Читать книгу The White Glove - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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Coolly, as if he had been a favored guest, Clifford strolled up the wide marble steps, with their covering of crimson cloth, and signified to a footman to take his coat and hat. There were scores of people passing up and down the steps—people of every condition of life. The Rabys were quite new as yet, and had not succeeded in throwing off the old set before they were well on with the new. But that would come in time. Levi Raby was immensely rich. He had made his money in some mysterious way in South Africa during the war. He entertained lavishly, and society asked nothing further at his hands.

There was no doubts as to the evidence of wealth here. The flowers and the fittings of the house must have cost a fortune in themselves. The magnificent rooms were filled now. The sound of the band came from somewhere, but nobody noticed the music. The refreshment rooms were crowded. There was a constant popping of champagne corks, as if the wine were being opened for the mere sake of lavish display. Beyond were a series of rooms devoted to bridge and the other gambling games, and Clifford noted that these were crowded. It was a kind of private Monte Carlo under the noses of the London police.

"Delighted, I'm sure," Mrs. Raby smiled as she held but her hand, though, of course, she had not the remotest idea who Clifford was. "Awfully good of you, so much going on and all. Oh, yes; they are gambling to-night. Lady Charlton, this is too sweet of you. Of course you have brought the girls."

Clifford escaped discreetly. He was free to wander now about the magnificent range of rooms at his own sweet will. He had dined very well, and for the moment was disposed to allow his sense of amusement to get the better of him. Doubtless the serious work of the evening would begin with the arrival of Geraldine Manton. Not that Clifford believed that she had given him her proper name, but that mattered nothing.

He drifted presently into a large room where a score or more of tables were set out for bridge. Most of them appeared to be occupied save one, where two or three men were standing as if seeking for somebody to make up the party. A tall man with a black beard nodded to Clifford in a quite familiar manner.

"Forgot your name for the moment," he said. "Face quite familiar, and all that kind of thing, don't you know? Like to make up a hand?"

"Till you can get somebody else," Clifford said; "though I must warn you that I may be called away at any moment. Shall we cut?"

As they cut for partners Clifford had the chance of taking stock of his companions. On the whole he was not particularly impressed with either of them. They looked hard and greedy, even the youngest of them, who was little more than a boy. As to their manners, very little exception could be found to them.

"A pound a hundred, I suppose?" the man with the beard suggested.

The stakes were high, but Clifford nodded. He felt that his luck was in to-night, and he was inclined to back it. Moreover, he was a fine player, and many a weary South African vigil had been passed at the game. Three rubbers fell to the lot of his partner and himself right away, and the roll of notes in the case had increased by over fifty pounds. People were coming and going in the room, there was a subdued hum of conversation, and the rustling of notes mingled with the chink of gold. Scores of people there were playing for stakes far higher than they could afford—quite boys, whose white faces twitched, and young girls who laughed now and again in an hysterical, nervous fashion. The curse of gambling and the greed of gain was in them all. Somebody signalled to the man with the beard, and excused his temporary absence with an apology. As Clifford rose to look round him his eyes encountered those of Geraldine Manton, who smiled in a distant manner, though she seemed in some subtle way to convey to Clifford that she was glad to see him in his present company. He heard a whisper and a laugh behind him, and as he turned he met the gaze of one of the bridge players of his own party turned upon him with a look of malignant fury. For some reason or other the man was his deadly enemy. Clifford thought of Sir Arthur's warning, but decided, on second thoughts, that his fancy had played him false. It was only quite by accident that he was playing bridge with these men.

Clifford turned away again. A little dispute had taken place at a table close by. One of the players, a young and pretty girl, had just passed a £20 note across the table which another player had claimed for her own. In the troubled, white face of the accused party Clifford learnt the truth. The girl had stolen the note. Her own purse was empty, and she had adopted this way of paying for a heavy rubber that she had had no chance of liquidating if she lost. The desperate adventure had failed, as such adventures always do, and but for a miracle exposure must follow. Those keen and greedy gamblers gave no credit. They knew their own weakness; there was no quarter there. Clifford's heart went out to the poor, white-faced girl. In the light of his own recent troubles he felt all the more sympathy for her. The accuser, a hard-featured woman of the world, spoke slowly:

"It is very strange," she said. "I heard you say just now that you had only a few pounds in gold left, and you have lost the last two rubbers since then. I call my partner to testify to the fact that I had a £20 note by my elbow a minute ago. Now it has gone."

