Chapter XXI In the Next Compartment
Lawrence intended to be up early, but it was late in the morning before he was awakened with a start by the tinkle of the room telephone. Leaping out of bed, he hastened into the sitting room, and, unhooking the receiver, recognized Jock Hamersley’s booming voice at the other end of the wire.
“You’re a deuce of a fellow, you are! What in thunder did you go and quit last night for?”
“I wasn’t feeling a bit fit, Jock,” Barry explained, “so I lit out before supper. I’ll bet you didn’t notice I was gone till it came time to go home. Say, can’t you meet me in the Belmont café about five this afternoon? I want to talk to you about something.”
“I’m going to be mighty busy. Why not lunch together?”
“Can’t. I’ve got a date for luncheon.”
Hamersley’s snort made the wires buzz. “Hang you and your dates!” he exploded. “That’s what you said yesterday. You’re such a popular guy I s’pose you’ve got every lunch and dinner taken for a week ahead.”
Lawrence’s lips twitched at the unconscious closeness with which his friend came to the truth, but he only laughed.
“Sure, I have!” he returned lightly.
“Well,” retorted Hamersley sarcastically, “seeing you’re such an unaccommodating grouch, I’ll meet you at the Belmont, only just blame yourself if you cool your heels for half an hour.”
Barry hung up the receiver, chuckling. Then his face grew suddenly serious, and he reached for the telephone directory. Having found the number of Biddle’s apartment, he called it without delay, and a man’s voice answered.
“No, sir, this is not Mr. Biddle,” came in response to Barry’s swift question. “Mr. Biddle has gone to Baltimore, and will not be back till Sunday afternoon. Do you wish to leave any message, sir?”
“No; I’ll call again.”
Barry clicked the receiver into place with an impatient movement, and sat frowning for a moment on the arm of his chair. Presently his face relaxed. Sunday afternoon was not so very far away, and nothing changed the fact that he had Julian Farr in an exceedingly awkward position.
He dressed leisurely, and it was after twelve when he left his room. Breakfast and luncheon were combined that day in one, and he took the meal at the Ritz-Carlton, enjoying the music, entertained by the crowd, and altogether in a more peaceful mood than he had been for some time.
Now and again the thought of Shirley Rives—if that were really her name—returned to torment him and make him unhappy, but he did his best to thrust the recollection from his mind, and fancied he had succeeded. He could not help pondering, however, on the one apparently inexplicable feature of the affair. If she were not in the desperate straits she had pretended to be, how was it that she had known anything of Sally Barton?
It was possible, of course, that she had taken the name of another person with whom the black-haired stenographer had once been on friendly terms; but still the matter puzzled Barry until he finally gave up thinking of it, and turned his attention to the question of whether or not it would be wise to confide his affairs to Jock Hamersley.
He had reached a point where he longed desperately to talk things over with some one, and Jock had seemed, that morning, the only person available. But now, in the light of second thoughts, he began to have grave doubts as to the wisdom of such a step.
The Yale man was good nature personified, and had a heart as large as his big body. He had also a total absence of tact in his make-up, and the more Lawrence considered the matter, the more he became certain that he had better keep the nature of Julian Farr’s behavior to himself.
This made it necessary, of course, to hit upon something else to take its place, but that was not difficult. After his friend’s kindness of the night before, Barry felt that it was decidedly up to him to do something in return; and, with dinner out of the question, a theater party, with supper afterward, seemed the only alternative.
Having come to this decision, Lawrence finished his luncheon slowly, and left the restaurant. He had been too occupied the night before to notice whether the mysterious men had continued to trail him after he left Sherry’s, but they were certainly on the job to-day, and the fact began presently to wear a little on his nerves. A person may be ever so innocent, and still become exasperated when a persistent taxi or an equally persistent man dogs his every movement.
Having nothing special to do between two and five, Barry decided to pit his wits against those of the two pursuers. The little game was interesting, not to say exciting, and consumed considerable time, the maneuvers taking Lawrence from the Battery to Fifty-ninth Street. It ended, however, with comparative satisfaction, and a few minutes before five Barry entered the Belmont on Forty-second Street with the pleasant conviction that he was unobserved for the first time in over twenty-four hours.
The café was rather full as he entered it, but one or two of the cushioned wall seats were empty, and Lawrence promptly settled down comfortably, and proceeded to take things easily until his friend’s arrival.
Instinctively he noticed that on his left was a party of three men, talking over the cloak-and-suit industry with an interest which left no room for any other thought in their minds. The compartment on the other side was occupied by a typical broker, absorbed in the financial page of an evening paper.
Jock arrived about ten minutes late, and thumped down beside Lawrence with a force which shook the seat, and made the broker start nervously.
“Hope you’ve got something to talk about that’ll pay for the way I tore over here,” he grunted. “Never worked so hard in my life as I did this afternoon.”
“You don’t know what work is, you old bluffer,” Barry laughed, as he tapped the bell. “What’ll you take?”
Hamersley gave his order, and by the time it arrived Lawrence had broached the subject of the theater party.
“Suits me fine,” the big chap returned. “Better get seats for ‘The Blue Moon,’ if you can. First night, you know, and that’s always more fun.”
“I’ll phone for seats as soon as I get back to the hotel,” Barry agreed. “Suppose I ask Reggie Minturn and that chap he had with him? That makes a good number.”
“Good!”, chuckled Hamersley. “Reckon Reg has sobered up by now. He was pie-eyed last night, though. See him?”
Barry nodded with twinkling eyes. He was wondering what Reggie’s thoughts had been on discovering the five-hundred-dollar bill in his waistcoat pocket.
“Yes, I ran across them,” he returned. “They’d had about all they could hold, sure enough. Well, I’ll try and rope them in. I’ll have a car meet me at the Waldorf at a quarter to eight. That’ll give me time to pick you fellows up. Show doesn’t begin till eight-fifteen, I suppose?”
“Nearer eight-thirty,” Jock corrected, setting down his empty glass, and tapping the bell.
Lawrence declined further refreshment, however, and they presently arose and made for the door.
It would have been rather interesting for Barry to observe the behavior of the nervous broker after their departure. Their backs were no sooner turned than the financial page seemed to lose all interest for him. He leaned forward a bit, and peered after their retreating figures. Then, as they passed through the turnstile door, he sprang to his feet and hastened after them into the street.