Chapter XXXI Despair
As Barry walked down the avenue, aimless and unseeing, he thought of many things; but the one which loomed up biggest was the colossal fortune controlled by Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding. It seemed to hang over him like some awful monster, hovering in the air ready to fall and crush him. It filled Lawrence with despair. He disliked the woman he had never seen because of her money, because she was Shirley’s aunt, and, lastly and most intensely, because she had taken it upon herself to cast the mantle of her wealth and position around the girl she had neglected and ignored for so many years.
Barry realized perfectly the selfishness of this point of view; but he could not help it. If only Mrs. Wilmerding had kept out of it things would have come right somehow. At least, there would have been left him the feeling that he and Shirley Rives were on equal terms. He would still have had the delight of knowing that there were many things he could do to help the girl, instead of having her transported to a plane so infinitely above him, and so inaccessible.
Bitterly he contrasted the untold millions belonging to this new-found relative of hers with his own miserable pittance. His very name was tarnished, though through no fault of his; and it would be utterly impossible for him ever to harbor again the thoughts and hopes which had possessed him during the early part of his call.
Barry’s abstraction was so great that he quite failed to notice the taxi which moved slowly out of a side street and trailed along the avenue about half a block behind. He walked straight on until, at length, happening to glance up, the looming front of the St. Regis reminded him of the terms of his bargain; and he promptly entered, though he did not feel at all like eating.
He had scarcely disappeared before the taxi drew up beside the curb, and a slim, dark fellow, immaculately dressed, stepped out. He paused by the open door, talking in an undertone with a man who remained inside; a man with broad, thick shoulders, a round, full face, and a Vandyke beard slightly tinged with gray.
For perhaps a minute they conversed in low tones. Then the door was slammed, and the taxi whirled on down the avenue, while the slim, dapper individual made his way promptly into the St. Regis, languidly surveyed the dining room from the doorway, and presently took his seat at a table just back of Lawrence.
The latter finished a very simple luncheon without so much as turning round, then made his way to the telephone operator. There was some delay in getting Hamersley’s office; but, when the connection was made at last, he stepped into the booth, quite oblivious to the fact that the tall, dark fellow occupied the next one.
As Barry had half expected, Jock was out, so he left word for the Yale man to meet him at the Knickerbocker at five if he possibly could, and sauntered out of the hotel.
Listlessly he turned downtown, wondering what under the sun men of leisure did with their time. Somehow, the glamour which had enveloped him for the past few days was beginning to wear away. Once more he was desperately tired of doing nothing but lunch and dine and evade detectives. He wondered pettishly whether the man in black had been captured yet and taken back to his asylum, for it seemed impossible that any sane person could have acted in such an extraordinary manner. There were the detectives, to be sure; but perhaps they were all of a piece with the rest of the bewildering jumble. There seemed to be no reason or sense to what anybody did. They were probably all mad.
Lawrence was, in short, at odds with himself and the world. He would have given a lot to come face to face with some one he could sail into and pummel with all his might. It would be such a relief now to run into that smart Alec who had decoyed him to the house on Twenty-fourth Street last night.
Happily the mood did not long continue. An hour’s brisk, almost feverish, walking brought with it a more sane outlook on life. When Barry strayed into a café on Times Square about half past three, more for lack of any other method of passing the time than from any real desire for refreshment, he had quite recovered his poise.
He was making for a little table in the corner, when suddenly a hand clutched his coat and a vaguely familiar voice sounded in his ear.
“I say, Oscar, sit down here, unless you’re too bally proud to be seen with me.”
It was the Englishman who had puzzled him so at the dance at Sherry’s, and for an instant Barry frowned. Then, struck by a sudden impulse, he smiled and dropped down in a chair opposite the other. The fellow didn’t look like a bad sort, and he was sorely enough in need of diversion.
“Why should I be ashamed to be seen with you?” he asked lightly. “Where did you ever get that idea?”
The tall man’s blue eyes widened. “Where’d I get it?” he echoed, in surprise. “Why, at that blooming dance, to be sure. You wouldn’t speak to me then, old chap.”
Lawrence tapped the bell.
“I beg your pardon, then,” he said. “I was worried, and not really myself. What’ll you have?”
When the waiter had taken their orders and departed, the Englishman screwed his monocle into his eye and sat regarding his companion for a minute in silence.
“Jolly glad of that,” he said solemnly, at length. “Didn’t seem like you to throw an old friend down. I couldn’t understand it. Sure you weren’t thinking of the bally rotten way I was forced to leave Cambridge, old chap?”
“Positive,” Lawrence returned promptly. “I’d forgotten all about it.” He hesitated an instant, and then went on at random: “Of course, that wasn’t your fault, you know.”
“Should say not!” The Englishman’s tone was indignant; and Barry suddenly had a suspicion that, if the fellow had not taken too much already, the limit was not far off. While his enunciation was perfect, there was an expression about his eyes which was unmistakable.
“Should say not!” the other repeated. “You know jolly well John Brandon would never disgrace the old name. A plot against me—a beastly plot; that’s what it was!”
He took a long drink, and sat staring oddly at Lawrence.
“Say, Oscar,” he burst out abruptly, “you must have been in the States a bally while, by Jove!”
“I have,” Barry smiled. “How did you guess it?”
“You talk just like these blooming Yankees; ’pon my soul, you do! I’ve been listening for that bit of an accent you used to have, old chap; and I give you my word, it’s gone—you’ve lost it. Funny thing; eh, what?”
For a second Barry sat silent, his interest thoroughly aroused. Was it possible that he was on the point of finding the key to the enigma which had so puzzled him.
“Accent!” he repeated the next moment. “Did my accent used to be so bad?”
Brandon laughed.
“Not bad,” he chuckled. “Just enough to notice now and then. By Jove! Have you forgotten how we always said you’d be taken for a foreigner sooner or later? You wouldn’t now, old chap. Give you my word, I’d think you were a blooming Yankee if I didn’t know you so well.”