"I—I had forgotten my banknote," the girl stammered. "I—I folded it up, and put it in my purse before I came out. I had quite forgotten it."

"The matter is easily settled," another of the party said frigidly. "The banknote can be traced. Then the ownership will be proved beyond dispute."

Clifford listened pitifully. There was no sign as yet of the man with the beard, and he was free to interfere. The poor girl was young and pretty, and she looked as if she possessed both high courage and intellligence; and here was the making of a public scandal that would ruin her for life. Clifford took the case from his pocket and produced a £20 note. And this was done without the others seeing.

"Pardon me," he said. "As an interested spectator I may be permitted to explain. The elderly ladys seems to have swept something off the table with her elbow. It looks to me very like a banknote. Really, it is a banknote—for £20."

Clifford laid the crisp bit of paper down with an easy smile. The hard-featured woman's face relaxed, and she muttered something like an apology. The young girl rose and declared that she could not play any longer. Her place was immediately taken, and the game proceeded as breathlessly as if nothing had happened. Clifford would have returned to his table, but the girl detained him. Nobody appeared to heed them.

"How can I sufficiently thank you?" she said with tears in her brown eyes. "You have saved me from something worse than death."

"What I did was a mere nothing," Clifford said.

"Nothing! To save a stranger you sacrificed £20. There is no other person in the room who would have done such a thing. I stole that note to pay my debts so that I could go on playing and recover my losses. Six months ago I should have shuddered with horror at the mere suggestion of such a crime. And then you came and saved me."

"Because you are capable of better and higher things."

"Oh, I am. That makes my shame all the harder to bear. The money shall be repaid. Give me your name and address, and you shall have it back. From this night I never will touch a card again. And if ever I can do anything for you—"

The girl turned away, overcome by emotion. In a strange way Clifford felt that he had made a useful friend.

"Never mind my name," he said. "Meet me somewhere the day after to-morrow, and you can pay me then. We may never see each other after. It will be best for you—"

"Spoken with all the delicacy of a true-hearted gentleman," the girl whispered. "Oh, and pray that some day I may be able to return your amazing kindness. I will gladly meet you at twelve o'clock on Friday by the Marble Arch. And—and good night."

The girl was gone before Clifford could say another word. He had forgotten all about the task for the moment. He was filled with the glowing satisfaction of a good action delicately and feelingly done. He was recalled to himself by the voice of the man with the beard, who had returned to the card-table again. His face was paler and a little more grim than before, and he carried his right hand in a sling.

"Been having an argument?" asked the boy with the hard mouth.

"A discharged servant of mine," was the explanation. "Fellow actually had the audacity to follow me here and demand money—sheer blackmail. I didn't want to argue with him, but knocked him down out of hand. But I managed to sprain my thumb and cut my knuckles pretty badly in the process."

Clifford murmured his sympathy. At the same time he noticed on the faces of the other two men a queer grin as if there was a something between the lines that they understood and the outsider knew not. Marsh had seen the same low self-satisfaction on the faces of a set of confederates when a victim of the card-sharpers had been safely lured into the seclusion of a railway carriage. In some way he felt that the whole thing was an elaborate lie on the part of the man with the beard. But why should all this be enacted for his benefit?

"Shan't be able to play any more tonight," the man with the beard said cheerfully. "What do you say to come as far as my place and take a hand at poker? That will suit my injured fin better. Will you join us, sir?"

Clifford was sorry, but he was waiting for somebody, or he would have been greatly pleased. As his eyes roved round the room he saw Geraldine Manton. She just gave him a glance, and then went on laughing and talking to her companion, and waving a magnificent fan from side to side. Mechanically, as the woman half turned, Clifford saw that the waving of the fan was rhythmic and purposeful. Then it all flashed upon him. Mrs. Manton was signalling to him.

"I don't know who your companions are," the message came, "but you seem to have got into the right groove. Your man knows this. He is coming this way. When he does come, look out for a further signal."

Clifford bowed as if to a passing acquaintance, and then indicated that he had got the message. A moment later and a stranger came into the room, and nodded to the man with the black beard. Clifford had not caught sight of his face for the simple reason that he was waiting for another message from the fan, which was obscured ever and again by people passing. But he managed to make it out at last.

"Your man has come," it said; "the tall, dark one with the carefully groomed moustache and the white rose in his button-hole."

Clifford turned carelessly, and then suppressed a start of surprise. He was face to face with the pseudo-doctor he had seen in the little chemist's shop some hours before.