Читать книгу A Shadowed Love - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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When Dick came down to breakfast Greigstein had departed, ostensibly on his scholastic duties. He had come in for the missing spectacles, Molly said. He had professed himself to be quite lost without them.

"That's all rubbish," Dick said, unfeelingly. "The fellow has no need for glasses. You may shake your head, Molly, but I will prove it to you."

In a few words Dick told the story of his discovery. Molly scented romance. They had evidently made the acquaintance of a disguised German nobleman.

"More likely a police spy," Dick laughed. "You need not go, Molly; I couldn't possibly do any work this morning. With that fateful interview with Mr. Spencer, of 'The Record,' before my eyes, I couldn't do a stroke."

He presently wandered out aimlessly. Though he had risen very late, the day seemed to drag on. It was hot, and the streets shimmered in the sunshine. Dick took a very frugal lunch at a cheap restaurant, and then turned for distraction to the early edition of the evening papers. The 'St. James's Gazette' and 'Pall Mall' and 'Globe' seemed to have nothing in them that he had not seen before. Over his cigarette he fell back on the advertisements.

There was something interesting at last. Dick recognised with a thrill that it concerned himself. It was in the agony column of 'The Globe.'

"Will the gentleman who took from 117 Cambria Square, last night, the proof of a photograph accidentally left in an envelope containing violets, kindly return the same to the above address without delay?"

Here was something to do at any rate. And, better than that, here was a good chance of seeing the girl with the pathetic eyes again. It would be a wrench to give up the photograph, but that would have to be done in any case. The precious picture was carefully stowed away in Dick's pocket-book.

He hurried off in the direction of Cambria Square. Not till he found himself confronted by the hall porter did he recollect that he had not the faintest idea whom to ask for.

"There is an advertisement in an evening paper," he stammered. "I was here last night; I had the good fortune to—"

"That's alright," the porter cut Dick short. "One of the servants told me in case anybody called. If you've got the photo, sir, I'll take it up."

Dick hesitated. He had looked forward to something more romantic than this. He might be allowed to go up, he suggested, but the porter cut him short again by touching a bell and growling something hoarsely up a tube. In response the broad-faced, Teutonic-looking man who had acted as a kind of nurse to Dick's strange acquaintance of the night before, came down in the lift and touched his forehead respectfully.

"My mistress expected you, sir," he said. "You have the photograph?"

Dick could not deny it. He produced the picture grudgingly. It was absurd, of course, but it was a wrench to hand it over.

"My mistress has been in great distress," the German said. "I will not disguise from you, sir, that my employer has moods when he is not quite responsible for his actions. You found him last night in one of them. He has outbreaks over other things. For instance, my young lady thought she would like to surprise her father by having her photograph taken. There was but one proof, and only one plate exposed. I have rarely seen my employer so terribly upset over anything, which was strange, considering that the photograph was actually taken in the house. My young lady promised to destroy the proof, but by mistake she left it in the photographer's envelope. She found that out early this morning. She is greatly desirous that you will say nothing of what has happened."

"Of course not," Dick replied.

The mystery was getting deeper.

"If I may take the liberty of seeing her for a few moments—"

"No," the other said, with a cold curtness that brought the blood into Dick's face. "It is absolutely impossible. You must not come here again. I do not wish to be rude, sir, only I would urge you, both for your own sake and the sake of others, not to come here again."

Mr. Spencer had not yet arrived when he reached the counting-house. His young friend of the previous night gave him an encouraging smile. Presently Dick found himself waiting nervously in an outer office, where the lad who had previously given him Mr. Spencer's address had ushered him.

"Just a moment," Dick said, hurriedly. "Can you tell me anything about your chief? I only saw him in the dark last night."

"That is a peculiarity of his," the young clerk replied. "He often does that when he sees strangers here. It is some fad of his of judging people by their voices. But as he has met you once he won't do that again. Another peculiarity is that he never comes here till dusk. Not one of us ever saw Mr. Spencer here in the daytime."

"But you find him a good and kind employer?"

"Oh, very. He is the right class of philanthropist. He never appears to, and yet he does a tremendous deal of good. If he takes a fancy to you it is your own fault if you don't succeed here. He never spoke to me for months, and then I found that he knew all my affairs, and what my father was, and all about my home at Stanmere, and everything. There's his bell."

The speaker turned away, to return a moment later with the information that Mr. Spencer was ready to see his visitor. It was a small, dark-papered room, with one brilliant light gleaming on a little table covered with paper. A man sat there who looked up and smiled at Dick genially, then he looked down again, as if giving his visitor time to recover himself.

It was as well that he did, well that he failed to see the blank amazement on the face of Dick Stevenson. He placed his hands on the back of his chair to steady himself from falling. For there, seated opposite him, as if utterly unconscious that anything out of the common had happened, was the very man whose life Dick had saved in Cambria Square last night.

Could it be acting? No, it was impossible. The man by the table evidently had not the faintest idea that he and Dick met before. This kindly noble-looking face was calm and placid. Evidently the events of last night had been absolutely and entirely wiped from his memory.

"Are you unwell?" he asked, in a considerate tone. "I am afraid you are in trouble. If you will only make a friend of me—"

"A passing faintness," Dick stammered. "A queer lapse of memory."

Mr. Spencer looked up, a feeling expression dimmed his eyes.

"I understand," he said. "Nobody better. I am occasionally troubled by the same thing myself. My dear boy, pray sit down and let us get to business."