Chapter XXXII An Extraordinary Interview
It was at least three-quarters of an hour later when Lawrence left the hotel and walked slowly toward Forty-second Street. He was puzzled, perplexed, and rather piqued; for, in spite of all his efforts, he had been unable to extract from the Englishman a single additional fact which would help him solve the problem which vexed him.
Brandon evidently took him for some one else, and the resemblance must have been astonishingly great; for it was evident that the Briton had spent a year, if not more, with Barry’s double at Cambridge.
It was the famous English university, of course, and not the equally well-known Massachusetts college. Lawrence had realized that very early in the talk; but, in spite of his repeated efforts, he had been unable to elicit a single additional particular concerning his double, save the fact that Oscar Nordstrom had evidently spent some years as a student in England. While Brandon had plainly been on the most friendly terms with Nordstrom, he seemed curiously ignorant regarding the man’s antecedents.
“It’s a queer thing from beginning to end,” he murmured as he pushed through the whirling doors of the Knickerbocker. “I wish I could find out who I’m supposed to be. I’ll wager anything that this would solve the whole mystery.”
For a moment he stood in the lobby glancing mechanically around. It was much too early to expect Jock, and he had just made up his mind to pass the time comfortably in the smoking room, when suddenly his eyes strayed to the face of a woman moving slowly and gracefully toward him from the elevator. She was tall and slim and very blond; and there was something about her attractive face which touched a chord in Barry’s memory. Somehow the sight of her seemed to bring with it visions of a smooth, sandy beach, with the ocean stretching out beyond it, of merry sailing parties and clambakes, of drives and automobile excursions, and a host of other summer pleasures.
“Southampton, of course,” he muttered. “But what the mischief is her name?”
The next instant their eyes met, and he saw that the recognition was mutual. She gave a sudden start, and stood for a second staring incredulously at him, a wave of color flaming into her face. Then, as he moved forward, she seemed to recover herself, and came slowly to meet him.
“How do you do?” she said, in a low, soft voice, which had in it an odd note which Barry could not quite fathom. “This is a very, very great surprise.”
Hat in hand, Lawrence clasped the slender fingers she extended to him, and smiled. She was even more beautiful than he had remembered her.
“Isn’t it?” he agreed pleasantly. “But here in New York one is constantly having surprises like this.”
She raised her eyebrows a trifle. “Surely not quite—like this,” she murmured.
He laughed, racking his brain desperately for the forgotten name. “No, of course I didn’t mean just that,” he returned. “This is an exception.”
He hesitated a second, wondering if she would help him out; but she made no effort to speak. Leaning against the back of one of the crimson velvet chairs, she seemed content simply to look at him.
“Do you know,” Lawrence exclaimed, forced to say something, “that when I saw you, my mind went back instantly to that wonderful, smooth beach, with the cloudless blue sky above and the waves dashing up almost to where we sat on the sand.”
She smiled faintly. “I thought of that, too,” she murmured; “but I saw it all in the moonlight. With that flood of silver dancing on the water, making everything almost as bright as day, except where the shadows of the trees behind were denser than ever.”
Lawrence did not remember any trees near the Southampton beach; but, supposing this to be a sort of poetic license, he nodded agreement.
“It was a wonderful summer,” he added. “Somehow it doesn’t seem possible that three years have passed since then.”
A low, silvery laugh issued from her lips, and she tapped him lightly on the arm.
“Always the same flatterer,” she said softly. Suddenly her face grew pensive. “Does it really seem that long to you? I’ve often wondered. Men have so many things to occupy them—especially such men as you. A woman has only her remembrances to treasure zealously, and bring out now and then to gloat over. And memories are rather barren things sometimes.”
For an instant Lawrence stood aghast. What did she mean? Certainly he could recall nothing of a tender nature having passed between them, and her words were decidedly significant. He pulled himself together with an effort; but, before he could speak, she broke the silence.
“Your voice puzzles me,” she said abruptly. “It doesn’t seem possible that you can have been long enough in America to have lost every trace of accent. Of course, it was never very noticeable; but one who knew you well could always tell.”
Barry’s jaw dropped, and his face took on an expression of utter astonishment. His accent—again! What in the world did it mean? Was it possible that she was taking him for——
“You were talking about that summer at Southampton, of course?” he managed to ask in an odd voice.
“Southampton?” she exclaimed, her eyes fixed intently on his face. “I don’t understand. You don’t mean that you’ve forgotten—Cannes?”
Lawrence stood as one in a trance. “Cannes!” he muttered hoarsely, wondering whether his brain was giving way. “I have never been in Cannes in all my life.” Then, as the belated memory came to him at last, he gasped out: “Aren’t you Miss Vera Pell?”
The woman’s face turned white, and one slim, gloved hand stole upward to her lips. Her eyes, wide, almost black with the emotion which was rending her, were fixed on his face with a look of absolute bewilderment.
“Are you jesting?” she managed to gasp at last. “You know that I am Mrs. Walbridge Gordon. You could never forget—it is impossible.”
As Barry did not answer, a look of utter horror flashed into her face. She swayed a little, and put out one hand to steady herself.
“Who—are—you?” she asked, in a low, trembling voice. Then swiftly she laughed an uneven, hysterical sort of laugh. “You are jesting with me. It is impossible that there should be two men so absolutely alike on earth. You must be——”
She broke off abruptly, and her eyes flashed past Barry’s shoulder to the door. The next instant a spasm of fear ripped swiftly across her face, and her white teeth came together over her lips with a cruel force which brought forth a tiny fleck of blood to glisten there.
“Go!” she whispered in a harsh voice. “My husband is coming. He must not see you here.”
“But—who?” Lawrence managed to mutter.
“Go, I tell you—quickly!” she repeated. She was trembling violently; and that look of fear had come back into her face to stay. “You must—for my sake.”
Without a moment’s hesitation Barry obeyed, slipping around a big pillar. With his back squarely toward the entrance, he passed quietly and easily through the crowd toward the telephones in the narrow passage behind the desk.
His brain was in a seething turmoil; but overtopping every other emotion was anger at the man who had arrived so inopportunely. If he could only have delayed a single, brief minute longer, the name trembling on the woman’s lips would have been uttered, and Lawrence would have possessed at last the key to the mystery which was driving him almost frantic.
Who was he supposed to be? Who was the man he so resembled? Why had he been given a thousand dollars to pass himself off for this unknown for a single week?
These and a dozen other questions passed swiftly through Barry’s brain as he perfunctorily fumbled the leaves of the telephone book to give some excuse for lingering there.
What did it all mean? Was he ever to know?