his money with them, Lawrence managed to put it off by saying that he preferred rouge et noir. He waited until they were well started at the wheel, and quite oblivious to everything save the excitement of betting, then he strolled off into the other room.
Here quite a crowd was gathered about the board. Evidently the playing was of a sort to attract unusual attention, and Barry made his way forward to a place from which he had a fair view of the table.
Half a dozen men were sitting there, betting at irregular intervals, but the attention of the onlookers seemed given entirely to one individual, whom Lawrence could not quite see from where he stood. A bit of smooth black hair, a portion of a low forehead, and now and again a hand stretching out to place his bets, was all that came within the Harvard fellow’s vision.
It was enough, however, to show him very swiftly that the man, whoever he was, was plunging heavily. He was also having a spell of the most persistent ill luck, for in the few minutes that Barry stood there he saw something like six hundred dollars swept in by the expressionless dealer.
“Wonder who he is?” Lawrence thought. “Some millionaire, I suppose, throwing away his car fare.”
Then, more because he had nothing else to do than from any real curiosity on the subject, he strolled around to the other side of the table, and glanced over another man’s shoulder.
In a second he had stiffened slightly, and his features seemed suddenly to become tense and alert and eager. The individual who was betting as if a hundred-dollar bill was so much trash to be thrown away without a qualm, was no millionaire, or anything like it.
He was the man who, more than any other, had been active in bringing disgrace upon Barry Lawrence—Julian Farr, the cashier of the Beekman Trust Company.